Chapter 23

"Where the hell is it?!" I muttered, darting left and right like a pigeon on caffeine. Riley's hot pink wig bobbed with every step, threatening to slip off my head. My cheap dress clung to me in all the wrong places, and my heels? They were planning my murder.

The crowd up ahead buzzed like bees around a hive, and that's when I spotted him—tall, sharp, already swarmed by curious onlookers.

“Oh no. I’m late!”

I rushed up, panting. “Y-You’re already here!”

Ethan glanced down at his watch, completely unbothered. “You’re late.”

I whipped out my phone. “By one minute?!”

He didn’t even blink.

I forced a polite smile, though behind it brewed the kind of rage only public transit delays could inspire. ‘You’ve probably never waited for a train in your life, you luxury-leather-wrapped tyrant…’

“Well,” I said sweetly, “let’s blame my ‘tardiness’ on how sudden this meeting was.”

“You were aware of it yesterday. Idiot.”

That made my eye twitch.

"So why’d you want to meet?" I asked, arms crossed.

He looked me straight in the eye. “Because I wanted to see you.”

My brain short-circuited.

“…What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“You just said something completely unexpected,” I mumbled.

“What other reason would a man call a woman to meet him?”

“I don’t know, tax fraud? You tell me,” I muttered under my breath.

“I mean, we don’t have that kind of relationship where we just... see each other,” I said aloud, trying not to visibly combust.

“And yet here you are. So what exactly do you think we are?” he asked.

“We are... contractor and client. Emotionally unavailable and proud,” I declared.

He hummed like he approved. “Then you should already know why we’re here.”

“Why?”

He took my hand.

“Practice.”

Practice?

PRACTICE?!

He started walking, dragging me along like a stray he’d adopted.

“You can’t meet my grandfather without knowing the basics,” he said.

‘Right. Like how you’re emotionally constipated and allergic to smiles.’

He continued, “He’ll only back off once he believes we’re getting married. So we need to look natural.”

“…Isn’t that deceiving?” I said weakly.

The glare he shot me could’ve drop-kicked me into another timeline. “Oh. Right. Family’s fine. Lying is noble. Got it.”

“If we get caught,” he added, “I don’t mind going through with the marriage.”

I skidded to a stop. “Excuse me?! You can’t just... drop that!”

He turned, calm as ever. “Miss Thompson, will you be practicing... or choosing the real thing?”

Oh, hell no.

“…Practice.”

‘Your ‘program’ is actual hell.’

“Then let’s continue,” he said, grabbing my hand again.

I yelped. “Is this really necessary?!”

“Skinship practice,” he smirked.

“…Could’ve given a warning first.”

“My grandfather’s perceptive. Everything must be natural,” he explained, like I was training for the Dating Olympics. “Now pick up your pace. You walk like a malfunctioning Roomba.”

“I am not slow—you are!” I puffed beside him.

Then something weird happened.

My heart started pounding like a jackhammer.

Not just because of the physical contact—but because the man was walking like he owned the planet, dragging me through this ridiculously romantic light-filled park like we were in a drama shoot.

“I’ve never seen this side of the park before,” I muttered, genuinely distracted.

“…It’s nice,” he said.

My heart did a dumb flutter.

“Um… about the hand…”

“If you accepted the job, you should act like it matters.”

I yanked my hand away. “I don’t want the money.”

That seemed to surprise him. Just a flash. He looked down at his empty hand for a second too long.

“Oh, good,” he finally said. “Then I’ll consider this volunteer work.”

‘Great. Now I’m a volunteer liar. For free.’

“I won’t do this anymore,” I mumbled.

“Miss Thompson.”

My soul left my body.

“If we fail this, all this time will have gone to waste.” Translation: ‘And I hate wasting time.’

“If that happens, I will require compensation.” Translation: ‘You’ll pay. Painfully.’

“And I don’t like wasting time.” Translation: ‘You’ll die.’

“So. I just need to… hold your hand?” I squeaked.

He smiled. “For now. Let’s go.”

He took my hand again and I nearly passed out. “O-Okay…”

RIIIIINGGGG

A cyclist zipped past and Ethan yanked me out of the way like it was nothing. I landed against his chest, dazed.

His cologne hit me like a drug. Clean. Sharp. Expensive. Overachieving.

“Goddamn cockroaches,” he muttered, glaring at the cyclist.

“Y-Yeah, thanks…” I stumbled upright.

We walked in silence after that. Well, he walked. I was practically dragged.

He looked... relaxed. Like this wasn’t totally awkward. Like he wasn’t plotting to emotionally destroy me later.

“This is just practice,” I told myself.

“Let’s practice every evening from now on,” he said.

I stared. “EVERY evening?! Aren’t you... CEO-ing?”

“I like things to be perfect.”

‘And I like breathing, thanks.’

“I’m adaptable, okay?! My improv is amazing,” I argued.

“No wonder it was awkward,” he said, unimpressed.

“You believed it though?!”

“I never said in what way it was remarkable.”

I wanted to cry.

“Then why pick me?”

“You were there. It was efficient.” He shrugged. “Besides, what kind of man marries someone who says she’s going to sleep around?”

‘YOU. YOU’RE THAT MAN.’

“You never believed anything I said on the date?!”

“Of course not.”

‘I was... performing. Alone. Like a Broadway one-woman tragedy show.’

“So, do you agree to practice now?” he asked, face inches from mine.

“Do I have a choice?”

“First thing to fix—your stiff posture. My grandfather won’t buy this fake love with your wobbly energy.”

“This is so unfair…”

He raised a brow.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry for wasting time!”

“What do you think about meeting him next week?”

I blinked. “Wait. So soon?”

“Is perfect acting possible in one week?”

I gulped. “I—I’ll try my best…”

He smiled again. “Good. The date’s set.”

“Yay,” I mumbled, trying to sound less like I was dying inside.

He tilted his head. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What now?”

“My grandfather thinks we’re already living together.”

I forgot how to breathe.