2. Matthew

I arrive at the airport,breathless.

Shit.

Have the time gods smiled on me? Have I made it on time?

There doesn't seem to be a good-looking guy hovering unclaimed around the baggage claim, so it looks like I have.

Thank god.

I unfold the sign in my hand. I made it before I left the resort, borrowing a pen and a piece of cardboard from reception. It was ridiculous how much time I spent carefully handwriting William's name, as if the success of this week depended on my perfect penmanship.

My overfocus on the details is my way of coping with my nerves. I'm still embarrassed about my decision to hire someone to be my date.

But I didn't know what else to do.

This is my annual retreat for my senior management team, and as a result of our stellar year, I've splurged on taking everyone to a Hawaiian resort.

But when I first announced the news to my team in our leadership meeting, after the initial excited buzz faded, Paul, my Vice President, had leaned back in his chair and smirked at me.

"You know what, I really think you should make it so we can bring our partners too."

Paul has only worked for me for six months, but I already hate his habit of springing ideas on me in meetings without warning.

"That's an interesting idea. I'll have to think about it," I'd said because I'm slowly learning that responding to Paul when I feel cornered leads to me making poor decisions that are difficult to walk back from.

"After all, it's our partners who've had to put up with our late nights and working weekends," Paul had continued.

Shit. He made it hard to say no without looking like an inconsiderate boss.

"When you get as long in the tooth as I am, you realize the importance of keeping not just your staff but also their families happy," he'd said, and my stomach had plummeted.

I pride myself on being a good boss, so his words worried me. Had people been complaining? I already offered flexible work hours, work-from-home options, extra vacation time, paid maternity leave, free daycare, and extended health coverage.

What else should I be doing?

This is the problem with being only twenty-five and running a company totaling more than two hundred employees. The constant worry that you don't actually know what you're doing and you're going to be caught out at any point.

After the meeting, I'd gone back and studied my budgets. And yes, we could definitely work it so we could take partners as well.

But as soon as I announced that decision, Paul had started subtly needling me about me being the only one going without a partner. And when he'd produced the schedule of all the planned activities, apprehension had tightened my chest.

"Sorry, Matthew, the resort seems to only really offer couples' activities." He'd given me a snarky smile.

Shit. Was that part of Paul's agenda? Enhancing his favorite theme of my lack of life experience by highlighting I was the only one on the senior leadership team not in a long-term relationship?

"Actually, I was thinking about inviting my boyfriend," the words had come hurtling out of my mouth without permission from my brain.

Paul had blinked in shock. "You have a boyfriend?"

I'd been equally shocked at the news but had forced myself to answer.

"Yes. Our relationship is new, but it's going well so far."

I'd deliberately not provided details while desperately trying to work out how to conjure up an impressive-looking boyfriend in the next week.

Unfortunately, you can't just order a boyfriend off Amazon or Uber Eats. And given my track record with dating apps, the statistical probability of me securing a suitable boyfriend in the required time frame was minimal.

Which meant I had to explore other options.

Just as I was starting to panic, my friend Andrew had suggested Elite, an exclusive agency that offers a range of services to suit their clients' needs. They're so discreet and secretive that they only work through a referral system.

And when I made contact, they seemed perfect. Professional and competent. I could hire someone to be the perfect boyfriend, and no one would be any wiser.

Which is why I'm currently about to meet a stranger who will pretend to be my boyfriend for a week.

The baggage claim area is crowded, which I hadn't expected.

I'm standing, feeling slightly foolish, holding a sign with William's name on it. I've never stood at an airport holding a sign, and it's not an experience I'm relishing.

A gorgeous beefcake of a guy strolls out of the arrivals gate. Normally, he'd be my pick of eye candy, but right now, my stomach clenches in recognition.

What the hell? Like, seriously, what the hell? Is the universe pranking me?

If so, well played, universe. Well played.

Because of all the people I want to see when I'm waiting to meet a fake date, Liam Jamieson is the last one on the planet.

I duck behind a crowd of noisy tourists with strong Australian accents, my hand tightening around my sign.

Shit, I don't want to lower the sign in case William turns up and wonders where I am.

There's a good probability that if Liam does see me, he'll just ignore me. That's what we've mostly done since high school if we've ever found ourselves in the same place. Pretend the other is a glitch in the metaverse, a black hole in the universe.

He's moved over to the side, and now I can see him through the Australians. He seems to be scanning the area.

To my absolute horror, his scanning pauses when he reaches my sign.

His eyes light up and he steps forward. Then he raises his gaze to meet mine.

He stops dead. Shock and horror frolic over his face.

My mind spins. Surely this can't mean…it can't mean…

Liam's full name is William. A fact that helpfully decides to slide back into my mind right now.

Oh, holy shit.

My stomach lurches.

No way. No way.

This can't be happening.

This is not just a well-played prank. This is the best-played prank in any version of reality that has ever existed.

When the agency sent me the profile of my replacement date, I'd tried to click on the link, but the file had corrupted, and I'd been too busy to follow up.

Which right now seems like a monumental oversight.

My fake boyfriend continues to wear an expression of complete and utter shock as he stares at me.

For a few heartbeats, we just stand there, blinking at each other.

Then Liam smothers on a smirk, one I'm so familiar with I can map out every smug inch, and takes a few steps to close the remaining distance between us.

"Well, this just got interesting," he drawls.

"What are you doing here?" My voice is abrupt. My hand holding the sign drops to my side, limp.

"I was sent by an agency because apparently you need a date for a week?" He quirks a mocking eyebrow that, once again, I know too well.

Really, I am so fluent in Liam Jamieson's mockery techniques that it's almost something I should include on my resume.

My heart races like it's trying to escape my body and flee this scene. I don't blame it.

In all my panicking and thinking through the worst-case scenarios for hiring a fake date, I never imagined a catastrophe on this scale.

Because of anyone to turn up and be my pretend boyfriend for a week, Liam Jamieson is the last person I would choose. I would probably take my chances with career criminals and murderous dictators ahead of him.

Liam grew up next door to me in our small hometown of Bainfield. And it's impossible to fully describe our feelings toward each other. Hatred isn't deep enough.

He'd been the popular jock who excelled at everything sports related. I'd been the nerdy, scrawny kid who couldn't throw a ball to save myself.

But it wasn't your typical jock-bullies-the-nerd scenario. I'd fancied myself as the hero of an epic movie titled When Nerds Fight Back.

After he moved next door when we were eight and Liam started his campaign of insults and spitballs aimed in my direction, I'd fought back with more creative and sophisticated pranks. Pranks that had escalated to an all-out war.

It was a never-ending arms race between us, with all the kids in our neighborhood divided into Team Matthew or Team Liam.

Memories race through my mind. Liam filling my shoes with worms. Me retaliating by programming a robot that I stashed under his bed that would scuttle out in the middle of the night, beep loudly, and then scuttle back under again. It took him months to figure out what was causing him to wake up every night.

The battle in sixth grade over our class parrot. I'm sure our teacher, Ms. Beauton, thought it was a great idea to bring Harold to school because she'd taught him to recite the spelling rules and times tables. However, during the year, his vocabulary expanded to include the phrases "Matthew is a nerd" and "Liam is a dick."

In high school, things weren't much better. We both were distracted by our extracurricular activities—football and baseball for Liam, chess and technology club for me—but we'd still found time to torment each other. I'd programmed his alarm clock to go off in the middle of the night before the state football game in high school. He'd retaliated by paying the tech guy so the microphone gave me voice breaks when I gave my valedictorian speech.

It was a ten-year relentless battle between us.

I remember going to college and celebrating the fact I would never be forced to interact with Liam again.

My celebrations now feel a tad premature.

My mind starts immediately racing through the solutions to the problem I now face.

What are my choices? Send him back and ask for Elite to fly someone else out?

That would be a good option if only I hadn't made a big deal of pretending earlier to receive a message from my boyfriend when he'd got onto the plane. I'd already spun a story about him missing our private charter flight due to having to help out a friend in need. I pride myself on being smart, but right now, I can't think of an easy way to explain my boyfriend's mysterious disappearance somewhere over the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

There's only one solution.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. You're going to come back to the resort with me, and I'm going to introduce you to everyone, and you'll pretend to be a charming and devoted boyfriend without interacting with me much, and then tomorrow, we'll manufacture some family emergency that means you've got to fly home."

A weird look passes over Liam's face, but it quickly fades.

"Fine by me," he says.

My chest tightens at the thought of Liam meeting Paul. My lifelong nemesis interacting with the guy who currently seems engaged in a subtle campaign of undermining me.

There is no planet in the universe where this would be considered a good idea.

My anxiety comes boiling out of me in a hard, tense voice. "I'm serious. If you mess this up for me, I will file a complaint with the agency."

He glares at me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'm not going to mess it up," he says stiffly.

Shit. Do I trust him? About as far as I could throw his six-foot-three, muscular, tight, fit body.

But what would be the point of him being petty? What does he have to gain from one-upping me now? He's obviously living in San Francisco, but it's not like we move in the same circles and ever run into each other.

I'm going to have to believe that the twenty-five-year-old version of Liam Jamieson is a more advanced life form than the eighteen-year-old version I knew and loathed.

"You have to be the most amazing boyfriend ever for a few hours, okay? Do you think you can pull that off?" I ask.

"I can pull off anything, baby." He gives me a wink.

I swallow hard. "Great. We can plan more in the car."