Page 14 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Hey, Wren." Finn wipes his hands on a rag that's making them dirtier. "Need something?"
"I need to talk to Holden. Privately," she announces.
Finn looks between us with the expression of someone who just found premium entertainment. "Privately? In a garage? That's either very romantic or very concerning."
"It's business," Wren says quickly.
"Business." Finn tastes the word like wine he's not sure about. "Right. The kind of business that makes you run across the square looking like you're being chased by one of the committees."
"Nobody's chasing me," she insists.
"Yet," I add unhelpfully, sliding out from under the car.
She glares at me, but it's the type of glare that suggests she's trying not to smile. "Can we talk or not?"
I'm probably covered in things that will never wash out. Wren's nose wrinkles slightly, and I become acutely aware that I smell like motor oil.
"I'll just be over here," Finn says, not moving at all. "Not listening. Definitely not recording this for posterity."
"Finn," Wren warns.
"Fine. I'll be in the office. Which has very thin walls. And excellent acoustics." He leaves, whistling what sounds like a wedding march. Subtle as a brick, that one.
Wren shifts nervously, clutching a folder like it contains state secrets. "So," she starts, then stops. Then starts again. "This is going to sound crazy."
"Most things in this town do," I point out.
"No, like, actually crazy. Like 'I should be committed' crazy."
"Now I'm intrigued."
She takes a deep breath that seems to go on forever. "I need a boyfriend."
I blink. "Okay?"
"A fake boyfriend," she clarifies.
"Less okay."
"For three weeks."
"That's a very specific timeframe."
"Until the Christmas gala. To convince the loan committee that I'm stable and responsible and not going to die alone surrounded by vintage toys," she explains in a rush.
"That's dark," I observe.
"That's Tuesday." She rushes on before I can respond. "Look, I know this is insane. I know you don't know me, and I don't know you, and you probably have better things to do than pretend to date someone who burns hot chocolate and talks to inanimate objects?—"
"You talk to inanimate objects?" I interrupt.
"That's not the point!" she exclaims.
"It feels relevant for a potential fake boyfriend."
"The point is," she soldiers on, clutching her folder like a life preserver, "I need someone respectable. Employed. Male, because the loan committee is stuck in 1952. Someone who can convincingly pretend to care about me for three weeks."
"And you thought of me?" I ask, genuinely curious.
