Page 13 of Yours Temporarily

“Taste test?” He edges in closer.

“They’ll burn your mouth.”

“My mouth is already watering, so burning is not a threat.”

I laugh at his lightheartedness and use a butter knife to scoop a drop cookie. After all, I didn’t have time to refrigerate and cut the dough. He takes it and breaks it in half, sharing it with me. As we each bite into it, I’m reminded of the innocent photo Lexi took of us. The natural ease between us while we ate chocolate felt almost like a rediscovery of something long lost. There’s an undeniable comfort in Jeremy’s presence, a comforting and intriguing familiarity.

Minutes later, the same warmth still envelops us as we sit at one of the tables, our laughter and conversation filling the space. A curious thought nudges me, and I speak before I can caution myself against treading into more personal territory. “What’s your fiancée back home like?”

Are any feelings lingering there?

“Ex-fiancée,” he corrects, his jaw tensing.

Okay, so this is a sensitive subject. I pivot to lighten the mood. “Tell me about your mom, then.”

“She likes to be in control, just like all the women she tries to set me up with.” He sits taller. “My brother sure gave her a shock when he returned from Africa with a fiancée she couldn’t approve of.”

I laugh, picturing the scene. Jeremy’s stories about his mother’s failed matchmaking attempts are not exactly endearing. The way he speaks about his brother, though, displays an unmistakable admiration.

I cut a bite of steak, then pause with it on my fork. “Any embarrassing stories I should know about you and your brother?”

“Oh!” He waves a hand. “Too many to count. If we’re talking about kitchen-related incidents, he’s the cook, not me. There was a time when he tried to bake cookies and used salt instead of sugar. We nearly broke our teeth!”

A chuckle escapes me, and I drop my fork over my meat. “Remind me not to let him near the kitchen at the wedding.”

“How about you and Damien?”

So I tell him some of our mischief on the street where we grew up. How refreshing to see Jeremy’s carefree side while we exchange funny stories, a side most of his work colleagues don’t know about.

When he compliments my cooking, I bob a bow. “Why thank you for your help, kind sir.”

Then I scoot back in my seat. “If we’re going to practice this fake dating…” Group nights should be less intimidating. “I’ll be hosting a Superbowl get-together, and I also hear you have a team-building bowling event in February. Perhaps those are good first times for us to appear as a”—I form air quotes—“couple?”

“Actually, the awards ceremony is not this weekend but the following Saturday. Would you do me the honor of being my date?” He mimics my air quotes.

Right. My friends have been shopping for formal outfits for that ceremony. But… “Only spouses of staff are invited, though.”

“You’re officially my spouse.” The way he says it with a wink ignites unwanted butterflies in my belly. But I know it’s nothing.

We make plans for our upcoming “dates” for February, exchanging amused glances. Even though we’ve just met, an undeniable comfort and ease relaxes me. Sitting here with him, sharing stories, and planning our charade feels fun. Being his fake fiancée, while daunting, also promises to be the perfect recipe for adventure.

CHAPTER 5

Jeremy

Engulfed in a virtual financial-planning session, I navigate through spreadsheets and projections with two accountants and two analysts from our eastern branch. We’re deep in discussion, unraveling the financial forecasts and budget variances—a routine yet crucial task that spans our nationwide branches.

“Given the current trends,” one accountant chimes in, “I believe an adjustment in our quarterly projections could align us more closely with the annual targets.”

The swing of the door has me looking away from the screen, and the session’s focused calm shatters as Damien bursts into my office. He slams a photograph onto my desk, its impact demanding immediate attention. I request a fifteen-minute recess before muting my computer. Damien’s disheveled appearance, his shirt hanging half untucked, signals a crisis only I can address, and evidently, Jill couldn’t have barred his impromptu intrusion, despite her best efforts.

“What is this?” He slaps the desk by the photograph.

It’s Zuri and me during Saturday’s dinner at their house. While I should be scolding him for his interruption, warmth radiates through me over the instant memories the picture evokes. “What do you think it is?” I roll back my chair. “It’s a photo from your party.”

He jabs at Zuri’s face, smudging it and making me flinch. “This”—he seethes—“with my sister! She’s very trusting and…” He huffs, steps back, and rasps a hand over the stubble on his head. “I like to keep my personal life separate from my work life.”

I hadn’t realized anyone was photographing us, but whoever did captured a moment of genuine connection. We look relaxed and happy as I take the half-eaten chocolate from her hand like a long-term couple rather than people who’d just met.

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