Julian Hart,my new client, stood in my old bookshop like he was allergic to something in it and I kept wondering if it was the dust,or books,or ME. Tall,sharp jaw,Pointed nose,Curly hair....Damn,here I was drooling and there wasn't even a smile on his handsome face,He looked as uninterested as a baby.
"I expected someone taller," he finally said, glancing at me, then at the Old bookshelf behind me like both of us were not to be trusted.
"And I expected someone... warmer," I replied, giving him my best professional smile.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're prettier than your profile photo."
"Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"It wasn't."
Let's backtrack. He had called earlier that morning and requested to meet in person before finalizing anything. Standard practice, especially with high-paying clients. What wasn't standard was his tone—crisp, direct, and angry.
Now here he was, standing in the middle of my father's old mystery section, looking like he might catch a disease from eye contact.
"I assume you've read the contract I sent," he said, pulling out a folder like this was a board meeting and not a fake love audition.
"I did," I replied. "It was very thorough. My personal favorite was the 'No sudden declarations of actual love' clause."
His mouth twitched. Not a smile, it seemed like a smirk but it wasn't either.
"I like boundaries," he said.
I nodded. "And I like people who at least pretend not to be arrogant."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Never mind."
We sat at my tiny desk, the chair across from me protesting under his weight like even it wasn't pleased to have him here. I offered him tea. He declined. I offered him water. He declined. I offered him the chance to fake-date someone else.
No response.
"So," I said, leaning forward, "why exactly do you need a fake fiancée for a whole month? I usually deal in short-term love. Like a romantic dinner date."
He didn't laugh. Of course he didn't.
"My mother," he said simply.
"Ah." I nodded. The usual story.
"Is she dying or matchmaking?"
"Both, possibly."
That threw me.
"She's ill," he added, softer this time. "But also emotionally manipulative and convinced I'm incapable of falling in love."
"So you are trying to prove her right?."
"No response.".
At least he was honest.
I studied him. There was something about Julian. Like he'd never been messy, never done something just for the hell of it,never gotten into trouble. He looked like the type who scheduled his sarcasm. But beneath the suit , there was something else. A flicker of loneliness? Or just my overactive empathy again.
"You're really going to parade me around your family like I'm your one true love?" I asked.
"If you can sell it," he said. "You come highly recommended."
I raised an eyebrow. "By who?"
"Client #9," he said. "The one whose ex-fiancée tried to fight you at the dinner table."
Ah. Crazy Rachel. Good times.
"I can sell anything," I said. "But just so you know, this face—" I pointed to mine, "—does not come with a control button. I improvise."
His jaw tensed. "As long as you don't fall in love with me."
I burst out laughing. "Oh, darling. You're not even my type."
"Good," he said. "I'd hate to file a restraining order mid-engagement."
We signed the contract. His signature was sharp and clinical. Mine looked like it belonged on a wedding cake. We agreed on a backstory—met at a coffee shop , bonded over matching book tastes (a lie), fell in love within two months (a bigger lie).
As he stood to leave, I offered one last smile.
"You know, this doesn't have to be so miserable," I said. "Most people at least pretend to like me when they're paying for my company."
He paused by the door. For a moment, something softened in his eyes.
"I don't dislike you, Elena," he said. "You're beautiful. Clever. Quick."
He opened the door.
"I just don't believe in love."
And just like that, he left.
I stood there for a second, processing what he had just said.
Beautiful, clever, quick—but not enough to matter.
Maybe that was the point. We were two professionals, playing pretend for people who needed the illusion. I could handle being treated as unimportant. I'd been raised by ghosts.
Still, as I turned back to my desk and saw his neat signature next to mine, I couldn't help but wonder:
Was this going to be my easiest gig?
Or the one that finally messed with my rules?
The bell above the door rang again, startling me. Mrs. Daisy, my elderly neighbor, peeked in with her usual armful of romance novels and boiled sweets.
"Is that the man you're marrying?" she asked, squinting dramatically.
"I stared at her,not saying anything.
"He looks like he's never been hugged."
I smiled. "That's exactly the problem."
She nodded like she understood entirely, handed me a bag of strawberry toffees, and wandered off muttering about the tragedy of wasted Facecards.
And just like that, I had officially entered a fake engagement—with a man who didn't believe in love just like me, in a bookstore that looks like it would collapse the next day.
What could possibly go wrong?
The answer -----a lot