Page 35 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Callum’s head turns to the side at the compliment, as if he’s looking for someone else I might be complimenting. When he realizes I am, in fact, complimenting him specifically, a bright flush paints the tip of his nose red. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “That’s good, then. And you always look perfect, too.” He coughs again, and his light brown freckles nearly disappear behind his deepening blush. “I mean, put together perfectly. Perfect for the job. Any job. At hand.”

Christ. Clearly, we both need medical attention, but there’s no time for a trip to urgent care, so I start heading toward the door.

Callum walks next to me, his shoulder inches from mine. The mere proximity of him is enough to lull some of my anxiety to sleep, which is a very disorienting reaction to have around a man. Especially for me.

In fact, everything about me feels relaxed, with the exception of my heart, which is galloping for reasons I don’t have time to investigate right now.

As we navigate the large group of men in front of us, I notice him stepping slightly in front of me, clearing a path. It’s only after we’ve finally made it through the crowd that he steps back to my side.

Callum scratches his neck. “Hey. Before we go in there, you should know that I haven’t been part of a ‘couple’ in forever. You might have to take the lead here. I really don’t want to screw this up for you.”

His genuine concern absolutely melts me, and my lips tip up. “Actually, I don’t have the best track record of being part of a functioning couple either. We’ll get through it together.”

“Should we, um, hold hands or something?”

My answer flies out of my mouth before I can soften it. “No.”

Callum blanches.

I don’t want him to think that he’s the problem here, but I’m also not ready to talk about my own baggage yet, so I try to salvage the outburst. “I mean, we probably shouldn’t touch at all during this assignment. Public displays of affection at high-class establishments are generally frowned upon.”

His posture relaxes, and he nods. “That makes sense.” He holds open the door and follows me inside.

As soon as we walk through the foyer, I spot Bobby—the manager I met on my intake video call—near a liquor cart down the hallway. On our way to meet him, we pass ornate paintings and pristine leather armchairs. The closer we get, the stronger the cigar smoke smell.

I give Bobby a small wave, and he motions for us to join him in a small room just off the hallway—a study of sorts. Usually, being enclosed like this with a man I don’t know might give me pause. My shoulders would be inching toward my ears, a tight knot of stress trapped in my lower back. But Callum seems to ease some of my tension just by being here. He keeps a small distance between us, and there’s just a sense of calm about him.

“Well, Peyton! We’re thrilled to be working with you.” He appraises my outfit, scanning me up and down. “Wow. You look perfect for today.”

Instead of the butterflies I felt when Callum told me I looked perfect, queasiness streams into my stomach when Bobby says it.

“Bobby, nice to see you in person.”

He holds out his hand, and I fuss with the hem of my dress.

If Callum notices my hesitation to touch Bobby, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in front of me and shakes his hand. “Hello, I’m Cal. I’m partnering with Peyton today. Everything looks fantastic.”

“Thank you. It’s been a labor of love—and gobs of money.” Bobby guffaws, clapping Callum on the shoulder before facing me. “As discussed, we’d love for you to play nine holes and establish yourselves before heading into the clubhouse to mingle with the rest of the guests. I’ve sorted you into a small group with a younger crowd for the course.”

“Got it.”

Even though Bobby’s retracted his hand, my pretend boyfriend hasn’t moved from his spot just barely in front of me.

Callum seems to have this soft leadership about him. A modest confidence to show up without showing off. It’s so pleasant and refreshing from what I’m used to.

A staffer pops their head through the cracked door and whisks Bobby away—something about not enough mint for the crème brûlée garnishes.

And so my work begins.

Callum and I set off toward the golf carts, and he jingles the keys in his hand. “Do you want to drive or hang out in the passenger seat?”

I love that he asked, but I hate driving, so I say, “I prefer to be cargo, thanks.”

Callum sits behind the wheel, and I take my seat beside him, ready to go. But he doesn’t start the ignition. He bounces his knee, seemingly waiting for something.

“You should put on your seat belt.” He gestures toward my lap.

I smooth a flyaway underneath my visor. “Should I be expecting a lot of traffic on the way to the first hole, or are you just a reckless driver?”