Chapter 3: The Deal

If I'd been hoping Liam Wolfe would pick a discreet place for our "business dinner," I was wrong.

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, ultra-modern spots where every glass cost more than my electricity bill and the waiters looked like they'd stepped off a runway. The kind of place where half the patrons were investors, and the other half were there to be seen by investors.

I spotted him instantly sitting at a corner table like he owned it, suit perfectly cut, dark hair just tousled enough to look accidental. He was scrolling through his phone, a half-smile on his lips, as if even his texts were winning.

"You're late," he said when I approached.

"You picked a place with valet parking and a three-story waitlist. You're lucky I made it at all."

His smile widened slightly. "Still making excuses, Cross?"

I ignored him and sat down. "Let's just get this over with."

The waiter appeared as if summoned by our mutual disdain. Wine was poured, menus presented, and then Liam leaned back in his chair like a man settling into a negotiation he knew he'd win.

"So," he said, "tell me why I should pretend to be the man of your dreams."

I folded my arms. "It's not about dreams. It's about survival. My family reunion is this weekend. If I show up single, my mother will set me up with her dentist's nephew, and I'll spend the rest of the year dodging calls about double dates."

Liam's eyes glinted with amusement. "Tragic."

"And you," I continued, "are up for the biggest deal of your career. The board loves a stable, family-oriented image. You showing up with me on your arm says: here's a man who's settled, trustworthy, grounded."

He studied me for a moment, then set down his wine. "Okay. But you're leaving something out."

I raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Why me?" His voice dropped just enough to make the question dangerous. "You could've found an actor. A friend. Someone you actually like."

The truth? Because Liam was the only person I knew who could match me move for move in a room full of sharks and because deep down, some part of me wanted to see if we could survive a weekend without killing each other.

"Because," I said finally, "I need someone convincing. And you're infuriatingly convincing."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Cross."

We hammered out the terms over overpriced pasta. No real intimacy outside of what was necessary to keep up appearances. No personal questions that strayed too far into private territory. A strict end date: Sunday night.

"And in exchange," he said, swirling his wine, "you'll play the doting wife at the investor dinner Friday. Smile when I need you to, laugh at my jokes, make me look like a man who's worth trusting with their money."

"Done."

When the check came, he didn't even glance at it before sliding his card across the table. "I'll pick you up Friday afternoon."

"Fine." I stood.

But as we stepped out into the cool night air, he stopped me with a hand on my arm. His touch was light, but it sent a jolt straight through me.

"One more thing," he said, voice low. "If we're doing this, we do it well. That means you look at me like I'm the only man in the room. You hold my hand like you don't want to let go. You kiss me like it's real."

I swallowed. "And you?"

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "I'll make you believe it's real."