Chapter 1
“Still not helping.”
“You know my family.”
I blinked.
“I know their birthdays.”
“You know my mother hates lilies because they remind her of hospital rooms. You know my sister drinks coffee with cinnamon but no sugar. You know my brother-in-law pretends to like golf because my uncle does. You remember that my nephew is allergic to walnuts, that my aunt Teresa hates sitting near air-conditioning vents, and that my mother prefers handwritten thank-you notes.”
“That’s because I’m your assistant.”
“No,” Adrian said quietly. “That’s because you pay attention.”
Something in his voice made me stop arguing.
He looked tired.
Not the ordinary kind of tired that came from late meetings and impossible deadlines. This seemed deeper.
I glanced at the check.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I thought about the student loan balance I had stopped looking at because the number never seemed to move.
I thought about my mother’s small bakery in Queens, where the refrigerator had begun making a worrying noise and the landlord had hinted at another rent increase.
Adrian knew none of that.
At least, I had never told him.
“What exactly would I have to do?”
His shoulders eased slightly, as if he had been waiting for the practical question.
“My mother’s birthday celebration lasts a week.”
“Of course it does.”
“She has planned dinners, lunches, a museum visit, a charity event, and a weekend at the family house in Hudson Valley.”
“You have a family house?”
“Yes.”
“You own three apartments and a house?”
“My mother owns the house.”
“Good. That makes you seem almost normal.”
He ignored that.
“You would stay in the guest room. There will be no expectation beyond appearing sincere.”
I folded my arms.
“Define sincere.”
“Hold my hand occasionally.”
“Occasionally?”
“When appropriate.”
“Terrifyingly specific.”
“Emily.”
“I’m thinking.”
He waited.
That was another unusual thing.
Adrian did not wait.
He made decisions. Other people caught up.
Yet now he stood quietly while I considered mine.
“What happens after the birthday?”
“We tell them things didn’t work out.”
I frowned.
“So your mother gets one happy week and then thinks you ruined the relationship?”
His expression tightened.
“That is not ideal.”
“No, Adrian, it’s terrible.”
“It solves the immediate problem.”
“That is exactly how people create future problems.”
He gave me a dry look. “You sound like my mother.”
“Maybe you should listen to both of us.”
For the first time that night, he actually smiled.
It disappeared quickly, but I had seen it.
And that was probably the moment I made the mistake.
“Seventy-five thousand.”
His head tilted.
I swallowed.
“If I’m pretending to contemplate marrying you, fifty thousand feels insulting.”
“Seventy-five.”
My eyes widened.
“You agreed too fast.”
“You should have asked for more.”
“I suddenly dislike you.”
“That may complicate the romance.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
His expression changed again.
Softer this time.
I looked away first.
“All right,” I said. “One week.”
He extended his hand.
“Agreed.”
I placed mine in his.
The contact should have felt like a business arrangement.
Instead, Adrian’s fingers closed around mine with unexpected warmth.
For one strange second neither of us let go.
Then I pulled my hand back.
“Rules,” I said.
He nodded.
“No kissing unless absolutely necessary.”
“Agreed.”
“No embarrassing stories about me.”
“I don’t know any.”
“You employ an investigator named Victor. I assume you could have some by breakfast.”
A shadow of amusement crossed his face.
“I won’t investigate you.”
“No making decisions for me just because you’re used to everyone obeying you.”
His expression became serious.
“Agreed.”
“And absolutely no telling your family some elaborate fake history about how we fell in love.”
“We need some history.”
“Fine. Keep it close to the truth.”
He considered that.
“We worked together. We became friends. Eventually it became something else.”
I looked at him.
“Friends?”
His gaze held mine.
“Close enough.”
I wasn’t sure why those words stayed with me all night.
The next morning, I learned that pretending to be Adrian Moretti’s girlfriend required a terrifying amount of preparation.
At nine, a garment rack arrived at my apartment.
At nine fifteen, I called Adrian.
“Why are there twelve dresses in my living room?”
“For the week.”
“I own clothes.”
“You wear cardigans with tiny pockets.”
“They’re functional.”
“They are tragic.”
“I am hanging up.”
“At least try the blue one.”
I did.
I hated that he was right.
The dark blue dress fit perfectly.
At ten thirty, a car arrived.
At eleven, I stood beside Adrian outside his mother’s townhouse on the Upper East Side.
“Stop looking nervous,” he murmured.
“I’m about to lie to your mother.”
“She has survived raising three Morettis. She can handle it.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
He held out his hand.
I stared at it.
“For appearances,” he said.
“Right.”
I slipped my fingers through his.
The townhouse door opened almost instantly.
A petite woman with silver-streaked dark hair stood there wearing a pale green sweater and pearl earrings.
Lucia Moretti.
I had spoken with her dozens of times on the phone.
In person, she looked warmer than I expected.
She looked at Adrian first.
Then at me.
Then at our joined hands.
Her entire face changed.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Guilt hit me so quickly I nearly stepped backward.
Adrian squeezed my hand once.
“Mom,” he said, “this is Emily.”
Lucia stared at me for another second.
Then she pulled me into a hug.
Not a polite hug.
A mother hug.
Firm, warm, immediate.
“I have been waiting two years to meet you.”
I froze.
Over her shoulder, Adrian froze too.
Lucia released me.
“Two years?” I asked carefully.
She smiled.
“Of course. Adrian mentions you constantly.”
I turned slowly toward him.
His expression was unreadable.
“He does?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Mother.”
Lucia waved him away.
“Come inside. Teresa is already asking questions and Sofia has made three different desserts because apparently one birthday cake is not enough.”
Inside, the townhouse smelled like coffee, lemon polish, and something baking.
Family photographs covered nearly every wall.
Adrian at eight with missing front teeth.
Adrian at sixteen looking deeply annoyed beside a Christmas tree.
Adrian at college graduation with Lucia holding his face between both hands.
It was disorienting.
At work, Adrian seemed carved out of discipline and expensive suits.
Here, he had once worn dinosaur pajamas.
I stopped in front of the photograph.
“Don’t.”
I looked at him.
“Are those stegosauruses?”
“Emily.”
“I need a copy.”
“You’ll be unemployed by Monday.”
His sister Sofia appeared from the dining room carrying a tray.
She looked enough like Adrian that the resemblance was unmistakable, though her expression was far more welcoming.
“So this is Emily.”
Before I could answer, Sofia hugged me too.
Behind her stood a tall man with sandy hair.
“My husband, Daniel,” Sofia said. “Daniel, this is the woman responsible for Adrian occasionally answering family messages.”
Daniel shook my hand solemnly.
“On behalf of all of us, thank you for your service.”
Adrian exhaled.
I began to understand why he avoided family gatherings.
Lunch was noisy.
Warm.
Messy.
Nothing like the restrained corporate dinners Adrian hosted.
Lucia asked how we had finally realized we were more than colleagues.
I nearly choked on sparkling water.
Adrian answered smoothly.
“She yelled at me.”
Everyone stopped eating.
I stared at him.
“That was your romantic explanation?”
“It’s true.”
Sofia leaned forward.
“I need details.”
Adrian glanced at me.
I remembered the afternoon six months earlier when he had tried to attend a board meeting with a fever.
“You were sick,” I said.
“He was impossible,” I told the family. “He insisted he was fine, then nearly fell asleep during a conference call. I told him if he walked into another meeting, I’d cancel every appointment myself.”
Lucia smiled.
“And what did he do?”
“He went home.”
The entire table fell silent.
Apparently Adrian obeying another human being was historic.
Daniel raised his glass.
“To Emily.”
Everyone laughed.
Even Adrian.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because suddenly none of it felt entirely fake.
Throughout the afternoon, I noticed small things.
Adrian refilled his mother’s tea before she asked.
He listened patiently while his aunt Teresa explained a neighbor dispute involving hydrangeas.
He sat on the floor helping his seven-year-old nephew build a wooden train station, and when one piece wouldn’t fit, he didn’t take over.
He simply said, “Try turning it around.”
The boy did.
The piece clicked into place.
“See?” Adrian said.
The child beamed.
I watched from the doorway.
This Adrian existed nowhere in the office.
That evening, while Lucia and Sofia were discussing birthday flowers in the kitchen, I stepped onto the back terrace for air.
The rain had stopped.
The city smelled clean.
Adrian followed me outside.
“You’re doing well.”
“I feel awful.”
“That wasn’t part of the agreement.”
“Your mother likes me.”
“My mother likes almost everyone.”
“She hugged me like she already knew me.”
Adrian looked toward the windows.
“She’s wanted this for a long time.”
“You could simply tell her the truth.”
“That I lied?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet.
“Why did you lie in the first place?”
His jaw tightened.
For several seconds I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he said, “Because she had a medical scare in January.”
My heart sank.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes. Completely. It was a minor heart rhythm issue, nothing dangerous. But for several hours, no one knew that.”
He looked down at his hands.
“She was lying in a hospital bed lecturing me about eating properly. Then she said she worried I was building a life where no one was allowed close enough to matter.”
I said nothing.
“She asked whether there was anyone.”
“And you said yes.”
“I said there might be.”
“Adrian.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“She looked relieved.”
The frustration inside me softened.
“You wanted to give her something hopeful.”
“Yes.”
“And then the hopeful imaginary woman turned into me.”
May you like
His eyes met mine.
“I never said it was you.”
