“Noah,” I tell Gran in a hushed tone, so that he can’t hear me. “His name is Noah Taylor.”
Gran is gushing, her voice fading as I watch the surliest shifter I’ve ever met give me his back to crowd the coffeepot, gears of the worst kind turning in my head. It’s not the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, I think. I mean, it’s certainly not the best, but there are worse options. Probably. And besides, it’s not like he would actually have to meet her or anything. Maybe he snaps a picture with me and cracks a smile for the first time in his entire life. That could give me at least a few weeks’ reprieve, right? What could be the harm in an innocent little picture? Surely even Noah Taylor takes selfies.
Actually, I wouldn’t put money on that, now that I think about it.
“Gran, I need to get back to work,” I say, cutting off her incessant line of questioning that I can’t hear anymore. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“All right, but I want more details when you do. Don’t think this is the last of this conversation.”
“Right,” I tell her, absolutely knowing it isn’t. “Sure thing.”
I’m still staring at Noah’s back as he pours coffee into his mug, watching his massive shoulders rise and fall with a sigh after what must have been a long night. Noah is an interventional cardiologist on staff at the hospital, not to mention the head of his department, and he comes in pretty high demand. Anyone who walks through our doors with a bad ticker gets an instant referral, and from what I can tell, the guy might actually sleep here. I’m not convinced he hasn’t made a den of some sort in the basement. He’s been working here far longer than I have, years even—but it took me only one meeting to recognize how much of an ass he is. Especially since in our first meeting he said that I “barely looked old enough to tie a suture.” Let’s just say he’s not one to rub elbows with his fellow shifters for camaraderie’s sake alone.
He catches me staring when he finally turns to take a sip from his cup, one perfect brow raising in question as he notices me. “Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” I say honestly. “What sort of night have you had?”
He looks uncertain as to why I would ask the question, or why I would even care in the first place, pausing for a moment before he huffs out a breath.
“Horrible, if you must know,” he tells me. “Two heart attacks back to back. I’ve placed seven stents in the last five hours. And if that isn’t enough, now I have to deal with the damn board and their ignorant—” He narrows his eyes, seeming to realize he’s actually holding a conversation with a fellow employee that doesn’t involve glowering. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, because . . . professional courtesy? You looked . . . tired. Sounds like you had one hell of a night.”
Noah looks unimpressed by my attempt at friendly conversation. I think idly it’s probably the first time anyone has ever attempted it with him. “Exactly. So forgive me if I’m not up to chat.”
I roll my eyes. “As if that’s anything new.”
“Right,” he says flatly, holding up his mug. “I think I’ll take this in my office.”
“No, wait!”
Noah turns, that perplexed expression still etched into his features as he’s probably realizing that this is the longest conversation he and I have had in at least the last six months; I can’t actually remember the last time he returned my polite hello when I pass him in the corridor, now that I think about it. Not that anyone would blame me. I think the last time we spoke, he told me my shoe was untied without even slowing his pace. I’m not sure that even counts as conversation.
He’s looking at me with annoyance now, like I’m wasting his precious time. “Yes?”
I can’t believe I’m considering asking the Abominable Ass of Colorado to help me. It might be the worst idea I’ve ever had, but I’m in it now.
“I was wondering”—I know I’m going to regret this—“if you would take a picture with me.”
Noah looks utterly confused. “Pardon?”
“A picture. Maybe you could smile in it too? I’m willing to pay. In better coffee, or snacks—” He looks like he doesn’t know the definition of the word, and honestly, that tracks. “Okay, so no snacks. Whatever you want. I just need a picture.”
“Explain to me a situation where taking a picture with me helps you somehow.”
“Well, you see, that’s complicated.” Noah blinks at me for about three seconds before he turns to leave, seemingly done with the conversation, and I call after him again. “Okay, okay,” I sigh. “Look. I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I need to use you.”
His eyebrows nearly shoot into his hair. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not a big deal, it’s just, I needed someone from work, and I kind of blanked when she asked, and your name sort of spilled out since you were right there, and all I need is a picture, really. I think that would buy me some time at least to—”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath, regretting this already. “I need you to be my fake boyfriend.”
He lingers in the doorway for a good number of seconds, ones where I can feel my stomach churn in embarrassment. I know that I should have given Gran a random name. I know that I could have told her I was fucking a random colleague on the side and properly silenced her with a blush—but I didn’t do any of those things, and if I can’t buy myself some time, I’m looking at a fun-filled Friday night with some egghead explaining cryptocurrency to me. (Did I mention that I have been on some really bad dates?)
Noah takes a sip from his mug, swallows it, then closes the break room door. He crosses the space to pass the other little wooden tables that fill the room, his considerable bulk settling into one of the padded chairs on the opposite side of the one I’m occupying. For a moment he says nothing, studying me with a mercurial look as the old wall clock to my right ticks the seconds away, but then he takes another sip from his mug, swallowing it with a bob of his Adam’s apple before he sets it down on the table.
“Explain.”
* * *
?“So.” Noah’s cup is almost empty, his expression hardly any different than it had been ten minutes ago when I began to explain my horrible dating history and my aversion to experiencing even one more bad date—all leading up to my lie. “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend . . . so that you don’t have to get a boyfriend?”
“You don’t even have to do anything.”