Page 71 of Fake it for Keeps

“Don’t tell them we’re coming. We’ll just show up.” I picked up my soda, needing a hit of sugar. It was a little too early for a shot of whiskey. “Announced appearances turn into media circuses. I want this to be genuine. Or as genuine as we can make it.”

Understanding flickered across her face. “You have a personal connection to this cause, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer directly. “We’ll make a significant donation. Enough to actually help them do their work. And yes, we can put it in both our names.”

“Colt.”

“Can we leave it at that?” I asked. “Please?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll add it to the calendar.”

We finished eating, and the conversation shifted to safer topics. Her time at the beach house. The work she wanted to do on it. The memories attached to every room.

“My dad built the screen door on the back porch himself,” she said, a wistful smile on her face. “It hangs crooked. Always has. He tried to fix it at least a dozen times but could never get it quite right. My mom wanted him to just replace it, but he was stubborn. Said he’d figure it out eventually.”

“Did he?”

“No. He died before he could.” Her smile turned sad. “But I don’t want anyone to fix it now. It’s perfect the way it is. A reminder that some things don’t need to be perfect to be loved. Every time it squeaks open, I can hear my mom sighing and my dad laughing. It was kind of a running joke.”

I paused, trying to find the right words. “That’s a good way to look at it.”

“It’s the only way to look at it,” she said softly. “Otherwise you drive yourself crazy trying to fix things that are already exactly what they’re supposed to be.”

After we finished eating, she started packing up the empty containers. “I should let you get back to work. I’m sure you have important billionaire things to do.”

“Wait.” The word came out before I could stop it.

She paused, looking at me expectantly. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” I said. “For lunch. For coming here. For…” I gestured vaguely. “All of this.”

Her expression softened. “You’re welcome.”

“And Hallie?” I stood up, moving around the desk. “I’m sorry too. For how I acted at Shelter Island. I was a dick.”

“You were,” she agreed, but there was no bite to it. “But I get it. This is complicated.”

“Yeah.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “It is.”

We stood there for a moment, the air between us practically crackling with the electricity we seemed to generate.

“I should go,” Hallie said again.

“Yeah. You should.”

Neither of us moved.

Then Frankie’s voice crackled over my desk intercom. “Colt, you have a call on line two. It’s the Tokyo office.”

The spell broke. Hallie grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

“Saturday,” she said, turning back with a smile. “Try not to terrorize any wedding vendors between now and then.”

“No promises.”

She left, and I stood there staring at the closed door, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Keep it professional, I reminded myself. Keep your distance.

But as I half-listened to my Tokyo manager drone on about production schedules, all I could think about was Saturday.

And the fact that for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was actually looking forward to a charity event.

Not because of the optics or the business connections or the photo opportunities. And not even because it was a great cause, which it was.

But because Hallie would be there.