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“My assistant sent over the trip details! Did you take a look at them?”

“I’m just on my way home⁠—”

“Attaboy. I always like to take shorter days in December, too. Good to spend more time with the family.”

“That’s right,” I say weakly, though the real reason I left is because I was so shocked at Cami turning me down that I couldn’t possibly get any work done. Plus, I did not like the way people were glancing at me through the window to my office, curiosity sprawled over their faces. “Shorter days, too.”

Chris and I stay on the phone for my drive home, but I start to get nervous as I approach my place that he’ll want me to put the fake fiancée on the phone, so I tell him to have a good night and get off the line.

My assistant did take a look at the information about the trip, but she can’t book the flights until we know who my “fiancée” is. We’ll need her name to put on the tickets.

It occurs to me, for the first time, that Cami might not even have a passport. Have I ever heard of her taking a vacation out of the country? I don’t normally pay attention to talk like that in the office, but now I start to wish I had.

Sensing my car approaching, the garage door opens automatically like it’s programmed to do. I have a new home. A modern, three-story building with a finished basement on the outskirts of Miami. Close enough to the city that I don’t have to worry much about gators on the property, but far enough that it feels like a separation from the buzzing nightlife, though Miami does glow every night, and that glow does reach my place.

I throw the keys to my car up on the hook and walk in through the main kitchen. Large and shining white, it’s big enough that you could make three meals simultaneously in here without ever bumping into your co-chef. Through the massive sliding doors out onto the patio, the pool glimmers in the setting sun.

It’s not that late, but the days are short enough that the Miami sky is an ombré of pinks, purples, and blues. In a few hours, it will fade to navy, inky dark. I’m not far enough from the city that the stars are visible, but it’s still nice enough to sit outside on the deck with a Corona and take in the night.

I won’t be doing that today.

Instead, I walk into the living room, throw on the TV to the news, mute it, and grab my laptop.

The first search for hire a fiancée just leads me to mail-order bride sites that are obviously not what I want. For a few moments, I’m seriously considering hiring a local actress to play the part. Maybe someone with a little experience pretending would be better for the role anyway.

Or maybe an actress would be too obvious. Too searchable, too easy to find out that it’s fake.

Not for the first time since answering that phone call, I wish I’d taken a second before responding. Considered how hard it would be to find someone willing to play pretend in this role for me.

Things always tend to work out in my favor. Not just because I’m lucky—although that is part of it—but because I work hard. I keep pushing even when everyone else would give up.

And right now, it seems like Cami is the best answer I have to this problem.

Except, for some reason, she is not interested.

I stalk into the kitchen and open the fridge, considering my options. Pre-made meals from the cook that comes on the weekend, prepping proteins and roasted vegetables and complicated, bright sauces that I don’t pretend to understand.

But I’m not hungry. I’m thinking about Cami.

About the look on her face when I called her into my office. About the look on her face when I made my proposal and slid that check across the desk. I would have thought she was exactly the kind of person to be excited about an opportunity like that. Maybe I don’t read her diary every night, but if I had to bet, it would be on the northern lights being on her bucket list.

Sighing, I pull out a package of chicken and broccoli, take off the top, and throw it into the oven, punching in the numbers I know by heart now. As the oven fires to life, I move to the right and grab a nice whiskey, my thoughts still on the woman in the red dress.

What was with her frowning this morning? What was with that expression as she hung the decorations?

Maybe it was the approach. In a lot of business deals, you have to make the person believe they thought of the idea. Or, at least, that they were expecting the thing you suggested.

I should have eased into the idea with her.

Opening the freezer, I take out the nice whiskey stones—a gift from a business associate whose name I can hardly remember now—and drop one into a tumbler before pouring a generous amount of whiskey into the glass for myself.

I don’t drink much at home, and even then it’s usually just a single Corona on the porch. This is a deviation from the norm.

Then again, the past few days have been a deviation from the norm.

It’s not like Cami and I work together much. It’s not like we’re collaborating closely on projects.

But as our top account manager, she’s often in our meetings. Monthly check-ins, reports, that sort of thing. And, as the assistant office manager, she’s always around the place, asking about a new espresso machine or if people need new chairs.