Paul Bishop

  “I’ll pay you $1 million to act like my boyfriend for the next 72 hours.”

  I stopped cold on the sidewalk, half a block from the revolving doors of a boutique hotel I couldn’t afford to look at, let alone walk into. The New York heat stuck to my back, the scent of coffee clinging to my shirt, and traffic noise buzzed in my ears like white noise—until she spoke.

  I turned.

  And there she was.

  Honestly? For a second, I thought I’d hallucinated her. She didn’t look real. She looked like someone who belonged on the side of a perfume bottle with one name and no backstory. She stood effortlessly poised, back straight, one hand holding a phone like she didn’t need it and the other resting on her hip, heels sharp enough to declare war.

  But it was her face that stopped me. Caramel skin, jet-black hair that shimmered in the sunlight like polished obsidian, and eyes—dark blue, almost violet—that didn’t fit with the rest of her. Ethereal. Unnerving. Impossible to look away from. Like a genetic joke played on the gods. Persian? Middle Eastern? Mediterranean? I couldn’t place it, and I didn’t try to. She was beautiful in the way that made people walk into traffic.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed, blinking. “Did you just say a million dollars?”

  “I did.” Her voice was smooth, unhurried. Like she’d said this exact sentence before. “For two days. Pretend you’re hopelessly in love with me. Just convincingly enough to ruin a very expensive weekend.”

  I looked down at myself. Wrinkled gray T-shirt. Scuffed boots. Jeans with paint still on one leg from a job I didn’t want to think about. “I’m not an actor.”

  “That’s the point. You’re not part of their world. You’re not rehearsed. They’ll never see you coming.”

  “And who exactly is ‘they’?”

  “My family. The press. A small army of entitled men in ten thousand-dollar suits. I’m supposed to show up to a gala weekend which starts tomorrow at our estate in Rhinebeck. And they’re expecting me to be on the arm of someone more… compatible.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Like a hedge fund manager with a jawline and a yacht?”

  She didn’t smile, but her eyes flickered with something close. “That’s one of the options, yes.”

  I stared. “Okay, but… and don’t take this the wrong way—you're literally the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in real life. Like, not even in the ballpark. You could walk into a room and pick anyone you wanted. For free. So why me? Why this?”

  Her eyes locked on mine like she’d been waiting for that question.

  “I don’t want someone from that world,” she said, quiet but firm. “I want someone who doesn’t need anything from me. Someone who’s not going to play the long game or turn this into some back alley business deal. I want to be in control—for once. I need someone who is not a billionaire or royalty. And since I am probably not going to be able to avoid a gold digger I might as well have them on my payroll.”

  That logic seems. Stupid.. but I said nothing.

  She stepped closer, and I caught a trace of something expensive—jasmine and something darker. Her expression didn’t change. But her voice softened.

  “My parents arranged a meeting. Not officially, of course. But everyone will be there. They expect me to fall in line, smile, and say yes. To someone I barely know, let alone like. I’ve spent my whole life doing things their way. I need them to believe I’ve already chosen someone else. Someone I chose for me.”

  I looked around. A man in a suit screamed into his Bluetooth. A hot dog vendor argued with a tourist. A pigeon waddled like it owned the block. The city moved around us, unaware, uncaring.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  And this woman—this impossible woman—stood in the middle of it all asking me to be her shield.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “But I want a safe word.”

  She tilted her head, amused. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. If I’m pretending to be your boyfriend in front of aristocratic Bond villains, I want an emergency exit phrase.”

  Her lips curved slightly. “Fine. Pick one.”

  I thought for a second. “Peaches.”

  She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “I like peaches. Remind me to tell you about this place on the coast of Georgia.”

  She extended her hand. Her nails were clean, filed, not a single chip. “Peaches it is. You have a deal.”

  I stared at it, then shook it.

  Somehow, I had the sinking feeling I’d just made the most expensive, and possibly the dumbest, handshake of my life.

  I shook her hand, still half expecting to wake up in my shoebox apartment with a dead phone and an empty fridge. But her hand was real. Cool, confident. No hesitation. She let go like someone used to signing million-dollar contracts and then moving on with the rest of her day.

  “Alright,” I said, clearing my throat. “Before we start fake-blushing at each other across candlelit tables, I should probably tell you my name. I’m Paul. Paul Bishop.”

  She blinked, like the name caught her off guard. “Paul,” she repeated, trying it on. “Good. Solid. Sounds... unthreatening.”

  If only she knew.

  I gave her a crooked grin. “Yours?”

  “Leila Dahan.”

  It fit her. Regal. Clean. No wasted syllables. She looked like a Leila. Sounded like one too—sharp consonants wrapped in silk.

  She glanced down at her phone, thumb flicking across the screen. “Okay, Paul Bishop. We’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it.”

  “And what exactly does that entail?” I asked, stepping beside her now. It felt natural, somehow—like I’d already slotted into the role she’d written for me in her head.

  She didn’t even look up. “We’re going shopping.”

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  Her eyes lifted—slowly—and landed on my boots, then my jeans, then the faded t-shirt with a hole near the collar.

  “Paul, darling,” she said, her voice suddenly dripping with posh sarcasm, “you look like you build motorcycles and occasionally bury bodies in the woods.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve done worse.”

  Her brows rose—just slightly. Not fear. Not disgust. Curiosity. I saw the flicker. She was trying to work me out.

  She didn’t know what she’d just picked.

  Under the scruff and worn clothes, I was built for violence. You wouldn’t guess it unless you knew what to look for—how I moved, how I stood, how I scanned every exit without thinking. The old scars on my knuckles weren’t from carpentry. The faint limp in my left leg wasn’t from a bike accident.

  I wasn’t just some guy who wandered out of a paint job and stumbled into a payday. I’d done things. Dangerous things. The kind of things you can’t talk about in polite society.

  She thought she was in control. That this was a simple con. Dress up the stray in designer clothes, parade him in front of the family, and slip away from a loveless deal. She didn’t realize yet—she hadn’t even begun to realize—that she hadn’t picked a puppy.

  She’d picked a wolf.

  Still, I played along. That’s what this was, right? Acting.

  “Alright,” I said, scratching my jaw. “Let me just get this straight. I’m your boyfriend of—how long?”

  “Six months,” she said without missing a beat. “We met at a charity event in Florence. You’re a self-employed entrepreneur—ex-military, now doing humanitarian consulting, just finished a project in South Sudan.”

  “Nice touch,” I muttered.

  “You’ve never been married. No children. Grew up in Maine. Love dogs, old books, and Italian espresso. You also speak a little French.”

  “Do I?”

  “Enough to make them believe you’re cultured.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “I wrote your backstory on the ride over.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  She allowed herself the ghost of a smile, then gestured toward the line of waiting black cars along the curb.

  One of them peeled off and slid smoothly to the curb in front of us. A uniformed driver stepped out, eyes flicking to me with the professional blandness of someone who’d seen worse. He opened the door for her.

  Leila glanced back at me. “Come on. If you’re going to be my boyfriend, you can’t look like you just crawled out of a garage. We’re going to suit you up.”

  I held up my coffee. “Do I at least get to finish this before the makeover montage?”

  “No,” she said, stepping into the car without looking back. “You’re going to need both hands.”

  I shook my head, dumped the cup in the trash, and followed her in.

  Inside, the car smelled like leather and money. She was already texting again, legs crossed, posture perfect.

  The woman had fantastic legs. I tried really hard not to look at them. You should never hit on your employer.

  I looked out the window as I sank into the seat across from her, feeling like a dog that had just been let into a palace and told not to pee on the rug.

  “So let me guess,” I said. “We’re not going to the outlet mall.”

  She didn’t look up. “We’re going to Viktor’s. He’s discreet. And judgmental. Which means he’s good.”

  I leaned back, arms folded behind my head.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  She glanced up at me just once then—and for the first time, her eyes lingered. Not long. Not obviously. But she looked. Past the beard. Past the scruff. Past the rough edges.

  And I saw it. That flicker of realization. It appeared she was starting to understand what she'd gotten herself into.

  Good.

  So was I.