The Fake Date Agreement (Awkward Arrangements Book 1)

by Tanya Gallagher

  I stand in the lounge area to wait, arranging myself across from a low, rectangular fireplace set into a stone wall that reaches to the lobby’s lofted ceiling. My cell phone buzzes from the messenger bag slung over my shoulder, and I dig it out with a grin.

  What the hell? Why do my arms hurt so much?

  No one’s text messages can make me smile the way Greer’s do. Even the grouchy ones.

  She’s thinking about me, and it feels like a gift.

  I’m assuming you did your pushups? I send back.

  The fireplace crackles at my back. Gas, but still. It throws off enough heat to warm my shoulders as I wait for her reply.

  On my toes! She throws in an emoji of an arm making a muscle for good measure.

  And you survived.

  Only thanks to my recovery ice cream.

  I smirk at the phone. God, this woman. I’m not quite sure how I got lucky enough to have her sit across from me every day, but not a day goes by that I’m not thankful for my job because it was the way I met her.

  “Lachlan Mills.”

  I look up at the sound of the voice ringing across the lobby and shove my phone into my bag. At only around forty-five, David Brinkley’s one of the founders of the GlobalGo. He negotiated a leadership role as one of the conditions of the acquisition, along with a crap ton of stock shares. No doubt he’s rolling in the dough, but you wouldn’t know it from his outfit. David strides toward me with his hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He’s topped the frayed pair with a simple black T-shirt in that California-cool style that San Franciscans have adopted. No beach flip-flops here, but he is wearing a pair of suede maroon sneakers, and his hair flops long into his face like he’s trying to retain an air of youth.

  We’ve already chatted plenty on the phone, but I like him even more on sight.

  I shake David’s hand with a smile. “So nice to put a face to the voice.”

  “Back at you. Well, no point hanging around the lobby. What do you say we go meet the team upstairs?”

  “Sounds great.”

  David leads me towards the glossy bank of elevators, and he talks me through my schedule as our elevator ascends to the tenth floor. It’s a packed few days, from meeting the writing team to leading a workshop on our current voice and tone guidelines to chatting with the designers who help ensure our products sparkle.

  David barely makes it through the first day’s schedule before the elevator doors slide open to reveal a bustling floor filled with light and energy. Clean, white walls showcase photographs from major world destinations. Where in the world has WanderWell been? asks a sign hanging over a six-foot-wide map of the world mounted on the lobby wall. Old-fashioned pins with tiny red and black heads dot the board, with paper flags looped around them to describe the employee’s name and date of the trip. These offices just look like fun, and every person smiles at me. I’m like the new kid on the block who also happens to know what I’m doing, and my chest feels light.

  I didn’t realize how much good changing up the scenery would do for me, but this visit energizes me in a new way.

  “You ready to get started?” David inclines his head toward the beckoning offices.

  I smile back at him. “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you so much for coming, everyone. I know I’m standing between you and lunch, so I won’t keep you any longer. But let’s stay in touch and keep the ideas flowing.” I rattle off my email address, and the conference room empties except for David, who spent the hour-long meeting sitting at the far end of the room, nodding along with each of my points like an overeager school kid.

  He stands now and strolls toward me. “Excellent work, Lachlan. I really like the idea of putting in a cross-company system to capture and standardize the design practices and text patterns we use across the company.”

  I nod as I gather up my laptop and slide it into my messenger bag. “I’ve been feeling it out with Curt and think it will help bridge the gap between the offices and allow both teams to contribute to the conversation.”

  “We’d need to budget for it since it’s almost a full-time project, but I think it’s a worthwhile initiative.” He pauses. “Speaking of worthwhile initiatives, are you ready for lunch?”

  “Yeah, food would be great.”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Excellent. I hope you don’t mind, but I had lunch catered into my office. I know you’ve got a packed schedule for the next two days, but I wanted to carve out some time for just us to chat.”

  “Sure.”

  I finish gathering my gear and follow David through the maze of offices. He stops in front of a door bearing his name and opens it for me. In addition to the massive executive desk poised in front of floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the room boasts a seating area with two small, lime green couches squared off over a marble coffee table. The coffee table’s set for two with paper napkins and the same compostable cutlery I recognize from the Seattle office.

  “Have a seat and I’ll check with the front desk about the food.”

  When David leaves, I sit on the couch facing the window and pull out my phone.

  Greer’s sent me a string of ice cream pictures, including one of old fashioned ice cream cones with legs and arms dancing their way conga-style into a grinning mouth.

  Dear lord.

  Since you’re not answering, I assume things are going well, she’s typed. Keep me posted.

  I love the way text messages feel like a continuing conversation. Even if Greer’s not here in front of me right now, it feels like she’s here in my mind.

  So far so good, I reply.

  David returns to the office and closes the door behind him, and I put away my phone. “Another ten minutes or so,” he announces. “Why don’t we get started in the meantime.” He sits on the couch across from me and sprawls his arms over the backrest, then studies me for a minute before talking.

  My cell phone buzzes in the silence, and though I can’t reach for it with David watching, my mind slips away to thoughts of Greer back in WanderWell’s Seattle office.

  I wonder what she’s wearing today.

  I wonder if she’s nibbling on the end of her pen the way she does when she’s busy thinking.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about me too.

  I’m not entirely prepared when David finally speaks. “Listen, Locke, I’m not going to dance around it. The team’s going to continue to grow, but we’re a little rudderless at the moment. That’s where you come in.”

  Tingles run down my arms, and I blink at him. Talk about cutting to the chase. “Come in how?”

  “I’ve been chatting with Curt, and we think your experience here could be a huge asset to the team and help us get up and running that much more quickly.”

  “I think the workshop this morning was a good first step,” I agree.

  David considers me. “You’ve been in your current role for how long now?”

  “Five years or so,” I supply. Longer than any other relationship I’ve had.

  He nods. “Five years. And you’re at the point where you’re ready to grow. The way I see it, someone in your position has two choices—either grow with the company or leave and take all your expertise somewhere else.”

  “Okay.” I draw out the word, trying to figure where he’s going with this.

  David gestures out at the offices and the San Francisco skyline sprawling behind him. “The team here needs a leader. A manager. We’d like you to consider the role.”

  There’s a tiny pause when everything slows down for a minute and I can hear the distinct sound of my pulse in my ears.

  “Really?”

  It’s an overwhelming richness of opportunity. A gluttony of choice. A management role could change my life—open doors and roles at every tech company in the world if I ever want to move on and help me prove to my family that even if I haven’t mastered relationships, in business, at least, I’m doing something right.

  “Really,” David says. “Of course, we hav
e to do our due diligence, so you’re not the only candidate in the running. But with your background and experience directly at WanderWell, I think you’ll have a good chance.”

  I blow out a breath. “What would it mean for me?”

  “You’d oversee a team of about twelve direct reports, some writers, some UX designers, everyone focused on user experience in WanderWell products. You’d work closely with the Design manager in the Seattle office.” David pulls one of his hands off of the couch and rakes it through his hair. “I’d strongly consider it, Locke. This could be a partner-level role in a few years. You’d even have your own office—a little more privacy.”

  I swallow hard. “My own office?”

  “Right down the hall.”

  The realization settles over my shoulders like heavy sand. I’d have to move here. Live here. Ever since my dad got sick a little over five years ago, I’ve stayed close to Seattle to take care of my family. The Locke from before my dad’s illness would have crawled all over this San Francisco position. The Locke today has more to consider.

  David misreads my expression for one of interest. “I can show you the place if you’d like.” There’s a soft knock at the door, and he grins at me as he rises to answer it. “After lunch, of course.”

  “Right.”

  I stare at the city just outside the window as David takes a tray of sandwiches and salads from the receptionist and deposits them on the table between us. My mind offers up a thousand thoughts, but my body feels sluggish and numb, and a knot grows in my stomach.

  It’s an impossible choice—take my career to the next level but leave everyone I love behind. My life’s in Seattle. Other than the few years I traveled post-college, it’s been my home for my whole life.

  Ever since my dad died, I’ve tried to spend more time with my family to make up for his absence. And Greer? It’s been a day and I already miss her. Imagine a lifetime of living apart.

  David and Curt don’t know what they’re asking.

  They don’t know just how much I’d have to give up.

  7

  Greer

  Nerves. Everywhere.

  I lean over the container of homemade cranberry sauce I just pulled off the stove, and the sweet smell of cranberries, oranges, and cinnamon wafts over my face, along with a draft of steam that’s probably melting off my carefully-applied makeup and curling my hair.

  Crap.

  The sauce isn’t cooling fast enough and Locke’s picking me up in ten minutes, but there’s no way I’m going to let a glamorized condiment get the best of me.

  I flick on the ventilation fan over my stove and shove the container under the blast of air. Then I grab a dishtowel and start fanning.

  Molly wanders into the kitchen in a pair of pajama bottoms printed with tiny scoops of ice cream. “Greer.” She has to raise her voice over the noise of the fan before I hear her.

  “Huh?” I turn to her, still fanning. Keanu Reeves’s face is emblazoned on the dishtowel, which Molly got me as a gag gift for my birthday last spring, and even Keanu looks like he’s frowning at me right now.

  Maybe it’s just because cranberry sauce is beneath him.

  Molly leans a hip against the kitchen counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “Calm down.”

  Easy for her to say. She plans to order in Chinese food and watch Love Actually to offset what she calls “the impending emotional turmoil of the Christmas season.” Really, it’s a joke to her, because Molly’s super tight with her family and has been itching for a visit with them for ages. Meanwhile, I’m working up a literal sweat over the sauce, which means I’m going to have to race the ticking clock to reapply deodorant under my fitted sweater dress.

  “I can’t put the lid on the container yet,” I say.

  “Who cares? It’ll still taste good.” Molly leans past me to turn off the fan so we don’t have to shout anymore.

  “Everything has to be perfect,” I whisper into the silence.

  I haven’t seen Locke in a few days, and I didn’t realize until now just how much I’ve missed him. And just how much I care about impressing his family with our fake whatever-it-is.

  “Everything’s already perfect,” Molly says. My best friend swings two ways—sarcastic as heck or super empathetic, and for some reason, today her woo-woo chill vibe sets my teeth on edge. I want to wallow in my nervousness right now. I want to be allowed to feel weird about tonight. Locke and I don’t do this kind of thing, and my nerves are more than justified. Locke is one of my best friends in the world, but our hangouts outside of work have been limited to the occasional group happy hours and movies. Even though we’ve laughed over a million memes and talked about everything from grief to consciousness to orphaned baby elephants and blockbuster movies, there are parts of our lives that we don’t share with each other, and tonight everything’s blurring together. Or maybe that’s just the steam in my eyes.

  Molly gently takes the dish towel from my hands. “Go get ready.”

  The doorbell rings, and I swear under my breath.

  I’m going to be late.

  A pulse of adrenaline floods through my veins, and I rush toward my bedroom. “Cover for me?” I call over my shoulder. I don’t wait for Molly’s reply.

  In my bedroom, I kick aside a pair of yoga pants and slide on a pair of black suede booties. They’re dressy enough to look good with my sweater dress, but they provide enough ankle support that I’m unlikely to break a leg. Then I swab on fresh deodorant, fluff my hair, and take off my glasses.

  There.

  Only five minutes late. Boom.

  The hallway carpet dampens the sound of my footsteps as I leave my room, and I pause for second just outside the entrance to my living room. From here I can peek inside without being seen, and I drink in the sight of Locke in my house.

  In. My. House.

  He’s never been here before, and the flutter of nerves kicks back up in my stomach, solidifying just how much I missed him.

  Locke sits on my couch and studies the room around him—the cozy blankets and pillows, the books layered two deep on my bookshelves because one row per shelf just isn’t enough, the half-melted candles clustered on my coffee table, perfuming the air even unlit.

  I watch him quietly for a second before I draw a breath and step into the room. “Hey,” I call.

  Locke doesn’t say anything for a second, just stares at me with big eyes and an unreadable expression on his face.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m only five minutes late,” I blurt out to fill the silence. I hold up a hand and spread my fingers. “That’s a new Greer Lively record.”

  The moment cracks and Locke grins at me, flashing those perfect dimples. “I’ll have you know that I told you a time ten minutes early to offset your possible lateness. Which means we, Greer Lively, are officially five minutes early.”

  I drop open my mouth in false indignity. “You didn’t.”

  His eyes lock on mine, crinkling at the corners with amusement and familiarity. “I know you so well.”

  My heart thumps hard and my stomach dips. God, he does know me. But as much as I want to be his, for him to know me inside and out, none of this is real. Tonight’s just a show for his family.

  I take a deep breath to calm my heart and stride past him into the kitchen to grab the cranberry sauce. Molly has jammed the lid on top, and steam fogs the inside of the container, but at least it smells good.

  I spin on my heel to face Locke, who’s followed me into the room. “Ready?”

  He laughs. “You’re the one meeting my family. You tell me.”

  Locke’s mom Dorothy pulls me into a hug the second I walk through the door of her two-story Northwest Contemporary house in Bothell. I smile as her hair tickles my nose, breathing in her soap-and-perfume smell.

  Over her shoulder, Locke watches the scene with amusement. “Mom, at least wait until you’ve fed my date before you crush the crap out of her.”

  Date.

  I tr
y to ignore the nervous pitter in my stomach and bring my attention to Dorothy instead, who pulls back to arm’s length with a smile. “We’re just so glad to you’re here, Greer. Locke’s never brought anyone home before.”

  Right. Because Locke doesn’t date people—not long term. I don’t know why someone with a heart as big as his hasn’t settled down by now, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s exactly why we’re in this situation.

  My heart squeezes tight. I shouldn’t expect anything to come from my time with him or I’m going to get burned. Still, no matter how fake our relationship is, Locke’s embarrassment is entirely real, and it makes me feel the tiniest bit better.

  I hold back a smile at the grimace on his face. It’s cute seeing him like this—a little nervous in his own way. He’s always been so self-assured and confident, and I never thought of Locke as someone who embarrasses easily, but I guess mom time has that effect on everyone.

  “I’m happy to be here.”

  Dorothy drops her eyes to the container in my hands. “What do you have there?”

  “Cranberry sauce. Locke said I could bring some.”

  She narrows her eyes at the container in my hands and then opens them wide. “Oh my goodness! You made homemade?”

  “Yep.”

  She presses a hand to her chest and laughs warmly. “We normally just do the kind in the can.”

  Locke groans. “Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make her feel…” He bites off his words and tugs a hand through his hair.

  Her face falls a little. “No, it’s a good thing. I’ve been telling your aunt we needed to branch out for years, but you know, Grandma has a fondness for the canned stuff.”