Page 3 of Fake It Til You Break It

I took a step forward but stopped when he didn’t move. He studied me now, his pale blue eyes creased at the corners, and that easygoing smile morphed into something sharper.

“Jasper?”

A shiver rippled through me, and I really wished he would stop saying my name like that. “Yes?”

“Take the compliment.”

“Thank you,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

He dipped his head in approval. “Now, how about you show me around? It’s quite a place you have here.”

I settled marginally at the change in topic. Enough, at least, to return his smile.

“It belonged to my parents.” I angled away from him so I could see the three-story French Renaissance mansion, the centerpiece of the gated, fifteen-acre lot. “I inherited it when they passed, and since I had no use for such a large home, I decided to do something useful with it.”

Beckett nodded. “So, it’s a group home?”

“No, not exactly. It’s a youth center.” I moved farther away from the basketball court—and from potential eavesdroppers—relieved when he followed without invitation. “It’s more ofan emergency safe house,” I explained, lowering my voice. “A temporary shelter for kids who don’t have anywhere else to go until we can reunite them with their families or find suitable foster placement.”

The logistics of opening a youth center near an affluent residential neighborhood had been a bureaucratic nightmare filled with an army of attorneys and miles of red tape. It had taken almost two years to secure the permits and licenses required, and another eight months to complete the renovations.

Every late night filled with stress-induced insomnia. Every soul-crushing meeting. Every denial. Every battle. It had all been worth it, and I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

“I see.” Resting his hands on his hips, his gaze swept over the property, pausing momentarily on the different groups of children and teenagers enjoying the sunshine. “There are so many.”

Ah, now I understood his confusion. “Most of them are just here for the after-school programs. They’re not residents.”

His smile returned, and he bobbed his head again. “Tell me about it.”

It occurred to me then that he had deliberately steered the conversation into safer waters, toward a subject I not only knew but felt passionate about. While he seemed interested in what I had to say, I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or practiced.

Either way, I couldn’t even be mad about it. If he brought this same level of insightfulness to the rest of our arrangement, I might actually survive the spring gala circuit.

When my usual plus-one had retired, so to speak, I had panicked. But Beckett Shaw had come highly recommended as a replacement, and now I was beginning to see why.

“Some of the older kids are close to aging out of the system, so we help them prepare for the transition—basic life skills, job readiness, affordable housing, that kind of thing.” I led him along the fence line and across the lawn toward the house. “We also offer programs for kids who just need a break from whatever stress is waiting at home.”

Some came from families who loved them but didn’t fully understand them. Others had found themselves caught in the middle of a messy divorce, or dealing with parents stretched too thin.

Not every situation was dangerous, but it didn’t have to be for a kid to feel like they needed a place to breathe.

“I could have used somewhere like this when I was a kid.”

Beckett spoke with an air of detachment, but I detected the thread of sincerity in his words. I didn’t push or ask him to expand on the statement. I had been doing this long enough to know that not every story needed to be told, and the ones that did took time to unravel.

Similar in height and build, our strides fell into sync, a natural rhythm that carried us through the front door of the center in companionable silence. The once opulent foyer had been converted into a reception area, and I waved at the volunteer behind the desk as I led Beckett to my office.

Typically, I left the French doors open, always willing to accept guests, no matter how busy I was. This time, however, I closed them and pulled the shades. Not because I had anything to hide, but because a small part of me felt embarrassed about the reason for Beckett’s visit.

The rich and influential Jasper Ryan couldn’t even find his own date for a charity gala and had been forced to seek help from a professional agency. I could already see the headlines.

But I had neither the time nor the inclination for the emotional investment actual relationships required. I just needed a security blanket, someone to stand beside me and make sure I didn’t humiliate myself as I navigated the complexities of social interactions.

Thankfully, places like +One existed for exactly that reason. It wasn’t a dating agency, but rather, a company that employed a curated list of agents, all highly trained to be the perfect plus-one.

No commitment. No stakes. No risk. Just a business transaction safeguarded by a contract, so all parties knew where they stood.

“Please, have a seat.” Rather than the wingback chairs placed in front of my desk, I motioned toward the seating area situated by the bay window. “I suppose you want to know a little about me.”

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