Page 18 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"She's actually our newest matchmaker. And my best friend's sister." I glance at the contract. "I assume the agreement includes confidentiality clauses for our staff?"

"Pages forty through forty-seven." Ms. Rogers produces a stack of NDAs. "Speaking of staff, we should discuss dress code requirements."

"I'm sorry, dress code?"

"Your vintage aesthetic is..." Grayson pauses, "charming, but SecureMatch's brand requires a more traditional approach."

"You want to dictate what I wear?"

"We want to present a cohesive image," Ms. Rogers corrects. "Mr. Dixon's reputation as a tech innovator?—"

"Means I can't dress like a human being?"

"The agreement includes a clothing allowance," Ms. Rogers adds, as if throwing money at me makes it better.

I glance down at my vintage green dress – the one that usually makes me feel confident but suddenly feels like it's marking me as out of step with their sleek, modern world. "So not only do I have to pretend to date you, I have to pretend to be someone else while doing it?"

Something flickers in Grayson's expression. For a moment, I think he might actually argue against his lawyer's points, but then his CEO mask slides back into place. "Image is everything in tech. You understand business necessity, surely?"

The bank statement still in my hand seems to mock me. He's right – I do understand business necessity. It's why I'm even considering this insane arrangement.

"Fine." I reach for the contract. "What else?"

"Physical fitness requirements," Ms. Rogers continues, but she's interrupted by a commotion from the lobby.

"Is that... is that a balloon arch collapsing?" Grayson asks, peering through the windows of my office.

"Your secretary's quarterly reports!" Mr. Giggles wails. "I'm so sorry!"

I drop my head into my hands. "Please tell me the contract covers property damage by rogue performance artists."

Ms. Rogers clears her throat. "If we could return to page fifty-eight, regarding public appearances..."

I look at the contract, then at Grayson, then at my bank statement. Six weeks.

I can handle six weeks.

I think…

But it remains to be seen so far.

Because two hours, one collapsed balloon arch, and three sad mime performances later, I've signed what has to be the most elaborate fake dating contract in Seattle history.

"You realize this thing has more clauses than my actual divorce agreement?" I say, flexing my signing hand.

"Your divorce agreement didn't include protocols for social media engagement and coordinated workout schedules," Ms. Rogers points out, gathering the papers.

"Speaking of workouts," Grayson says, standing with that effortless grace that probably comes from whatever overpriced gym is specified in section twelve, "we should discuss our first public appearance."

"Already?"

"Tonight's charity gala at the Museum of Innovation. The press will be there.” He studies me for a moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under those whiskey-brown eyes. “You’ll have full access to your clothing allowance tonight. I'll send a car at seven.”He pauses. “Or is that going to be a problem?

I glue on a smile. “Nope. No problem.”

I stand, and he follows, reaching out a hand.

“Tonight, Ms. Carpenter?”

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