Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Faye
“Let me grab that for you,” my doorman Jacob says as he reaches for my bag.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, still shocked that I have a doorman. When I see him holding my ratty old fraying duffel bag, I’m hit with imposter syndrome for the hundredth time in two days. This place is too nice for me and I don’t belong.
“It’s a designer bag,” I say with a shy smile, my cheeks burning. “They make it look all busted up on purpose.”
“Of course,” he says with a nod and a sly conspiratorial grin. “I saw the same one in a boutique last week.”
I smile gratefully as I wait under the covered entrance for Owen to pick me up.
“Heading out for the weekend?” Jacob asks.
“To Muskoka,” I say, actually excited to get out of the city.
“Well, it’s going to be a beautiful weekend,” he says. “With friends?”
“With… my… husband,” I say with a sour taste in my mouth.
His eyes drift over to my left hand. I’m still not wearing a ring. I hope Owen remembered to get one. We’re going to be busted immediately if I show up with a naked ring finger.
“Actually, I’m not married,” I abruptly say, feeling guilty for lying to my new friend. “That was a lie.”
He just smiles and nods.
But then my mind starts racing, wondering if Jacob has a side hustle as a doorman for the Baines’ family cottage and I don’t know how big this lie has to be. What if he shows up on Saturday and blows our cover? I’ll lose this gorgeous dream apartment.
“Kidding!” I say with a weird, high-pitched laugh. “Actually, I am married. My husband is coming to pick me up.”
His smile gets a little tighter as he turns his head and looks down the street, clearly uncomfortable with this exchange.
I’ve never been very good at lying. I’ve never had much need for it to be honest.
Owen arrives at two o’clock on the nose, pulling up in a big, spotless, black Lincoln Navigator.
“There’s my husband now,” I say as he stops in front of us. “My soulmate. The love of my life.”
“Excellent. Have a wonderful weekend, Mrs. Hamilton.”
Jacob puts my bag in the trunk as I hop into the passenger side, eager to put this awkward exchange behind me.
Just as I thought, the interior of Owen’s car is spotless. It’s spacious with soft leather seats and a gorgeous dashboard with wood trim. Owen is tapping on the steering wheel nervously as the trunk closes. He gives me a curt nod and then stares out the windshield in silence.
I turn in the seat and look him over. For the first time, I see him without his work clothes.
He’s wearing dark jeans, a gray polo, and simple white sneakers.
Most people would be relaxed before a weekend in Muskoka, but Owen looks fully on edge with his tight jaw and hands gripping the steering wheel like we’re careening toward a cliff instead of being completely stationary.
He doesn’t say a word as he starts driving.
“Thanks again for the apartment,” I say, turning to get one last look at it before we drive away. “That bed is magnificent. Truly, truly magnificent.”
I’ve never slept in a king-sized bed before and I’m taking full advantage, stretching out all over it and using every pillow.
“It’s so close to work, and that kitchen—I’ve only DoorDashed but I’m sure it works great for cooking—and I can finally get a dog.”
His blue eyes dart over to me.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“You don’t like dogs?”
“Dogs are fine. I just don’t want them in my vicinity.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Domesticating dogs was the worst mistake in the history of humanity as far as I’m concerned,” he says as he stops at a red light.
A man and a happy beagle living his best life walk in front of our car. His tongue is sticking out and his tail is wagging. The dog, not the man.
“How can you say that? Look at those two. They’re best friends.”
Owen’s face twists up like he just sucked on a lemon.
“That’s not best friends. That’s a con artist on four legs. It’s a one-sided relationship. The man provides everything. Food, shelter, security. What does the dog provide?”
“Love, companionship, cuddles.”
He shakes his head.
I roll my eyes and stare out the windshield, wondering how I’m going to get through a weekend of this. I force down my irritation and let out a long breath.
“Okay, so you don’t like dogs. What do you like?”
“Science. Chemistry. Silence during long car rides.”
“Well, we’re out of all three.”
We both shift uncomfortably in our seats as the light turns green and we start moving.
It’s suddenly hitting me what we’re about to do and it’s freaking me out. I was so distracted with all the new apartment excitement and getting ready for the weekend that I didn’t really process what we’re about to embark on.
“This is crazy, right?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“We’re going to get through this, right?”
Owen lets out a long breath as he turns right onto a street and accelerates. “We have to. A lot depends on it.”
That just makes me even more nervous. The fate of his company depends on this rich investor believing we’re in love?
“What do you know about these people?” I ask. “Have you ever met them?”
“No, and I would like it to remain that way, but my brothers can be quite persistent when they want something.”
“What are your brothers like?”
He lets out a long, irritated breath. “I was hoping to ride in silence.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. We have three hours to get to know each other and I’m going to use every minute.”
He can’t hide his disappointment at hearing that and it makes me chuckle. I love how he’s so easy to read. He can’t hide his feelings and he doesn’t try to. He’s an open book.
Which may make it difficult this weekend…
“My brothers are public figures with no concern for privacy,” he says. “You can read about them on their Wikipedia pages.”
“I’m curious about what you think of them.”
He hesitates for a long moment.
“I’m not going to stop asking questions, so you might as well give in.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs like this is taking every ounce of his energy and patience. “Ryan is the youngest and Jason is the oldest.”
“Are they like you?”
He snorts out a laugh. “Opposite in fact. In every possible way.”
“You must get along if you built a company with them.”
“They seem to understand me,” he says. “At least, they try, which is more than I can say for anyone else.”
I tilt my head as I look at him. “Why do you think that?”
He shoots me an irritated look. “Can we at least wait to get out of the city before we embark on an amateur therapy session?”
I laugh. “Sure. Let’s get organized. We need to get our stories straight.”
“What stories?”
“About how we met, the wedding, the… engagement.”
I get a bad taste in my mouth at the last one.
“We met at the coffee shop,” he says bluntly.
“Yeah, but that’s boring. I want my meet cute with my husband to be romantic. I want there to be fireworks and excitement.”
“Meet cute?”
“Yeah, the moment when a couple meets. You don’t know what a meet cute is?”
“Is that a real word?”
I just shake my head. “I would never marry anyone who doesn’t know what a meet cute is.”
“And I would never marry anyone who couldn’t go more than five minutes without talking in a car.”
I ignore the jab and get back to work brainstorming. “Let’s come up with something unique. What’s a unique place for couples to meet?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “A renaissance fair?”
I don’t know why but it makes me laugh. “That’s your pick? I can’t imagine you in tights and a frilly shirt. Although, I’d like to see it.”
He huffs out a frustrated breath. “The story is irrelevant. Let’s keep our life details as close to reality as possible so we have fewer opportunities to get tripped up in lies.”
“You’re boring,” I say. “So, tell me more. I’ve known you for what, five years? And all I know about you is your coffee order. What do you do for fun?”
“Not give out personal information to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m your pretend wife. You obviously like physical activity. Do you work out or play sports? Let me guess, extreme pickleball?”
“Is that a thing?”
“I don’t know, but it should be. But seriously, how are you so fit? Did you create a serum in your lab and inject yourself like Captain America?”
“Don’t get me started on that ridiculous concept,” he says with a huff. “The frail human body could never handle such a radical transformation. Cells would rip themselves apart. No, I weight train for two hours every night.”
“Two hours? Really? Wow, that’s some crazy discipline. I was at the gym for two hours once, but it was because I couldn’t open my locker. It’s not a good sign when every time you go to the gym, you forget your lock combination.”
We stop at another light. The CN Tower is visible in the distance. I always love seeing it.
“Why do you work out so much? Are you one of those guys who’ll freak out if they don’t have a six-pack? Follow up question, what’s it like to have a six-pack?”
“It’s not for vanity reasons,” he says in a soft tone. “It’s the only thing that quiets my mind.”
I look at his beautiful head and wonder what’s going on inside there.
“Is your mind always racing?”
He sighs like he’s exhausted by it all. “Always.”
The light turns green and we start driving along the waterfront, heading out of the city. We’ll be on the highway soon.
Owen turns on the radio. I immediately turn it off.
“I read up on Temporary Ink,” I say. “It’s quite incredible. You actually invented an ink that will break down and disappear?”
He nods.
“How did you do that?”
“It was quite simple when I realized the pigment molecules could be programmed with a biological timer.”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “Super simple.”
Owen pulls onto the highway and accelerates out of the city.
“It’s a great idea,” I say. “But don’t you think it takes the romance out of tattoos?”
He looks at me curiously.
“I mean, a tattoo of someone’s name on your body. Now, that’s a commitment forever. What does your company’s ink say? I commit for three years?”
“It says you’re not an idiot. Forty percent of marriages end in divorce. The survival rate drops precipitously if you include dating couples in the sample data. Why anyone would think their relationship would be in the small statistic that succeeds is folly.”
“Maybe,” I fire back. “But there are some things you can’t see from data points. When you know, you know.”
He laughs. “You can’t possibly know.”
“You can when it’s the one.”
“Said everyone in a time before they’re signing divorce papers.”
I turn in my seat and stare at him in shock. “You really don’t believe in true love?”
“As much as I believe in fairies and dragons. It’s fantasy.”
“Love is fantasy? Are you serious right now?”
“True love is fantasy,” he corrects. “Love is just an illusion. A complex series of biochemical reactions occurring in your brain. It’s all an evolutionary strategy. A trick the brain plays on humans to get them to reproduce.”
“That’s the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What you call ‘falling in love’ is just your brain releasing a precise cocktail of chemicals,” he continues.
“Dopamine floods the reward pathways leading to obsessive thinking, sleeplessness, and irrational decision-making. Oxytocin acts as a bonding hormone. It’s released during physical contact, creating the illusion of deep emotional connection. ”
“The illusion of connection?” I ask in a tight voice.
“Precisely.” He changes lanes with one hand on the wheel, completely unbothered.
“And then there’s phenylethylamine, which acts as a natural amphetamine, producing that so-called euphoric feeling people confuse for destiny.
” He glances at me briefly. “It lasts, on average, between twelve and twenty-four months, after which the chemical levels normalize, the neurological fireworks stop, people fall out of love and they’re left wondering why they got that tattoo in the first place. ”
“You’re wrong,” I say, clenching and unclenching my hand. “What about the feelings in your body? Being lovesick? The racing heart, the inability to eat or think?”
“Raised norepinephrine levels.”
I’m getting a little worked up over here and he’s as calm as ever, which is making me even more angry. How can he just dismiss the best thing in the world as a chemical happy hour for the brain?
“Not everything is chemistry!” I say a little too loud.
“Everything is chemistry.”
“You can’t say that. Love is miraculous!”
“I agree,” he says, nodding as he looks at me. “With one small exception. The feeling of love is miraculous. It’s the most complex biochemical process in the known universe happening inside our human bodies. But, it’s not a mystical ethereal concept. It’s simple chemistry.”
“There’s nothing simple about love,” I say, breathing heavily. “It’s magic.”
“Magic is just chemistry we haven’t figured out yet. But the information on love being a chemical byproduct is quite conclusive. I wrote a paper on it. Would you like me to send it to you?”
He’s looking at me with big, hopeful eyes.
“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m good.”
He shrugs. “So, magic, love, you can call it what you want but it’s all just a temporary chemical imbalance.”
He glances over at me and tilts his head slightly.
“Interestingly,” he says, “your current physiological response—the flushing of cheeks, elevation of breathing, and tense arms crossed at the chest—is itself a stress-induced chemical reaction. You’re experiencing a cortisol spike.”
He nods to himself, satisfied.
“You’re proving my point quite effectively.”
I stare at the windshield. I need to get out of this car.
“I want to take a break,” I say. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“We’ve only been driving for twenty minutes.”
“I don’t care.”
He looks at me sitting here in a foul mood and then flicks his blinker with his finger, taking the next exit.
Smart man.