Page 27 of Fake it for Keeps

“Hallie is being paid very well for her time,” I said coldly. “She knew what she was signing up for.”

“Did she? Did she know she’d be playing fiancée to a man who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night?”

I flinched. I couldn’t help it.

Frankie’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you. Please, just consider talking to someone. A professional. Someone who can give you tools to deal with this.”

“I don’t need tools. I need this conversation to be over.” I returned to my desk. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. The dreams will pass. They always do.”

“Until they don’t.”

I ignored that, pulling up another spreadsheet. “We’re announcing the engagement tomorrow at the dock before boarding the yacht. I need you there for PR. Make sure the photographers get good angles, that the messaging is on point. This farce needs to look legitimate.”

Frankie sighed, recognizing a brick wall when she saw one. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

“But Colt?” She waited until I looked at her. “This Hallie thing? It’s not going to fix what’s broken inside you. You know that, right?”

I didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? That I knew I was playing with fire? That some part of me recognized I was making a mistake by dragging Hallie into my mess?

That every time I looked at her, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—and it scared the shit out of me?

“She’s my flavor of the week,” I said instead, forcing a casual tone. “That’s all. Something interesting to keep me occupied while we clean up my reputation.”

“Your flavor of the week.” Frankie’s voice was flat, disbelieving.

“Yeah. She’s intriguing, I’ll give her that. Doesn’t throw herself at me like other women. Keeps me on my toes.” I shrugged. “It’s refreshing.”

“Right.”

“We’re sailing to Shelter Island tomorrow afternoon,” I continued, deliberately changing the subject. “Three days. You’re coming with us. I need you to help manage the optics, make sure Hallie knows what’s expected of her.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “You mean babysit your escort while you play at being a reformed man?”

“Keep your voice down.”

She stared at me. I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. My sister was too smart for her own good sometimes. She could read me better than anyone, knew when I was full of shit, knew when I was one step away from falling apart.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll come. But be careful with her. With Hallie.” Her voice was serious now, all business. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but that girl doesn’t deserve to get hurt because you can’t get your head straight.”

Pain twisted in my chest and I pushed it down. “I’m not going to hurt her. It’s a business arrangement. She’s banking on this deal.”

“Money doesn’t make emotional damage disappear.”

“And yet you keep suggesting I go to therapy.” I waved dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. There won’t be any emotional damage. Because there won’t be any emotions. It’s fake, Frankie. All of it.”

“If you say so.”

She left, closing the door quietly behind her. I stared at the spot where she’d been standing, her words echoing in my mind.

I pulled out my phone and sent Hallie a text with details for tomorrow’s announcement. Time. Location. Dress code. All business, nothing personal.

She responded within minutes. Got it. See you tomorrow.

Short. Professional. Perfect.

I told myself that’s all this was. All it would ever be.