Chapter 2
FREYA
Reaching over to the stereo, I crank the music up, enjoying the thrum of nineties rock filling the apartment. Luckily, I sprang a little extra to live in the building with concrete walls, and if my neighbor next door still complains, I’ll bake her some muffins as an apology.
Damage control later. Right now, I need to do whatever is necessary to get my creative juices flowing, because this blank canvas in front of me won’t paint itself.
Gently biting on the end of my paint brush, I stare straight into the middle of the blinding white canvas, allowing the music to seep into my bones, letting my thoughts space themselves apart. I’m headed into the zone, and nothing can distract me.
Except for my phone ringing.
Shoot. I forgot to put it on silent.
Swiveling my stool around, I grab the phone, intending to reject the call. Until I see that it’s Ben.
My weak spot in all of life. Ben.
I already know I’ll answer the call. Because it’s Ben. My Ben. I’d move mountains for him.
…Even though maybe I shouldn’t.
Grabbing the phone, I hit the answer button. “Speak, human,” I say in a robot voice.
“Freya, I need your help.”
His tone, strained and panicked, instantly puts me on high alert. I sit up straighter, my heart rate picking up speed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Okay, uh, you’ll think this is crazy…” He breathes heavily, like he’s about to have a panic attack, and I hear a loud hum in the background. “I’m in the jet on my way back from Texas.”
“You met with that guy about his wind turbines. How did it go?”
There’s a pause. “Depends on how you look at it.”
My eyes narrow. What’s going on here? “Ben, are you okay? You mentioned you need help.”
“And I do. So, uh, this Texas rancher. He’s pretty old-fashioned, and apparently, his wife read all about me. She thinks I’m relationship-averse—”
“You are relationship-averse.”
“And he clearly doesn’t like that,” he continues, conveniently ignoring my calling him out. “So when I could feel the negotiation going south, I… I may have told him I was engaged.”
I blink. Then blink again. “You what?”
“I told him I was engaged.”
“To who?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “To you.”
The paint brush slips from between my teeth and clatters to the floor. “Ben… What the hell did you do?”
“I panicked, okay? And you’re the only woman I have a picture of in my phone that isn’t related to me or work. So when he was asking about my fiancée, I showed him your picture.” He states it like this was the obvious choice, or maybe the only choice.
I’m quiet for a moment, trying to process this. Ben, my methodical, calculated best friend, told a complete stranger we were engaged. Without asking me. Without even thinking to ask me first.
“Freya? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I respond slowly. “I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that you fake-engaged us without my consent.”
“I know, I know. It sounds terrible when you put it like that.”
“Because it is terrible when you put it like that.”
“But here’s the thing,” he rushes on, and I can practically hear him pacing now. “He wants to meet you. He and his wife are going to be in Chicago next week, and they want to have dinner with us. If I can get through one dinner, I think the deal is mine.”
I lean back on my stool, staring at the ceiling. Of course. Of course Ben would manage to get himself into a situation like this. The guy who plans everything down to the minute somehow forgot to plan for the possibility that his lie might have consequences.
“One dinner,” I repeat.
“One dinner. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And what happens after that? Do we have a fake breakup? A fake divorce?”
“We’ll figure it out. Please, Freya. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m desperate here. This agreement could change everything for my company.”
And there it is. The thing that always gets me with Ben—the way his voice gets when he’s talking about his work, his dreams. I’ve known him since we were kids, and I’ve watched him build his enterprise from nothing. I understand how much this means to him.
Which is exactly why I should refuse. Because I know myself, and I recognize that when it comes to him, I have exactly zero willpower.
“Freya?”
I sigh, long and dramatic. “You owe me. Big time.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it. But I want details. Everything. And you’re buying me the most expensive dinner in Chicago to make up for this.”
The relief in his voice is palpable. “Done. Whatever you want. Thank you, Freya. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
That makes two of us, I think, but I don’t speak it out loud.
“When do you get back?” I ask instead.
“Today. Can we meet up tomorrow? I’ll take you shopping. We should probably get you a ring to make this look convincing.”
A ring. Right. Because of course we need props for this charade.
“Fine,” I respond. “But I’m picking the restaurant for our debriefing dinner. Somewhere ridiculously fancy where the appetizers cost more than my rent.”
He laughs, and it’s the first time he’s sounded like himself since he called. “Deal. I’ll text you when I land.”
“You better. And Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to fake-engage someone, maybe run it by them first?”
“There won’t be a next time. I promise.”
After we hang up, I sit in my studio for a long moment, staring at the blank canvas. The music is still playing, but the creative zone I was in has completely evaporated.
Ben needs my help. And despite the insanity of what he’s asking, despite the fact that pretending to be engaged to my best friend is probably the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, I already recognize I’ll do whatever it takes to help him succeed.
What’s the worst that could happen?