Chapter 1: The ask

Nadia's coffee is lukewarm by the time James' assistant texts her. Conference room? No. His office. Different thing entirely.

She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, using the time to catalogue what she might have done wrong. The Connolly event was Friday. She'd caught a vendor switching out centerpieces at the last minute—wrong florist, wrong roses, she'd made them swap them back. No complaints. The corporate retreat she coordinated last month was already generating inquiries for next year. Nothing burned down. No one got food poisoning. So what.

His office door is open. James is at his desk in his shirt sleeves, which is rare. The man moves through summers in blazers like it's his job. He doesn't look up when she enters, just nods to the chair across from him.

"Shut the door."

The temperature in the room drops. Nadia shuts the door and sits, keeping her spine straight, keeping her hands visible on her lap. She's learned in six months of working for Whitmore & Associates that James doesn't waste words, and every gesture means something. The shirt sleeves mean he's been here since before the office got hot. The nod meant sit here specifically and not sit wherever you want. He's doing something—building a case or winding down, she can't tell yet.

Finally he looks up.

James Whitmore is thirty-one and looks it the way other men have to pay for. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of eyes that see you working through a problem. Right now those eyes are looking at her like she's a problem he's been thinking about for a while.

"I need you to do something for me," he says. "Outside of work."

Nadia's first instinct is to say no. Her second instinct is to ask what he's offering. She does neither. She waits.

"My family has a reunion," James continues. He leans back in his chair. It creaks. Nothing in his posture has changed, but something in his voice has softened. "Three days. Lake house. Upstate."

"Okay," she says, because that's not actually a request yet.

"I need you to come as my fiancée."

Nadia blinks. Once. Then she almost laughs, then she realizes he's serious, then she thinks about how to say no without it being no.

"I'm going to need you to walk me through the context, because that's—that's a lot."

James doesn't smile. He rarely does. But there's something like approval in the way he nods. "My mother has decided I'm underperforming as an adult. She's been sending me setups. Blind dates arranged through her friends. She doesn't hear no very well. A fiancée would solve that problem."

"For three days," Nadia says slowly.

"For three days."

"Which would require you to tell your family that you're engaged, and then three days later tell them you're not."

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"I know," James says. He's calm about it in a way that makes it worse. Like he's thought about how insane it is and decided insanity was better than the alternative. "I'll compensate you."

Now she's listening. Nadia tilts her head. "I'm listening."

"Five thousand dollars for the weekend."

She doesn't react. She learned early in this job that reactions are currency, and she doesn't spend it on first offers. James watches her, and she watches him watching her, and there's a moment where neither of them moves.

"Plus," he says, "a letter of recommendation to the senior leadership team. They're looking to bring on an events director. New role. More than what you're making now."

Nadia sits with this. She thinks about rent. She thinks about the events director role, which would mean she could stop taking the freelance jobs on weekends, which would mean she could have Saturday mornings back. She thinks about five thousand dollars toward the design degree she's been putting off because it's not practical. She thinks about James, who rarely asks for anything, who knows the margins on her paycheck apparently and thinks she should move up.

She's quiet long enough that James starts talking again.

"I know it's strange. I know it's an inconvenience. But you're good at reading rooms and you don't panic and you—" He stops. She watches him stop. He's said too much or close to it. "You're good at handling difficult situations."

"I'd need more details," Nadia says carefully. "Background for your family. How long we've been together. How you proposed. How much your mother likes to talk about feelings. And I'd need—I'd need a reason for why I'd say yes to you."

Something flickers across his face. Fast enough that she might have imagined it.

"She'd need to believe it," Nadia continues. "That I'd want you. So I need to know what story works."

James leans forward. His elbows on the desk, his hands folded. He's thinking. She can see him thinking, the calculation moving behind his eyes like he's checking boxes in his head.

"Three months ago," he says. "We met at the Harrington gala. I spilled wine on your dress. You were furious. I bought you a new dress. We grabbed dinner to discuss how to prevent future wine incidents."

Nadia has a flash of memory. October. The Harrington gala. A man in a dark suit apologizing while she tried to sponge Cabernet out of black silk.

"That was you?"

"That was me."

"You were wearing glasses."

"Contacts now," he says. "And then slowly it became actual dinners. We've been seeing each other since. I proposed three weeks ago. Small thing. Nothing you'd hear about through the rumor mill because I wanted to tell my family in person."

He's thought about this. He's thought about this a lot.

"Why haven't you brought me around before?" she asks.

"I wanted to be sure."

The answer sits between them. Nadia knows it's not the full answer. She knows people don't spend this much time choreographing details unless something else is at stake. But she also knows James well enough by now to know that he doesn't lie, he just doesn't always tell the full story, and pushing him will just make him shut down.

"Your family is going to ask me things," she says. "Personal things. About you. About us."

"I know."

"And I'm going to know things about you that I don't know now."

"I'll brief you," he says. "Family dynamics. Things they'll ask about. Things to avoid." He pauses. "I've actually been thinking about what you'll need to know."

He stands and walks to a filing cabinet. The second drawer. It's organized like everything in this office—labeled, filed, exact. He pulls out a folder and hands it to her.

Inside is a photograph. James and his parents at some kind of charity event. His mother is small and sharp-looking in a way that suggests she's made enemies through sheer force of personality. His father is distinguished and vague. Then there's a woman who looks like she shares a face with James. A sister.

Under the photo are notes. Handwriting, neat: Family Dynamics. His mother, Elizabeth, works in philanthropy. She remarried after his parents' divorce when James was sixteen. He has one sister, Caroline, two years younger, married with two kids, lives in Boston. His father is in Seattle with his second wife. The reunion is technically his mother's side, but his stepfather's family will be there too.

Then there are sections. Topics to Avoid. Things She Likes to Talk About. Caroline's Weak Points with a note that says don't let her try to setup James with her "refined friends".

And then: Things About You.

Nadia flips the page.

Nadia Hassan. Egyptian-American. 26. Event coordinator. Grew up in Illinois. Parents still in the area. One brother. Graduated University of Chicago. Double major in business and design. You design things in your notebook during meetings when you're bored. You take notes in Arabic. You reread the same three books. You say "actually" when you're being careful. You always taste the food before you serve it. You remember everything.

Nadia stops reading.

"How long have you been writing this?" she asks quietly.

"Six months," James says. He's not apologetic. He's not anything. He's just stating fact. "Since the gala. Since I spilled wine on you and you were so angry that you wouldn't even look at me when I apologized."

"That's—" Nadia starts. Stops. Starts again. "That's a lot of cataloguing for someone you just met."

"I know what I want," he says. "I don't usually ask for help getting it. But in this case, I need help."

Nadia looks back down at the folder. At his neat handwriting documenting her existence. At the fact that he noticed about the notebook, about the Arabic, about the three books she's read so many times she could recite them. At the fact that he noticed her, period, when the rest of the office treats her like pleasant background.

"If I do this," she says, "it's not because you've been paying attention to me. It's because you're offering me something I actually need. I want to be clear about that."

"Understood," James says.

"And when this is done, we don't ever mention this again."

"Okay."

"And you stop writing about me in those folders."

A smile crosses his face. Small, fast. "That one might be harder, but I'll try."

Nadia stands. She's holding the folder. She doesn't remember deciding to keep it. "When do we leave?"

"Next weekend. Friday. We drive up."

"What's the weather going to be like?"

"It rains," James says. "It always rains the first night. And she always complains about it. And my stepfather always says it'll clear up by afternoon. It won't. But it will eventually stop."

"Okay," Nadia says. She tucks the folder under her arm. "Then we should probably know things about each other."

"I have a list," James says.

Nadia meets his eyes. Sees the humor there, dark and private. "Of course you do."

"It's in the folder."