The Rent-A-Fiancé Agreement

CHAPTER ONE

At eight seventeen on Tuesday morning, Natalie Tremaine learned there were situations in which butter could not improve matters.

This was disappointing, because butter had been one of the more reliable influences in her life.

It had rescued sauces, softened apologies, and once persuaded a restaurant owner to forgive her for describing his signature risotto as “an earnest bowl of beige regret.” Yet as Nat stood barefoot in the third-floor hallway of her apartment building, holding a saucepan of browned butter in one hand and staring at the red notice being attached to her front door, even she had to admit its powers were limited.

“Condemned?” she repeated.

The city inspector smoothed the notice against the peeling blue paint with the grim patience of a man who had already answered the same question twelve times that morning.

He wore a fluorescent vest, steel-toed boots, and the expression of someone who had seen what lived behind the walls and wished he had not.

“The building has been declared unsafe for occupancy.”

“For how long?”

“Until the structural problems are repaired and the building passes inspection.”

“That sounds less like a date and more like a threat.”

“I’m not authorized to estimate the repair schedule.”

Nat shifted the saucepan to her other hand.

Behind her, the smoke detector began chirping again, objecting to the hazelnut-colored butter she had abandoned on the stove when someone pounded on the door.

The inspector glanced past her into the apartment, where two mixing bowls, four varieties of pear, and an open bag of flour covered most of the kitchen counter.

“You need to turn that burner off.”

“I was about to. I’m developing a brown-butter pear cake.”

“You need to vacate the building.”

“I can do both.”

His expression suggested this was precisely the attitude that had caused him to distrust humanity. “Residents have until six o’clock this evening to collect essential belongings. After that, access will be restricted.”

Nat stopped hearing the smoke detector.

Around them, doors opened along the narrow hallway.

Mrs. Dalrymple from 3B emerged in a pink bathrobe, clutching a ceramic spaniel to her chest. Two floors below, someone shouted that the city couldn’t do this without warning.

Someone else shouted back that the widening crack beside the rear stairwell had been the warning.

The building’s old pipes knocked inside the walls, either in protest or agreement.

“Six o’clock today?” Nat asked.

“That’s correct.”

“I live here.”

“Not after six.”

“My lease runs through November.”

“You’ll need to discuss that with the property owner.”

“The property owner has been in Arizona for three months communing with desert energy.”

The inspector paused, as if checking whether this required an official response. Apparently deciding it did not, he handed her a printed sheet containing emergency housing information. “Pack medication, identification, clothing, and anything else you can’t replace. Do not use the rear stairwell.”

“What’s wrong with the front stairwell?”

“Nothing yet.”

He moved on to Mrs. Dalrymple’s door, leaving Nat with the saucepan, the emergency housing sheet, and the abrupt knowledge that her entire life had been reduced to what she could carry down three flights of stairs before dinner.

The smoke detector chirped again.

“Yes,” Nat told it. “I’m aware something has gone wrong.”

She returned to the kitchen, turned off the burner, and stared at the half-finished cake ingredients.

Tuesday’s article was supposed to be called Five Pear Desserts for People Who Claim They Don’t Like Pears.

Her website’s sponsors expected the photographs by noon.

Her readers expected the article by three.

Her editor expected Nat to miss at least one of those deadlines but to make up for it with charming prose and an emergency recipe involving bourbon.

Nat picked up her phone and called the one person who would understand the severity of the situation.

Her best friend answered on the fourth ring. “If you’re calling to ask whether cardamom belongs in pear cake, the answer is yes, but less than you think.”

“My building has been condemned.”

There was a beat of silence. “That is an aggressive response to your cooking.”

“Lena.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Something about structural supports, unsafe occupancy, and the rear staircase possibly developing independent ambitions. We have to be out by six.”

This time, Lena did not make a joke. Nat heard a chair scrape across a floor, followed by the rapid tapping of a keyboard.

Lena Ortiz ran a small public-relations agency from an office she shared with three employees, two dying plants, and a coffee machine she regarded as essential personnel.

She approached other people’s emergencies with a competence she rarely applied to her own life.

“You can stay with me,” Lena said. “I’ll move the boxes out of the spare room.”

“You don’t have a spare room. You have a closet with a window.”

“It has a door.”

“So does a refrigerator.”

“You’re not sleeping in a refrigerator.”

“Thank you. I needed that boundary established.”

“You can stay as long as you need.”

Nat closed her eyes. The offer was sincere, which made refusing it more difficult.

Lena’s apartment was already too small for Lena, her elderly terrier, and the collection of shipping boxes she kept meaning to recycle.

Nat could manage a few nights on the narrow sofa, but she also worked from home, tested recipes at unpredictable hours, and owned enough kitchen equipment to outfit a modest restaurant.

“I may have found something,” she said, opening the listing she had saved late the previous night.

She had been browsing apartments because her landlord’s extended desert awakening had made lease renewal feel uncertain, not because she expected the building to be declared a public hazard before breakfast. “Historic brownstone. Second floor. Twelve-foot windows, original wood floors, and a kitchen that appears to have been designed by someone who respects counter space.”

“How much?”

Nat named the figure.

“That isn’t an apartment. That’s bait.”

“It could be rent controlled.”

“It could be haunted.”

“For that price, I’ll help the ghost resolve its unfinished business.”

“Where is it?”

“Juniper Street.”

Lena stopped typing. “That part of Juniper Street?”

“The quiet part with the trees and the bakery that charges nine dollars for toast.”

“It’s fake.”

“There are fourteen photographs.”

“There are fourteen photographs of every fake apartment.”

“The contact number has a local area code.”

“So do kidnappers.”

Nat leaned against the counter and surveyed the kitchen she had painted pale yellow herself.

A row of copper pans hung above the stove.

Cookbooks filled shelves meant for dishes, while the dishes had migrated to an old china cabinet she had found on the curb and refinished in turquoise.

The room looked chaotic to everyone else.

To Nat, it was a map of every recipe she had created there, every dinner she had served to friends, and every uncertain month she had turned into another month of doing work she loved.

“I have to try,” she said quietly.

Lena’s voice softened. “I know. Send me the address and the owner’s information. I’ll come help you pack at lunch.”

“You have a client meeting.”

“I can move it.”

“Don’t. I can handle this.”

“You currently have a saucepan in your hand, don’t you?”

Nat looked down. “That feels beside the point.”

“Put down the butter and call about the apartment.”

The woman who answered introduced herself as Mrs. Gable and spoke in the careful, rounded tones of someone accustomed to being listened to.

Yes, the apartment was still available. Yes, the listed rent was correct.

No, it was not furnished. No pets above thirty pounds, no smoking, no parties, and absolutely no shoes with metal heels on the original floors.

“I don’t own metal heels,” Nat assured her.

“I wasn’t suggesting you did.”

“Of course not.”

“I have an opening for a viewing at ten thirty. My eleven o’clock canceled because her relationship has become uncertain.”

Nat glanced at the clock. It was eight thirty-four. “I’m sorry?”

“The apartment is intended for a stable couple. Engaged or married. I find that people who have made a lasting commitment treat a home with greater care.”

There were several ways to respond to this.

Nat considered pointing out that married people were entirely capable of ruining hardwood floors, setting fire to kitchens, and breaking up at inconvenient times.

She considered asking what had made the eleven o’clock relationship uncertain and whether the apartment came with premarital counseling.

Instead, she looked at the red notice on her door.

“Ten thirty would be perfect,” she said.

“And your fiancé will attend?”

Nat’s mind produced nothing but a clean white field. “My—”

“I insist on meeting both applicants. Housing is an intimate decision.”

Nat had always believed housing was principally a financial decision, with secondary consideration given to plumbing and whether the bedroom wall shared structural elements with a nightclub. Mrs. Gable clearly operated under a different philosophy.

“He works,” Nat said, which was almost certainly true of any imaginary fiancé worth having.

“As do most people. Ten thirty, Miss Tremaine. Please be punctual.”

The call ended.

Nat lowered the phone and stared at it.

Then she called Lena again.

“I need a fiancé by ten thirty.”

“Try the freezer,” Lena said. “You find everything else in there.”

By ten twenty-six, Nat had not found a fiancé in the freezer or anywhere else.