Chapter 1 #2
Ten years had sharpened her—angles where there’d been softness, and a kind of poised elegance that felt both unfamiliar and painfully familiar all at once.
Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder as she fidgeted with a sugar packet, arranging it with precise care alongside its companions before straightening a small notebook and pen she’d placed on the table.
She was fidgeting. A nervous habit she’d carried into adulthood.
And then she did it—tucked her hair behind her ear. A simple gesture that knocked the air out of my lungs. Memories came rushing to the forefront of my mind. Years of being buried in the recesses of my brain, and one simple, nervous gesture summoned them from the abyss.
And then came the questions that I should hate her too much to be curious about.
Had she gone to her dream college? Traveled like she’d always planned? Did she still read late into the night, lost in old novels and big dreams?
Zhara checked her phone, fingers moving quickly. Probably texting her bailout plan in case I turned out to be a creep. Which I kind of was, standing frozen and staring at her.
The thought propelled me forward. I was being ridiculous. This was a business meeting, nothing more. I would be polite, professional, and firm. I would explain to Zahra why I couldn't take her booking, make my excuses to Foxy, and move on with my life.
Simple .
I squared my shoulders, my navy sport jacket’s casual cut a shield as much as a uniform, and I almost laughed.
The form-fitting T-shirt under the jacket clung to my frame, a far cry from the polo shirts that had been my most casual attire until five years ago.
I was never one to let my fashion dictate my psyche; I always strived for the opposite.
But working at RAD taught me a thing or two about the importance of appearance, not only for public perception, but inner perception as well.
I used to be all stiff collars and khakis, a walking stereotype of the overachieving college kid.
Now, with contacts sharpening my vision instead of glasses and clothes that emphasized my hard-earned physique, I felt a little more like the man I’d become—someone who could blend in, adapt, and who got the job done no matter what.
I made my way over, my steps measured, my posture calculated.
Zahra glanced up as I approached, her green eyes widening briefly before she looked back at her phone, her fingers flying faster over the screen. I stopped just at the edge of her peripheral vision, but she continued staring at her phone, acting oblivious.
When she realized I wasn’t leaving, she plastered on a polite smile.
“I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong table,” she said, her voice cautious. “I’m waiting for someone.”
No recognition. None at all.
Something bitter curled in my gut, but I forced a neutral smile.
“I'm from Foxy’s Rent-A-Date."
Her posture eased slightly, though she still eyed me with confusion. "Oh. Right. But I was expecting…" She glanced at her phone. "Someone else."
"Were you?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
She waved a hand vaguely. "Yes, I specifically requested—" She stopped, professional mask snapping into place. "Please, sit."
I didn’t.
"You requested someone specific?"
"Yes." A pause. "But it’s fine. I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified."
"I’m sure I am," I said dryly. "But I'm curious who you were hoping for.”
She straightened slightly, meeting my gaze more directly. "I specifically requested Oliver Beck."
I couldn't help the sharp and humorless laugh. The sound came out harsher than I'd intended, causing a couple at a nearby table to glance our way.
Zahra's expression hardened. "I fail to see what's funny."
"Nothing," I said, pulling out the chair across from her. "Absolutely nothing is funny about this situation."
She studied me, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through. "Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need Oliver Beck."
I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Was she serious?
“How do you know the Oliver you booked is the Oliver you want?”
“Because I know him.” The certainty in her voice was laughable, considering the situation.
“And if I told you I am Oliver Beck?”
She blinked, uncomprehending. "I don’t need you to be Oliver Beck. I need…"
The words died on her lips. I watched the shift—the slow unraveling of certainty as her fingers closed around her glass.
“Before we go further, I should clarify that I have a boyfriend."
"Then why did you hire me?"
Zahra flushed, her eyes standing out even more with the pink coloring her cheeks. Her grip tightened as she lifted the water to her lips. Slow. Stalling.
Then, without meeting my eyes, she said, "It's complicated."
"Complicated enough to pay two months of premium rate for a fake boyfriend?" I studied her, trying to make sense of it, when it clicked. "You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?"
Her eyes flashed with irritation, and after a pause, she rolled her eyes.
"Fine, you caught me," she said with a huff. "I don't have a boyfriend."
“You don’t need to lie to protect yourself from me," I said quietly. "This is business. Nothing more."
She hesitated, then murmured, "I need Oliver for this."
"I’m right here, Zahra."
Something about my tone must have finally penetrated her walls, because she looked up at me with a slight crinkle in her forehead, and, for the first time since I approached her, the polite, professional glance she'd been giving me was gone, and she seemed to be truly seeing me.
Our eyes connected, and that’s when recognition bloomed across her features. Her lips parted slightly, eyes growing wide, and she whispered, "Oliver?"