The Fake Date Agreement (Awkward Arrangements Book 1) Read online

  You can’t blame me either way.

  “On that note,” Damien concludes, “I’d like to thank all of you for coming. I look forward to what we can create together.”

  A round of applause ends the meeting, then murmurs fill the room as people share their thoughts and turn the discussion toward lunch.

  Beside me, Greer stands and stretches her arms over her head. Her soft gray sweater rises an inch to reveal a tempting flash of midriff close enough to touch.

  I swallow hard and try not to look.

  “Lunch?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She waves at the dwindling crowd. “Let’s give it thirty minutes so we’re not fighting for a seat.”

  “Deal.”

  I motion for her to walk first, and we follow our colleagues out of the room. Greer seems lost in thought and I don’t want to interrupt, so we walk in comfortable silence while the rest of the crowd does the talking for us.

  As we exit the room and make our way back toward our desks, Greer tilts her head at me and asks, “What would it look like?” She says it so quietly that I almost miss her question in the noise of the crowd.

  Greer hasn’t said anything more about my fake date idea since I mentioned it, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s asking. Then it takes everything in me not to smile.

  I nod my head toward the stairwell, and we duck inside the quiet space. My ears ring in the silence, but I can finally hear myself think. Which means I can hear Greer better, too.

  “What would our agreement look like?” I ask. I lean my shoulder against the wall. “Is that what you mean?”

  She nods, her blue eyes fixed on mine.

  “Well, we’d both go to the work parties. Together.”

  “Okay. But for your events?”

  “My mom’s going to host Thanksgiving with the family, and I know she’d be thrilled to have you join us. And then, if you’re around, there’s a Christmas Eve get-together. I can promise lots of awkward Locke-as-a-kid stories, but they come with a side of free booze.”

  She laughs. “That sounds like fun.”

  With her, it sounds better than I expected my holiday to be.

  Then a thought crosses my mind. “Crap. Thanksgiving’s next week, isn’t it?” My forehead creases. “I know that’s super last minute. You probably already have plans.”

  Greer fiddles with the sleeves of her shirt. “No, that’s okay. I’m staying local.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugs. “My family’s all on the East Coast. It didn’t seem worth using up my vacation days for such a short trip. And I didn’t make Christmas plans yet…”

  “Really? Your family won’t miss you?”

  She smiles wryly. “Oh, they will. But I’m also the black sheep in my family, which makes visits good in small doses.”

  I’m so surprised, I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “No shit. How is that even possible?”

  I don’t want to push my luck, but it’s hard to imagine the Greer who lights up a room as anyone other than a woman who makes her family happy, too.

  “They just don’t know quite what to make of me. East Coast girl moved West. Writer and dreamer. I mean, my dad’s a doctor.” She waves a hand over her body. “I’m not practical.”

  God, but she’s fun.

  I crack a smile to make her feel better. “Well, that’s good. I reserve my exclusive Mills Family invites for writers and dreamers.”

  Greer groans and her eyes fill with hesitation. “Are you really sure you want me to go to your parents’ house?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “That’s not a big deal, or whatever? To bring a stranger?”

  The truth is, it does feel like something serious. In the twelve years since I graduated high school and have lived on my own, I’ve never once brought a girl home to meet my family. But somehow I know Greer can handle it. As for what my family will think, well, that’s their business.

  I blow out a deep breath and make myself smile at Greer. “You’re not a stranger. They’ve heard enough about you.”

  Shit.

  I stop myself before I can say something more, but Greer’s eyes light up like I’ve given her a gift.

  “They have?” She grins up at me. “Have you been talking about me?”

  “Only the terrible things,” I tease. “Like how you drink enough coffee that your energy could power Seattle’s entire electricity grid and how you make me watch cat videos at least twice a week.”

  She snorts. “Poor Locke. How truly awful.” She pauses with a smile. “So you’ll keep me company so I don’t have to suffer through conversations with Damien, and I’ll protect you from your vicious grandma.”

  I laugh. “That’s the general idea.”

  She nods, considering. “Okay,” she says at last.

  “Okay?”

  She shakes her head at me, but her eyes are happy. “Don’t make me second-guess this.”

  I hold a hand over my heart. “Never. I promise.”

  She grins back at me. “Alright. Then you have a deal.”

  It’s Friday afternoon, and normally I’d look forward to the rest of the weekend, reveling in lazy afternoons and coffee shop trips and the joy of having nothing in particular to do. But now everything’s changed.

  I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait for Monday.

  5

  Greer

  I’m the first to tell you I’m not normally a Monday person, but ever since I agreed to Lachlan’s scheme, I’ve looked forward to this morning with a perverse excitement. I’m going to play this fake relationship like it’s all about making Damien jealous, and Locke never has to know I’m secretly on board because it’s an excuse to spend more time with him. As long as I don’t let myself get carried away, I’ll be fine.

  Even my emails don’t seem quite as daunting when I make it to my desk. Dare I say, I even smile as I nurse my mug of coffee and read through the latest emails from our developer team. Research says that people form connections to their technology and anthropomorphize it, so adding a personality to our bot just makes sense. While Wanda is there to help people accomplish tasks online, we know that they also like to chat with her. The problem comes when people get a little too friendly with her, which is where this morning’s question from the devs comes in.

  How do you want Wanda to respond to borderline pet names like “babe?”

  At WanderWell, we do way more thinking about personality principles than most people probably imagine, but that’s why Wanda is unquestionably the best.

  I mull over my answer and type up a few ideas, then turn to Locke for feedback.

  “Mr. Mills,” I call, catching his eye.

  Lachlan steeples his hands together under his chin. “Ms. Lively.”

  I fold a smile between my teeth. “You have time for a quick question?”

  “Always.”

  His smile is warm and genuine, and I try to ignore the way my heart kind of flops a little.

  Business, Greer. Think about business.

  “I’m working on a scenario for Wanda and could use another opinion.” Locke nods, and I continue. “You know Wanda is supposed to be a fun, adventurous friend—humorous, lighthearted, and helpful. She speaks kind of informally, but I’m wrestling with how she should respond to the word babe. Reason being, we tend to give customers a canned response when they’re using overly flirtatious language with her. Because while Wanda is awesome, she’s not a sexbot.”

  He lets out a low chuckle. “Sure.”

  “So back to babe.” I toss my head from side to side. “Should we let customers call her that without giving them grief about it? Because, for example, I call my female friends babe, but we don’t know the customer or the context. I don’t know if we should give them the same answer as they’d get if they called her sexy.”

  “Can you create different responses based on the type of pet name they use?”

  “Hmmm.” I purse my lips. “That’s a great q
uestion, and I’ll ask. But in the meantime?”

  Locke shakes his head. “I’d put babe in the flirty bucket.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t call my mom babe.”

  “Right.” My cheeks heat. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He flashes a grin that shows off just how sexy his smile is. “I’m happy to discuss flirtation with you anytime.”

  I just…damn. How do I answer that?

  Despite my swooping stomach, I paste on a smile and volley back. “Oh, well, flirtation is nothing. We haven’t even gotten to the fuck spectrum yet.”

  Is it my imagination, or does Locke choke a little?

  “Excuse me?” a masculine voice inquires over my shoulders.

  Locke freezes, and scarlet heat creeps up the back of my neck.

  Fuck spectrum.

  Dear god, please don’t let that be Curt.

  Even though this kind of conversation is part of my job, it’s a way harder part to explain at first blush.

  I turn and remind myself to breathe.

  The man carrying the cardboard box of office supplies in his burly arms isn’t Curt.

  Thank god.

  “Do you know where Damien Price’s desk is?” he asks.

  Locke’s eyes burn on my back as I shrug. “Um. Second floor?” I say. “Room 205.”

  Why do I feel so guilty having that knowledge?

  The man shakes his head. “Word has it, he’s moving up to this office.” He lifts the box to prove his point.

  What? No.

  I scan the room and spot the only open desk—the one directly next to Eden’s.

  My coworker sits at her desk, having turned around at the interruption.

  “Yeah,” she calls. “He’s over here now.”

  Fuuuuck.

  The only thing remotely consoling about the situation is that at least Damien’s coming to us rather than having us move to him. If the writing team got moved, the odds of me ending up across from Locke again would be slim, and if I wasn’t across from Locke, I wouldn’t be having half as much fun.

  As the man crosses the room to drop off Damien’s box, I shoot Eden a sympathetic glance. Whatever your feelings about Damien, sitting next to the boss means you have to be on your best behavior. Less browsing the internet in your free time and more pretending to be focused.

  Eden has way more chill about it than I would. She just gives me a tiny shrug and turns back to her computer. I try to go back to my work, too, but my eyes drift to the far end of the room without my permission. I recognize the books in the box from Damien’s office, along with a few knickknacks. The spider plant doesn’t appear to have made the cut. Figures.

  A minute later, Damien walks in, and the room suddenly seems very small.

  My skin prickles and my shoulders stiffen, and I try to ignore the way his cologne wafts through the room, twisting my stomach and forcing me to take shallow breaths.

  Locke watches the whole affair with a grimace, then finally groans and gets to his feet. “Come on, Lively. I need to put you out of your misery.”

  I swing my gaze back to him and lift my eyebrows. “I’m not in any misery.” I’m supposed to be trying to make Damien jealous, not puking at the sight of him.

  Get it together, Greer.

  Locke leans forward in a challenge. “Don’t make me call you out on your b.s. in front of everyone.”

  A flush sweeps down from my cheeks to my chest. “Fine. I’ll play it your way. What did you have in mind?”

  Locke smirks at me. “Lunch work for you?”

  I cast another glance at Damien, who’s already making himself at home. Suddenly, getting out of here sounds like a great idea.

  I grab my purse and stand. “Lead the way.”

  “Hey.” Locke nudges my foot with his under the table at the dim sum restaurant we chose for lunch. “Food was supposed to make you feel better, not worse. Why the long face?”

  The smell of hot, salty food fills the air in the bustling restaurant—steamed dumplings, pork buns, and sticky rice. My stomach growls and demands indulgence, but I set my menu on the table with a sigh. “I just remembered I have to be in a dress in a few days. I mean, assuming that a dress is appropriate for your event?”

  He leans back in his chair and studies me. “You can wear whatever you want.”

  I groan. “You can’t invite a woman to your family’s Thanksgiving and not give her an idea of the dress code. Left to my own devices, I’d prefer to spend Thanksgiving in yoga pants and a sweatshirt.”

  He holds up his hands. “Point taken. A dress is probably fine.”

  I nod. “So there you go.”

  Locke’s eyes darken, unreadable. “Greer, you look—” He seems to think better of whatever he was going to say and starts over. “You don’t need to change anything about yourself.” He says it so quiet and genuine that I believe him.

  “Thank you,” I whisper back. I feel my cheeks heat, and I train my eyes on the laminated menu under my fingers. “So, what’s good here?”

  “Everything.”

  I look up and catch the full force of his smile. It’s a smile of permission. One that says you’re already enough just the way you are.

  “Okay,” I tell him, because letting myself like him is the guiltiest pleasure of all. If we’re already indulging, why not go all-in? “Everything it is.”

  Our waitress arrives a minute later, drooling over Locke as she takes our order, though he doesn’t seem to notice. When she’s carried away our menus, Locke leans forward over the weathered wood tabletop. His gaze rakes my face, dragging heat over my skin.

  “So, back to the fuck spectrum.”

  I break into a startled laugh. “What?”

  “You brought it up earlier. What is it?”

  “I mean…” The fuck spectrum is what I’d like to do with you. I close my mouth and open it again. Very, very bad, Greer. “Where to begin?” I tap a finger to my lips. “Think about the many uses for the word fuck. Then, try to categorize those uses around intent.”

  “Hmm,” he considers. “You can use it as a noun, a verb, an adjective.”

  I nod, excited. “There’s a reason fuck’s my favorite word.” I grin as I start to find my footing. “In real life,” I say, as if this isn’t real life, too, “I have a healthy appreciation for the fuck spectrum.”

  “Lots of possibilities,” he says, and it feels like flirtation.

  I shift in my chair. Even talking about the word fuck with Locke makes me imagine him stripped out of those button-down shirts he wears so well and running through the, well, spectrum with me. Which is something I cannot, should not want.

  As if he can read my mind, he raps a knuckle on the table. “Actually, speaking of breaking a sweat, I know what you can do to feel better when you’re stressed.”

  Heat gathers in my core, and I clench my thighs together. My voice comes out breathier than I intend. “If you were about to suggest something to do with the word fuck, I’m not sure that’s on the table right now.”

  Locke smirks at me, and his eyes dance with amusement. “I meant you could work out.”

  I blow out a puff of air. “Right. Obvs. Who doesn’t like to work out?” Once I’m on a roll, I can’t help myself. It’s like awkwardness shortcuts my mouth’s ability to talk to my brain. “Actually,” I say, “I’m really into fitness.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

  “Fitness lunch in my mouth.”

  He shakes his head, then leans back to allow our waitress to set steaming platters of food on the table between us.

  “Tell you what,” he says when the waitress leaves. “Let’s start small. A fifty pushup challenge.”

  “Like, fifty pushups total?” I give him a skeptical look as I fill my plate with food, but I know exactly what he means.

  Locke grins. “Fifty pushups a day.”

  I drop my eyes to his arms. They’re really sexy biceps, as biceps go. I have no doubt he’s wel
l acquainted with workouts and pushups and other forms of exercise-related torture.

  My lips twitch into a smile. “Somehow I think this is going to be way more of a challenge for me than for you.”

  “I’ll do it with you,” he promises, and my mind fills with the picture of his arms—hell, his whole body—as he levers himself over me and… “It’ll help distract you from how much you miss me.”

  Record scratch.

  What?

  “Miss you?” I ask. “Where are you going?”

  “San Francisco. I’m meeting with the WanderWell team there. You forget?”

  Yeah, I did, and the realization hits like a punch. “You’re leaving?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, misinterpreting the look on my face. “I’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving. So, what do you say?”

  I lift a pork bun, hot and greasy and delicious. “Look how good I’m gonna fitness in my mouth.”

  “That’s a yes, then?”

  “Sure, Locke.” The food melts on my tongue, and my heart sings a little. “I accept your pushup challenge. Why the hell not?”

  6

  Locke

  The steel and glass skyscraper that houses WanderWell’s San Francisco office spears up into a cloudless blue sky, its commanding facade shimmering with possibilities and an aura of technical mastery. We know what we’re doing here. Trust in our expertise.

  I smile as I breathe in the smell of asphalt and fresh air and push toward the building’s front doors. The sunshine is a break from Seattle’s damp season, and my morning coffee’s both hot and delicious. Already, the caffeine spikes through my veins and whispers promises of productivity and delight.

  Yeah. Not a bad way to start the day.

  I give my name to the receptionist and wait for David Brinkley, the Senior VP of Experience, to come get me from WanderWell’s office space on the tenth floor.

  Four months ago, WanderWell acquired GlobalGo, a niche travel management company that specialized in concierge-style booking support. It was a perfect branch to fold into WanderWell’s operations, but Curt decided to keep the San Francisco office in its current location so we didn’t need to relocate employees. The challenge now is figuring out how to integrate their user experience and content writers with the Seattle team, and how to make sure we’re applying the same principles and practices into our work. Hence my visit. Selfishly, it’s also a taste of the travel that I love so much.