Otherwise Engaged: A Fake Engagement Romance
Otherwise Engaged: Chapter 2

Lightning flashed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of my corner office, reflecting off the polished marble floor. In the distance, the low grumble of thunder followed like an ominous warning. Sheets of rain began to pelt against the glass, turning the street below into a blur of colored lights and movement. It was unusual for a storm of this magnitude to hit the city in the middle of the day. But then, it was also unusual for a potential investor to show up twenty-five minutes late for a meeting, especially without even bothering to call.

Sure, we were technically still trying to woo Callaghan to invest in Flux Development’s latest project, a mixed-use building with commercial tenants occupying the bottom two floors and residential condominium units above. The deal wasn’t signed, sealed, and delivered—yet. But last we’d spoken, Callaghan had been on the hook. Sold on the investment, happy with the return we were offering, and ready to cough up the five million that we desperately needed to secure the city-owned parcel of land. All that we had to do was reel him in and get him to sign the papers. Now he was missing in action after rescheduling on us twice, and things were starting to look increasingly grim.

Ian ducked his head in my doorway and rapped on the glass. “Got a minute?”

“I’ve just wasted twenty-five,” I said dryly. “What’s one more?”

He strode in, settling into the cream leather chair across from my glass desk. Crossing an ankle over his knee, he adjusted his grey silk tie with a frown. His dirty blond hair was mussed, like he’d been raking his hands through it as he tended to do when he was stressed or struggling to perfect his Gantt charts for project scheduling.

“We have a problem.”

“You mean the big fish that’s managed to wriggle off the hook?”

“Yes and no.” His expression was neutral, poker face in full effect.

Ian was the quiet, analytical one. Coolheaded with an aptitude for organization and scheduling, he was all about analysis over emotion. It made for a great COO, and it was a useful counterbalance for my own personality, which was not always calm and collected. But sometimes he bordered on being downright cryptic.

I waved him on impatiently. “Details, please.”

Ian opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. He hesitant, like he was weighing what to say.

“What?” I pressed.

I was having a bad day. Some might have called it a bad week. A bad month would also have been an accurate descriptor, and it was rapidly threatening to turn into a bad year. I didn’t have time for Ian’s dancing-around-the-point act. Something was standing in the way of getting our deal past the finish line. I just didn’t know what it was.

“I think I know why Callaghan seems to have cold feet.”

My desk phone rang, interrupting Ian. I held up a finger, gesturing for him to be quiet, as I hit the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bradford?” My assistant Shane’s voice echoed through the speaker. “There’s a Mr. Jared Callaghan here to see you.”

“Send him in, please. Thanks.” Releasing the intercom button, I glanced over at Ian. “Well, so much for cold feet. Maybe he got stuck in traffic.”

“No, that’s what I was—” Ian started to say but stopped short as the glass double doors swung open and Shane escorted Jared Callaghan into the room. He was a portly man in his fifties, with a thick head of white hair and a tanned, lined face. His navy suit was well-tailored, designer loafers shined to perfection, and he looked every bit the part of a big fish. Ian stood up to greet him while I walked around from behind my desk.

“Hello, Mr. Callaghan.” Ian extended his hand.

“Ian,” Callaghan said warmly, embracing Ian’s hand in his own briefly before breaking apart. “Please, call me Jared.”

Then he turned to face me, and his tone cooled a hundred degrees, gaze hardening. “Bennett.”

“Nice to see you again, Jared.” I stepped closer, offering my hand. His gaze dropped to it, and he eyed it with disdain, failing to extend his own in return. Rude, but okay. I was willing to look past it. We needed him—badly. The economy was sagging, almost no one was liquid, and anyone that had money was hoarding it like Gollum and his ring.

I withdrew my hand, walking back over to my desk and sitting down. Jared settled into a chair beside Ian across from my desk while I tried to get my game face on, telling myself whatever just transpired wasn’t personal when it so clearly was.

After some brief banter about the record-breaking rain as of late, Ian and I cut to the chase: the closing. “As we discussed,” I started, “the projected return is significantly higher than industry average. The fundamentals are solid and with a payback period of—”

Callaghan waved me off, holding up a pudgy hand. “Enough numbers. I know what the prospectus says. But numbers only tell one side of the story. I want to know more about you and your company. Get to know you as people.”

I stopped short. What did that even mean? Our biographical blurbs were in the investment package. Ian and I had attended top tier business schools for our undergraduate studies before starting Flux from the ground up together, and since then, we’d completed numerous successful projects. We both possessed various other credentials, including membership with our respective professional organizations, and volunteered for causes like the local chamber of commerce. Granted, Ian forced me into the last one, but it still counted.

What more did Callaghan want to know? My shoe size? Favorite movie?

He draped his arm over the back of the chair, shifting to face to Ian. “Are you married, son?”

I tried to hide my confusion. Married? What did that have to do with anything?

“Two years in June,” Ian replied, holding up his left hand, complete with platinum wedding band.

I wondered if married couples ever regretted giving up their freedom or if it was something they made peace with, like people supposedly do after other tragic life events.

“Ah, in the honeymoon stage!” Callaghan chuckled, belly jiggling. “Those were the days.”

His smile faded as he turned back, setting his sights on me. “And you, Bennett. Are you married?”

“Er—no,” I said. His glare intensified. “Not yet.” Nor ever, actually, but I got the sense that he wouldn’t be keen on that answer.

His eyes went cold. “Still living the bachelor life, then.” He spat out the ‘b’ in ‘bachelor’ like it was a dirty word.

“No, not—”

“I think the way a person lives says a lot about them, don’t you?” He reclined, folding his hands over his round belly, and his shirt buttons strained. “We show our true selves in our private lives. Our morals and ethics, those things that matter. And I have to say, I have some serious reservations about yours, Bennett.”

After another twenty minutes of my character and personal life being raked over the coals, Ian and I managed to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand: the five million dollar investment we were seeking. Unfortunately, neither of us could close Callaghan. We did, however, narrowly convince him to meet with us one more time before completely shutting the door on the deal.

Cloaked in a cloud of defeat, we escorted him to the elevators and exchanged a terse goodbye. Once the elevator doors were safely shut, I turned and looked at Ian in disbelief. “What the hell just happened?”

Ian’s lips pressed into a line. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” He inclined his head in the direction of his office. “Come on. This is a closed-door conversation.”

We strode down the brightly lit hallway adorned with framed black-and-white architectural photos, rounding the corner into his modest workspace. Ian’s office was smaller than mine by choice, tucked away in the northeast side of the floor. He said he didn’t like the visibility of the glass-walled corner office and wanted the ability to close a solid door in the middle of the day and disappear, losing himself in his work. In retrospect, it did have its advantages, like better privacy for the occasional afternoon delight. The pull-down shades I had were questionable at best.

Ian walked past the shelves lined with signed baseball memorabilia and photos of him with his wife, Laura. He pulled out his chair and sat down with a leaden sigh, resting his elbows on the solid walnut desk. I followed him in, locking the door behind us and easing into the buttery leather seat across from him. We stared at each other blankly, still processing the bloodshed that just transpired.

I shifted my weight, looking at him expectantly. “Again, I ask, what the fuck was that?”

“I did some digging earlier,” Ian said. “Word is, Callaghan doesn’t trust you.”

“No shit.” That much had been crystal clear during our interrogation. “Why?”

He gave me a withering look. “Maybe it has to do with your penchant for dating models, fucking in nightclub bathrooms, and snorting coke off strippers’ tits.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny those allegations.”

In my defense, I wasn’t actually doing cocaine in the situation he was referring to; I would never be foolish enough to ingest narcotics in public. I was taking a body shot of tequila and the angle of the freeze-frame video happened to be highly misleading. Second of all, Staci wasn’t a stripper, she was someone my friends and I met at a Vegas nightclub and brought to the strip club with us. But Ian wouldn’t know that because he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be caught dead at a strip club. More accurately, if he did go to a strip club, his wife Laura would see to it that he was dead immediately after.

“You do know that article comes up when people Google you, right? Pictures and all? Have you looked into having that removed?”

“I asked our lawyers,” I grumbled.

Ian raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“Apparently, as a private business, that club has the right to do whatever they want with their security footage as long as they have a sign warning patrons they’re being recorded. And turns out, they do. A teeny tiny fucking sign beside the bathroom that no one would ever notice, let alone read.” I blew out a breath. “Which means I have no recourse with them or the news outlets that ran with it.”

As for who bought and leaked those photos to the press, I had a pretty fucking good idea. My slimy cousin, Adam.

My cell phone vibrated in my suit pocket, and I pulled it out to replace Millie’s name flashing on the caller ID. I watched the screen, tempted to decline the call, but thought better of it. Then she’d know I was at my phone and she’d keep calling. If it rang through, I could pretend I’d missed her by accident. I didn’t have patience for her nonsense at the best of times, let alone when everything was on fire.

“Anyway,” I said, silencing the ringer and sliding my phone back into my jacket. “Back to Callaghan. How did you replace out?”

“He told his assistant, and his assistant leaked it to someone I know.” Ian was one of those friendly, easygoing types that people naturally trusted. He was great at making connections, digging up dirt, and the occasional low-key corporate espionage, which was useful because people were less inclined to air their dirty laundry with me.

“And you think it’s because of my ‘reputation’,” I said, making air quotes.

“He’s old school. The guy has been married for something like fifty years. He has three daughters, six granddaughters, and everyone says he’s wrapped around their little fingers.”

“I get it. He likes rainbows and butterflies and tea parties and shit. What does any of that have to do with business?” I asked through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to do a deal with him, not get one of his daughters’ hands in marriage.”

Ian shrugged but said nothing.

“This is ridiculous.” I slapped the wooden arm of my chair. “My private life has nothing to do with this deal.”

“Look, I don’t disagree. But I’ve done some digging and everyone says the same thing: your lifestyle is an issue. It’s killed deals for Callaghan in the past. He prefers working with wholesome, reliable people. He’s all about family values.”

The unspoken part was clear: Ian was an asset, and I was a liability.

“You mean boring married people like him.”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“Well fuck, man. I didn’t know we were back in 1960.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. What was this, an episode of Mad Men? “If that’s the case, we should be drinking whiskey and smoking cigars before I go bang my secretary.”

“I’m still trying to work on Callaghan,” Ian said pointedly, ignoring my snarky comment. “I’ve been trying to convince him to meet us for dinner next week so that we can discuss things. And so that you can show him what a well-behaved, mature adult you actually are.”

“Good plan,” I said. “I can do that.”

“Can you, though?” He raised his eyebrows.

“You wound me, Ian. Have a little faith.”

I could rein it in if I had to. At least, temporarily.

“Faith is the only thing keeping me going.” Ian scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Just let me know where and when.”

We exchanged a grim glance and I stood up, pushing the chair back and heading for the door. Strolling down the hall, I mulled over possible strategies and angles of attack.

In the past four years, Ian and I had triumphed over nightmare scenario after nightmare scenario. Paper-thin margins, unreliable general contractors, impossible city permitting departments. Bank loans that fell through at the last minute, a handful of potential lawsuits, and more late-night emergencies than I could count.

I had learned how to not only function, but thrive, on nothing but coffee, spite, and three hours of sleep.

I didn’t come this far to only come this far. I could do anything. Would do anything. Except lay down and die.

UNABLE TO FOCUS or accomplish anything of value, I fired off a few emails before bailing at five o’clock to pick up my dry-cleaning before hitting the gym to work out some frustration. I sprinted to the bank of elevators, fueled by defiance, denial, and too many espressos. As the elevator car zoomed down to the ground floor, I gave myself a pep talk. There was still hope. There had to be.

The stainless doors slid open on parking level three and my text notification vibrated again, a reminder that I still hadn’t read Millie’s message. Millie and I weren’t friends, exactly, more like peripheral acquaintances who kept in touch to serve our own purposes. Mine was to stay ahead of the curve, and Millie was the authority on all things gossip-related within our social sphere. Usually this involved trivial matters I didn’t care about, but once in a while, there was a diamond in the rough, like the time she gave me the scoop about a rezoning proposal before the news went public. Flux scooped up a nearby property and made a killing off the development.

And in Millie’s case, well, she wanted to get into my Hugo Boss boxer briefs—she’d made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion. That was never going to happen. For starters, I suspected she would be the lights-out, missionary-only type in the bedroom. But the bigger issue lay in the fact that I’d pegged Millie as the type who’d stalk you relentlessly after a one-night stand while practicing her signature as ‘Millie Bradford’ and photoshopping pictures to create likenesses of your future children. Having dealt with that before, I could spot it at a hundred yards away and knew when to keep my belt buckled, pants on.

I pushed open the metal swinging door, greeted by the asphalt and gasoline scent of the underground parking garage. A car alarm beeped in the distance as someone locked or unlocked it from afar. Pulling out my phone, I navigated to my texts as I headed for the row of parking stalls on the north side, reserved for Flux.

Millie: Did you hear Thayer had a new boyfriend?

Unlike the vast majority of Millie’s breaking news, which was banal at best and catty at worst, this piqued my interest. Thayer had spurned every desirable bachelor in the greater metro area, leaving a trail of broken hearts—or bruised egos, at the very least—in her wake. At this point, she was verging on legendary; a mythical man-eater.

On her first and only date with legendary womanizer, Pierce Cunningham, Thayer criticized the condition of his Mercedes Maybach S-Class and recommended a better detailing shop. Although Pierce doesn’t exactly float my yacht, he’s heir to a massive fast-food dynasty, richer than God, and isn’t exactly wanting for dates. I mean, there were women who would fight each other just to blow him in that car. But after replaceing himself on the receiving end of Thayer’s criticism, Pierce was so embarrassed that he sold his beloved Mercedes.

Allegedly, Thayer also made Will Abbott, highly sought-after hedge fund manager, cry when she publicly dumped him on his birthday. And she walked out on Crosby Richards, uber-wealthy founder of a well-known dating app, in the middle of dinner at Culina. I’d been told by other women that Crosby turns into a handsy octopus after a few glasses of scotch, so to her credit, that one was probably warranted.

I wondered who the lucky guy about to be ripped to shreds was this time.

Bennett: No, hadn’t heard.

Millie: You don’t know who it is, then? She was kind of cagey about it.

I continued walking to my car, mind whirling. Thayer was a cagey person, so this wasn’t a huge surprise. When I didn’t reply, Millie followed up, planting a seed—one I knew she hoped would take root and travel all the way back to Thayer. There was nothing Millie loved more than starting a vicious little rumor, especially about her arch-nemesis.

Millie: I think he might be married.

Bennett: Thayer, playing second fiddle? Doubtful.

Millie: She wouldn’t tell us ANY details. Not even his first name.

Bennett: What do you expect? I mean, this is Thayer we’re talking about.

Millie: True. But she’s hiding something, and I’m going to replace out what it is. I’m still going with the mistress theory myself.

Standing in front of my driver’s side door, I stared at the screen, trying to piece it together. I got into my car and continued mulling it over, intuition niggling at me. And by the time I pulled out of the parking garage, I realized Millie was right: something was going on. But I had a feeling it wasn’t what she thought.

As I turned into the parking lot across the street from the dry cleaners, Ian called me.

“I made some progress,” he said.

“Okay. Where are we at?” I asked, popping in my Bluetooth earpiece as I walked onto the street. Flat grey skies loomed overhead, accompanied by pissing rain. Not a steady downpour, at least, but enough of a drizzle to be annoying as hell.

“I had to twist his arm,” Ian said. “But he committed to dinner next Friday. At a swanky steakhouse on our dime, of course.”

I did a silent fist-pump as I kept walking. Fuck yes. My excitement was short-lived; I had another commitment the same night that would have to be rescheduled. There were few things I hated more than being flaky, especially when it came to my mother. I didn’t make many promises—or any at all if I could get away with it—but I kept the ones I made.

“Sometimes you do pull your weight after all,” I said, narrowly dodging a slow-moving pedestrian. The burly, red-headed woman turned and glared at me, which was unfair considering that she was the one blocking the sidewalk. Just like how freeways have fast lanes, there should be a fast side of the sidewalk and a slow side of the sidewalk. It only makes sense.

He snorted. “Yeah, now it’s your turn. We still have to close him.”

“Let me handle that.”

Until recently, closing had been my forte. Hell, there were times I’d talked circles around investors until they begged me to get in on the deal and fought each other for a bigger share. This situation might require a little more finesse, but I’d get it across the finish line.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing you should know.” Ian’s voice was careful, like he was trying to sound casual and failing.

“What is it?” I quickly looked both ways before darting across the street. A car veered around the corner, slamming on its brakes with a screech to avoid hitting me.

“Watch it, pal!” The beefy, red-faced driver leaned on the horn, flipping me off through the glass.

I grinned and gave him a friendly wave, which angered him even more. He leaned out the window, cursing at me and shaking his fist emphatically, his skin turning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

I loved the city. So full of energy.

“He thinks you’re bringing a date.”

“A date,” I echoed, my attention snapping back to Ian. “Is this a business dinner or the fucking prom?”

“He’s bringing his wife and I’m bringing Laura. If you show up alone, you’ll be the awkward fifth wheel. It’ll only reinforce Callaghan’s perception of you as an overgrown frat boy.”

I grunted but said nothing. I was never a fraternity bro, not even in college, and I certainly didn’t resemble one now. Nor did I think having a date on your arm magically made you mature or trustworthy. But I wasn’t in a position to argue.

“A respectable date,” he added.

“Got it. Thanks, Dad.” Who exactly did he think I was going to bring?

“If we don’t get that money…” Ian trailed off. But he didn’t need to finish his sentence. It was even more dire than he realized. If we didn’t get Callaghan on side, we were done. Closing up shop. Kaput. Uncle Sam would be the lucky new owner of some prime pieces of waterfront property waiting to be redeveloped.

“I am aware of the severity of our situation,” I ground out. “I just don’t see what a date has to do with that.”

Ian sighed. “Look, no one is asking you to get married. Or to even settle down. Just, you know, pretend to be a mature adult for a few hours. Eyes on the prize.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll replace a date.”

“I’ll make a reservation for six people at eight PM.”

“Super,” I said sarcastically, ending the call.

To Ian’s credit, he took my foul moods in stride—just like I put up with his cryptic ways and circuitous path to the point. We had the whole yin/yang thing going on. Whenever I was ranting and raving, unable to see things objectively, Ian was the level-headed one who stopped me from going scorched earth. Or tried to stop me, at least. And when the situation required, I played bad cop, so he didn’t have to. Our dynamic worked, which was how we had gotten a start-up off the ground without strangling each other.

Clenching my jaw, I ducked into the storefront of the dry cleaners and handed the woman at the front my numbered tag. As much as I had a ‘reputation’, as Ian had put it, I never led women on. I was perfectly upfront about my intentions, which were always short-term, non-exclusive, and X-rated. Take it or leave it, and they usually took it.

But the minute meeting my friends, attending fancy parties, or other remotely relationship-like activities entered the picture, it was like blood in the water—cue the Jaws theme song. Everything I’d said went straight out the window and they would think I had either changed my mind or was open to having my mind changed. Which goes to show how little they knew me to begin with. Ian couldn’t even persuade me to go for Chinese food instead of Thai yesterday; being hard-headed was practically my hobby. There was zero chance my position on serious relationships would budge any time soon.

With an armload of clean dry cleaning, I pushed open the door. Thunder sounded overhead and rain began pour down, soaking through my clothes just before I reached my car again. A fitting end to the day. I started the ignition, still stewing over Ian’s orders. The last thing I needed was to bring a woman to this dinner and have her get the wrong idea. It always resulted in hurt feelings, tears, and pain-in-the-ass drama. If I wanted drama, I’d watch shitty reality TV.

But regardless of whether I wanted a date, I needed one for this goddamn dinner. Someone appropriate who would help me make a good impression. Someone willing to accompany me, but who wouldn’t want it to lead to anything more.

Someone who needed something from me, too.