Chapter 2

“AAAHHHHH!”

I screamed at the top of my lungs, gripping the vase with both hands.

Whoever this man was, he had picked the wrong apartment to break into. I might not know how to fight, but I did know how to swing a heavy object. And if he made one suspicious move, I was prepared to turn my living room into a crime scene.

The man jerked awake.

“What the—”

He rolled sideways, lost his balance, and tumbled straight off the couch.

“AAACK!”

THUD!

I flinched.

He groaned on the floor, still wearing the black jacket that had been draped over his face.

Good. Excellent. Stay down, Mr. Criminal. Let me call the police, collect my insurance money, and pretend this morning never happened.

Except my phone was in the kitchen.

And the criminal was moving.

“D-Don't move!” I shouted.

He stopped groaning long enough to lift his head.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you doing in my apartment?”

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached up, pulled the jacket off his face, and squinted at me as though I were the one who had interrupted his peaceful morning.

Then I saw him properly.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He was handsome.

Not the ordinary, pleasant-looking kind of handsome. Not the kind where you smiled politely and thought, He seems nice.

No. This man was the sort of handsome that made you forget what you were doing in the middle of doing it.

His brown hair was tousled from sleep, falling messily over his forehead. His jaw was sharp, his nose straight, and his dark eyes were framed by lashes that seemed unfairly long for a man. Even sitting on the floor in a rumpled shirt, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury fashion magazine.

I stared.

He stared back.

My vase remained raised above my head.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then my brain finally remembered that handsome strangers did not magically acquire permission to enter my apartment.

“Don't think your face is going to save you!” I snapped.

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“I wasn't planning on it.”

His voice was low and slightly husky, with just enough irritation to suggest that falling off my couch hadn't been the highlight of his morning.

He pushed himself upright and brushed off his pants.

“Stop!” I ordered.

He stopped.

“Stay right there!”

He glanced at the vase, then at me.

“Are you going to hit me with that?”

“Maybe!”

“It's a vase.”

“It's a weapon now!”

He stared at me for another moment.

Then he sighed.

“I knew this was going to happen.”

“What was?”

“This.” He gestured between us. “The screaming. The vase. The whole dramatic introduction.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Introduction?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly awkward.

“Can we skip that part?”

“No!”

“Please?”

“No!”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, apparently regretting every decision that had led him to my living room.

I tightened my grip on the vase.

“Name. Now.”

He opened his eyes.

“Toby.”

I waited.

He waited.

“That tells me absolutely nothing.”

“It's my name.”

“Congratulations. You know it.”

His mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

Then he said, with the casual confidence of a man announcing the weather, “I'm your boyfriend.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Your boyfriend.”

He paused.

“And your future husband.”

Silence.

Somewhere in the kitchen, my refrigerator hummed.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

Then I pointed the vase at his face.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Probably not.”

“You're a pervert!”

“That's a little harsh.”

“I don't know you!”

“Actually, you do.”

I nearly dropped the vase.

He gave me a small, infuriating smile.

“You know me, Lara Hayes.”

The room went quiet.

My name.

He knew my name.

My fingers tightened around the vase until my knuckles hurt.

“How do you know that?”

His smile faded. For the first time, he looked less amused and more concerned.

“Well...” He hesitated. “About last night—”

Last night.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.

A strange room.

Red walls.

A man in black glasses.

A ridiculous conversation.

A contract.

My face drained of color.

“Oh, no.”

Toby watched me carefully.

“Are you okay?”

I wasn't.

Not even remotely.

Because I was beginning to remember exactly how I had ended up with a suspiciously handsome stranger in my apartment.

And the truth was considerably worse than a burglary.

LAST NIGHT

“Welcome...”

I stared at the strange man standing in front of me.

He wore black glasses despite the fact that it was well past dark. The lenses were so dark that I couldn't see his eyes, which made me wonder whether he was blind.

Probably not. He had somehow managed to guide me into the room without walking into a wall.

The room itself looked like a fortune-teller's office designed by someone who had watched too many horror movies. The walls were painted a deep, alarming red. A purple curtain hung in one corner, and a red sofa sat beneath it. In the middle of the room stood a low wooden table covered by a gold tablecloth that looked as if it had been stolen from a royal banquet.

A single lamp illuminated the man, casting dramatic shadows across the walls.

I squinted.

Was I in a fortune-teller's office? A secret club? Some kind of underground cult?

If someone suddenly asked me to sacrifice a chicken, I was leaving.

Actually, no. I was too drunk to leave.

I'd probably trip over the sofa and sacrifice myself by accident.

I staggered toward the red couch and dropped onto it. The room tilted. The walls swayed. The strange man appeared to split into two, then three.

“Aish...” I muttered, pressing my fingers against my temple.

I really needed to stop drinking.

I'd made that promise before.

Several times.

My track record wasn't encouraging.

I squinted at the man again.

“Who are you?”

He placed one hand over his chest.

“I am your angel.”

I stared at him.

He spread his arms.

“I have come to save your life.”

For some reason, that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard.

I burst out laughing.

“An angel? You?”

His smile faltered.

I waved a dismissive hand at him. “I'm drunk, not stupid. How could an angel look like you?”

He drew himself up, clearly offended.

“Ahem.”

He adjusted his glasses.

“My name is H.E.X.”

He paused as if expecting applause.

“Harlan Ezekiel Xavier.”

I stared at him.

Then I covered my mouth.

Not because I was impressed.

Because I was dangerously close to throwing up.

He either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.

“Welcome to Adopt-a-Guy!” he announced, spreading his arms again. “A premium service promising women the ultimate shopping experience in their search for Mr. Right!”

I blinked.

Then I blinked again.

“Adopt-a-what?”

“Adopt-a-Guy.” He smiled proudly. “Tell us what kind of man you want, and we'll provide him for you.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

I was too drunk to decide whether he was a genius or a lunatic.

Possibly both.

“You can really do that?”

“Of course.”

My interest rose so quickly that I nearly sat up straight.

Don't judge me.

I was lonely.

Very lonely.

I was twenty-seven years old, a virgin, and I had never been in love. My romantic experience was so limited that a man holding the door open for me could occupy my thoughts for three business days.

It was embarrassing.

It was tragic.

It was beginning to feel like a personal failure.

“So,” H.E.X. said, leaning toward me, “what kind of guy are you looking for?”

I didn't need to think about it.

I had a very clear picture of my ideal man.

“Perfect,” I announced.

He nodded solemnly, as if I had offered him a reasonable starting point.

“Handsome,” I continued, holding up a finger.

He nodded again.

“Sexy.”

Another finger.

“Tall.”

Another.

“And he has to have a model's figure.”

I clasped my hands together, smiling dreamily at the ceiling.

“Most importantly, I want every woman who sees us together to be jealous.”

H.E.X. stared at me.

I smiled at him.

He continued staring.

Then he burst out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a little snicker.

He laughed so hard that his shoulders shook, and he had to brace one hand against the table to keep himself upright.

I stopped smiling.

“What?”

He laughed harder.

“What's so funny?”

He tried to speak, but another laugh escaped him.

I folded my arms across my chest.

Excuse me?

I had come here with a perfectly reasonable request. If this man advertised that he could provide a boyfriend, he shouldn't act surprised when a customer wanted a handsome one.

I sank back against the sofa.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Maybe that's too much to ask.”

H.E.X. finally managed to straighten up. He wiped the corner of one eye, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat.

“You've come to the right place.”

My head snapped up.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“You have someone like that?”

He nodded confidently.

“He's handsome.”

My eyes brightened.

“Sexy.”

My smile widened.

“Tall, with the figure of a top model.”

I clasped my hands together.

“Oh, my God.”

“He's also...” H.E.X. paused for dramatic effect. “Expensive.”

My smile disappeared.

“Expensive?”

“Very.”

I shrugged.

“So?”

His head tilted slightly.

“So, you understand that this is a premium service?”

I waved a hand at him.

“Money isn't important to me.”

That was a lie.

Money was extremely important to me. I worked hard for it, saved it carefully, and thought twice before buying anything that wasn't on sale.

But at that moment, I was drunk, lonely, and imagining a gorgeous man walking beside me while every woman in the room turned green with envy.

My priorities had temporarily abandoned the building.

“I have plenty of money,” I declared, tapping my chest. “I'm Lara Hayes.”

I said my name as if he ought to recognize it and immediately offer me a complimentary bottle of champagne.

H.E.X.'s expression changed.

His eyes widened behind his glasses.

Then he rubbed his hands together.

“Well, in that case...”

He leaned across the table.

“Let's proceed, shall we?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

If I'd known, I would have run out of that room. I would have forgotten all about my perfect boyfriend. I would have gone home, drunk three glasses of water, and slept until noon.

Most importantly, I would have kept my signature far away from whatever contract that man was about to put in front of me.

Unfortunately, I didn't do any of those things.

I signed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how I ruined my own life.

PRESENT

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

The memory came back in pieces, each one more horrifying than the last.

The red room.

H.E.X.

Adopt-a-Guy.

The contract.

And then—

Toby.

My Toby.

I turned my head slowly toward the man standing in front of me.

He was watching me with growing concern.

“You remember now?”

I couldn't answer.

My fingers had gone numb. The vase slipped out of my hands, hit the floor with a hollow clunk, and rolled toward his feet.

Neither of us looked at it.

“How much?” I whispered.

Toby scratched the back of his neck.

“About fifty grand.”

My head snapped up.

“WHAT?”

He flinched.

“Maybe a little more.”

“Fifty grand?”

I could hear my own voice climbing toward a pitch normally reserved for emergency sirens.

“You're telling me I spent fifty thousand dollars on a man?”

He frowned.

“You didn't spend it on me.”

I stared at him.

“You adopted me.”

I stared harder.

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

He considered that.

“No.”

“At least you're honest!”

I grabbed my head with both hands and paced in a small circle.

This couldn't be real.

I had worked for years to build my savings. I had skipped expensive vacations, avoided unnecessary purchases, and told myself I would spend the money when I finally found something worth spending it on.

Apparently, that something was a man who had been sleeping on my couch.

I stopped pacing.

Then a new thought struck me.

I narrowed my eyes at Toby.

“You and that weird man are working together, aren't you?”

His eyebrows shot up.

“What?”

“This is a scam!”

“It's not a scam.”

“Oh, really? Then why are you in my apartment?”

“Because you brought me here.”

I marched toward him.

“I'll call the police!”

He backed away.

“Lara—”

“I'll report you both for breaking into my apartment and stealing my money!”

“You signed a contract!”

I stopped.

The words hung between us.

Slowly, I turned my head.

“A what?”

“A contract.”

He sighed, then walked past me and returned to the couch. He picked up his black jacket and searched through its pockets until he pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

He held it toward me.

I approached cautiously.

“What is that?”

“The contract.”

My stomach sank.

I took the paper and unfolded it.

At the top, in bold letters, were the words:

CONTRACT OF AGREEMENT

I read the first line.

Then the second.

Then the part that made my heart stop.

With this contract, Lara Hayes, 27 years old, officially adopts Toby, 25 years old, on September 17, 2026, and sincerely donates $52,000 to Adopt-a-Guy.

I stopped breathing.

Fifty-two thousand dollars.

Not fifty thousand.

Fifty-two.

The extra two thousand felt personal.

I looked at the bottom of the page.

My signature was there.

The curve of the letters. The familiar slant of my surname. The little flourish I always added at the end.

It was mine.

I had signed the contract.

I had actually, legally, signed a piece of paper agreeing to pay fifty-two thousand dollars to adopt a twenty-five-year-old man.

My gaze dropped to the date.

September 17, 2026.

Last night.

I swallowed.

The room seemed unusually quiet. Sunlight spilled across the floor, and a car passed outside. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.

Everything was perfectly normal.

Except my life.

My life had become a disaster.

“Fifty-two...” I whispered. “Grand?”

Toby nodded.

I stared at him.

He stood there holding his jacket, looking almost apologetic.

Almost.

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not.”

“This is a joke.”

“It's not.”

“Tell me it's a joke!”

“I'd love to, but—”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence!”

He closed his mouth.

I looked at the contract again, hoping the numbers would rearrange themselves out of pity.

They didn't.

My signature remained.

The amount remained.

And Toby remained.

I lifted my head.

“So, let me get this straight. I paid fifty-two thousand dollars for you?”

He frowned.

“Again, you adopted me.”

“Whatever!”

I threw one hand into the air.

“You are a man, not a golden retriever!”

“I'm aware.”

“You can't just buy a boyfriend!”

“Technically, you adopted me.”

“Toby!”

“What?”

“Stop saying adopted!”

He held up both hands.

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

I was a sensible woman. A professional woman. A woman who could manage a team of employees, negotiate with difficult clients, and keep a project on schedule despite a dozen people trying to derail it.

I could handle this.

I could.

I looked at Toby again.

He looked back.

Then he said, very quietly, “Technically, the contract is legally binding.”

My eye twitched.

“Shut up.”

He shut up.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

I sank onto the couch, the contract trembling in my hands. I had never felt so foolish in my entire life.

Fifty-two thousand dollars.

Gone.

A boyfriend.

Acquired.

A future husband.

Apparently included in the package.

I pressed the paper against my forehead and closed my eyes.

Maybe money could buy happiness.

Maybe it couldn't.

Either way, I had just spent fifty-two thousand dollars trying to find out.

And somehow, I had ended up with a man sleeping on my couch, a splitting headache, and absolutely no idea what to do next.

I opened one eye and looked at him.

“Do you at least know how to cook?”

Toby blinked.

“What?”

“If I'm stuck with you, you should be useful.”

He stared at me for a moment.

Then he glanced toward the kitchen.

“I'm hungry.”

I slowly lowered the contract.

Of course he was.

I had spent fifty-two thousand dollars on a man who had broken into my morning, destroyed my peace of mind, and was now standing in my living room asking for breakfast.

I looked up at the ceiling.

“Dear God,” I whispered. “Please tell me there's a return policy.”