Chapter 1 - Six Hours
The words were out before Marin Whitlock could pull them back.
“I need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”
The bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing.
Marin closed her eyes for exactly half a second and pressed the phone tighter against her ear, as though getting closer to Laurel’s voice might somehow erase what she had just announced to half the Hawthorne Hotel lounge.
“Not a husband,” Marin added quickly. “Not a soulmate. One believable man. Six hours.”
Laurel laughed so hard that Marin had to pull the phone away.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Boston had dissolved beneath October rain. Headlights smeared red and gold across wet pavement. The Charles River beyond the buildings was only a dark suggestion under the storm.
Inside, the Hawthorne smelled of polished walnut, old money, expensive whiskey, and the white garden roses Marin had spent eleven hours arranging for the charity dinner upstairs.
Her feet hurt.
Her hair had surrendered around nine o’clock.
There was a green stain from flower stems along her thumb, and she was almost certain the blueberry muffin she had eaten at seven that morning qualified as her most recent meal.
She looked exactly like a woman who should not be discussing emergency boyfriend acquisition in one of Boston’s most exclusive hotels.
“You cannot rent a boyfriend because Bennett is bringing Celeste tomorrow,” Laurel finally managed.
“I’m not renting anyone.”
“You literally just gave me a six-hour requirement.”
“I’m strategically avoiding six hours of pity.”
“That is renting with better vocabulary.”
Marin stared down into the melting ice in her ginger ale.
Tomorrow was supposed to be about Clara.
Her younger sister was getting married in four months, and tomorrow night’s engagement dinner would be the first time both sides of the family gathered in one room. Fifty relatives and family friends were traveling down from Vermont. There would be speeches, photographs, champagne, and enough questions about Marin’s personal life to qualify as an interrogation.
She could survive that.
She had survived worse.
What she had not planned for was her mother calling twenty minutes earlier.
“Oh, by the way,” Evelyn Whitlock had said in the tone of a woman mentioning a weather forecast, “Bennett is coming.”
Marin had gone silent.
“With Celeste.”
Still silent.
“Sweetheart?”
“I’m here.”
“I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”
Too late.
Bennett Hale.
Her almost-fiancé.
The man who had spent three years discussing houses and children and vacations they would take when work became less complicated.
The man who had looked Marin in the eyes six months ago and said, I don’t know if I want this anymore.
Two weeks later, he had apparently known exactly what he wanted.
Celeste Waverly.
Beautiful. Polished. Connected.
And tomorrow they were walking into Clara’s engagement dinner together.
“Mom says everyone already knows I’m coming alone,” Marin whispered.
Laurel groaned. “Oh no.”
“She used the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The Marin-is-brave-but-we’re-all-quietly-worried-about-her voice.”
Laurel stopped laughing.
Marin rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“I don’t want revenge,” she said. “I don’t need Bennett jealous. I just want to walk into that room without thirty people staring at me like I’m a rescue dog nobody adopted.”
“You know being single doesn’t mean you lost.”
“I know.”
Marin turned toward the rain.
“I just don’t want to spend tomorrow proving that I know.”
For a few seconds, neither woman spoke.
Somewhere behind Marin, ice clicked softly against crystal.
She had noticed the man in the corner booth when she entered the lounge.
Only automatically.
A woman alone late at night noticed who else was in a mostly empty room.
Dark suit.
Broad shoulders.
Mid-thirties.
He had been sitting by himself beneath a brass lamp, one hand near an untouched glass of bourbon. His face had remained half-shadowed while she talked.
He had never looked toward her.
At least she thought he hadn’t.
“Fine,” Laurel said. “Hypothetically. What kind of fake boyfriend are we looking for?”
Despite herself, Marin smiled.
“Someone calm.”
“Boring.”
“Polite.”
“Suspicious.”
“Employed.”
“High standards.”
“Ambitious would be nice.”
“Now we’re building him in a laboratory.”
Marin leaned on one elbow.
“Tall.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Handsome.”
“Good night, Marin.”
“Six hours, Laurel.”
“Six hours?”
“Then he turns back into a pumpkin.”
She ended the call before Laurel could laugh again.
For several seconds, Marin stared at her phone.
Then she dropped her forehead into one hand.
“This is officially the most pathetic night of my life.”
“Six hours is oddly specific.”
The voice came from behind her.
Male.
Low.
Calm.
Marin froze.
Slowly, she turned.
The man from the corner booth was looking at her.
Not smiling.
Not embarrassed.
Not pretending he had not heard everything.
Under the stronger light, she saw him clearly for the first time.
Dark brown hair swept back from his forehead. Gray-blue eyes. Clean-shaven face. Strong jaw. Somewhere around thirty-five.
The suit was black and perfectly tailored, but nothing about it screamed for attention.
No loud watch.
No bright pocket square.
No visible logo.
Yet somehow he looked more expensive than anything else in the room.
“What?” Marin asked.
His eyes flicked toward the clock above the bar.
“You said you need a boyfriend by tomorrow. For six hours.”
Heat raced into her cheeks.
“You were listening to my conversation.”
“You were having it four tables away.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
A trace of amusement entered his eyes.
“Yes.”
Marin grabbed her coat.
“Wonderful. Good night.”
“What time should I pick you up?”
Her arm stopped halfway through one sleeve.
Rain tapped the windows.
Even the bartender seemed to have stopped moving.
Marin turned.
“What did you say?”
The stranger rose.
He was taller than she expected.
He buttoned his jacket one-handed.
The bartender immediately straightened.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for Marin to notice.
“Tomorrow,” the stranger said. “Your family event. What time should I pick you up?”
She stared at him.
He seemed completely serious.
“You cannot possibly mean that.”
“I usually mean what I say.”
“You don’t know me.”
His gaze dropped to the embroidered identification badge still clipped to her waist.
MARIN WHITLOCK — WHITLOCK FLORAL DESIGN
Then he looked back at her.
“Now I know something.”
“That’s not normal.”
“No.”
“You overhear a stranger talking about needing a fake boyfriend and your response is to volunteer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
For the first time, he paused.
It was small.
Almost invisible.
But Marin saw it.
“Maybe I’m curious.”
“That is a terrible reason.”
“I’ve acted on worse.”
She should leave.
Every rational instinct told her to walk away, order a rideshare, go home, shower, sleep, and accept whatever pity tomorrow brought.
Instead she remained there.
“Do you do this often?” she asked.
“Pretend to date strangers?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“I wasn’t trying to help.”
Marin narrowed her eyes.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Adrian.”
“Adrian what?”
Another tiny pause.
“Vale.”
She waited for something else.
Nothing.
“Okay, Adrian Vale. Assuming for one second that I believed this ridiculous offer, why would I bring a man I met in a hotel bar to my sister’s engagement dinner?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Good.”
“You’d bring a man you’ve been quietly seeing for several months.”
Marin stared.
He continued calmly.
“We met through work. You didn’t mention me because the relationship was new. Tomorrow happens to be the first night I’m available to meet your family.”
Her mouth slowly opened.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“For approximately thirty seconds.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re frighteningly good at lying.”
Something changed in his face.
Not anger.
Just stillness.
“I prefer preparation.”
Marin studied him.
“Occupation?”
“Business.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It isn’t.”
“What kind?”
“Investments. Property. Logistics.”
“Are you employed?”
“Very.”
She folded her arms.
“Family?”
“One sister.”
“Where did we supposedly have our first date?”
“North End.”
“Restaurant?”
“Small Italian place. You ordered seafood. I pretended not to hate olives.”
Marin blinked.
“I love olives.”
“Then I’ll hate something else.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
For the first time that night, something inside her loosened.
Adrian watched her.
Not like Bennett used to.
Bennett had often watched Marin while waiting for his turn to speak.
Adrian looked as though he noticed things.
That felt more dangerous.
“What exactly would you get out of this?” she asked.
“Dinner.”
“Seriously.”
“And six hours of pretending to be someone else.”
Something in his tone made her curiosity sharpen.
“You don’t like being yourself?”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the rain-dark windows.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“That sometimes expectations become tedious.”
Marin understood that sentence far more than she wanted to.
She looked toward the bartender.
He immediately found something fascinating beneath the counter.
That was strange.
Then she noticed another man near the hotel entrance.
Black coat.
Earpiece.
Watching Adrian without appearing to.
Marin looked back.
“Are you famous?”
“No.”
“Politician?”
“No.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Serial killer?”
A real smile finally touched Adrian’s mouth.
“No.”
“That was suspiciously fast.”
“I’m familiar with the accusation.”
She laughed again.
The bartender nearly dropped a towel.
Marin noticed.
This time Adrian noticed her noticing.
His expression hardened by half a degree.
The bartender looked away.
Something wasn’t right.
Yet Marin did not feel threatened.
If anything, Adrian seemed to be deliberately making himself smaller around her.
Less imposing.
More ordinary.
Which suggested ordinary was not his default.
“What time?” he asked again.
She should say no.
She knew that.
Instead she heard herself answer.
“Five-thirty.”
“Address?”
“No chance.”
He reached into his jacket.
Marin stiffened.
He pulled out a simple black business card.
Only his name appeared on the front.
ADRIAN VALE
A phone number underneath.
No company.
No title.
“Text me the location tomorrow,” he said.
Marin took it.
“Suppose I change my mind.”
“Then don’t text.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He stepped away.
Marin glanced down at the card.
When she looked up again, the man at the entrance was already opening the hotel door for Adrian.
Outside, a black sedan appeared at the curb so quickly it seemed to have been waiting the entire time.
A second vehicle pulled out behind it.
Marin watched through the glass.
The bartender exhaled.
Actually exhaled.
Marin turned.
“Okay.”
The bartender immediately looked nervous.
“Who was that?”
“Ms. Whitlock—”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
Then he forced a professional smile.
“You should probably ask him.”
Marin stared at the business card again.
Adrian Vale.
She typed the name into her phone.
Before she could press search, a message from Clara appeared.
PLEASE tell me Mom didn’t already tell you Bennett is coming. I’m going to murder her.
Marin smiled despite herself.
Then she looked through the rain-streaked window where Adrian’s car had disappeared.
She slipped the card into her coat pocket.
Six hours.
One believable man.
No complications.
That was all she needed.
What Marin did not know was that the bartender had waited until Adrian’s sedan disappeared before sending a text of his own.
He just left.
The response came almost immediately.
Was he alone?
The bartender looked toward Marin.
His fingers hovered over the screen.
Then he typed:
Not anymore.
And across Boston, in an office forty floors above the harbor, a man Marin Whitlock had never met read those words and whispered:
“What the hell are you doing, Adrian?”
Because everyone in certain corners of Boston knew Adrian Vale.
And nobody could understand why the most feared man in the city had just volunteered to attend a family engagement dinner.
May you like
As someone’s boyfriend.
---
