I arrived early.
Then he walked through the door.
And I immediately understood why people paid him to attend things.
Julian was tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A charcoal jacket over a plain white shirt.
Not flashy.
Just effortlessly put together.
He spotted me, smiled, and came over.
“Claire?”
“Julian?”
He shook my hand.
“Your temporary boyfriend.”
I nearly spit out my coffee.
“You say that very casually.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He sat down.
I studied him.
“You really do this for a living?”
“Not exactly. I’m an actor. Mostly theater. Commercial work when rent becomes persuasive.”
“And fake dates?”
“Occasionally.”
“Why?”
“Because weddings have better food than community theater.”
I laughed.
That was the first thing I liked about him.
The second was that he stopped joking the moment I explained what Mason had done.
Julian listened.
Really listened.
I told him about the affair.
The divorce.
The carefully crafted invitation.
The handwritten request that I come alone.
When I finished, Julian leaned back.
“So what do you want from Saturday?”
“To make Mason jealous.”
“No.”
I blinked.
“No?”
“You don’t want him back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then jealousy isn’t the goal.”
He tapped one finger against his coffee cup.
“You want him to realize that leaving you didn’t ruin you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked away.
“Maybe.”
Julian smiled softly.
“That’s much easier.”
“How?”
“Because we don’t have to convince anyone you’re desirable.”
He held my gaze.
“We just have to make sure you remember it.”
For a second, I forgot this man had been hired.
Then he grinned.
“And if your ex suffers a mild existential crisis in the process, that’s included in the package.”
I laughed again.
“All right, actor. What’s our story?”
For the next hour, we invented a relationship.
We’d been dating five months.
We met at a gallery opening.
Julian worked in entertainment consulting.
We both liked old films.
He hated olives.
I loved them.
We had supposedly spent a weekend in Charleston.
“Physical affection?” he asked.
“Hand-holding is fine.”
“Arm around waist?”
“Fine.”
“Kissing?”
I nearly choked.
“Absolutely not.”
He lifted both hands.
“Professional boundaries. Understood.”
By the time we left the café, I felt strangely calm.
Saturday was supposed to be revenge.
I didn’t know it was about to become something far messier.
The afternoon of Mason’s wedding, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror wondering whether I had lost my mind.
