Somehow, I’ll need to pretend this woman is my partner even though I know nothing about her other than that she’s blessed with great hair and possesses nerves of steel.

Henderson drums his hands on his desk. “I’ll send you the dates Ms. Bailey is available once I have them. Keep me apprised of your plans.”

I stand up awkwardly, a bunch of chaotic thoughts rattling around in my brain and messing with my equilibrium. What if Solange refuses to help me? And even if she says yes, what if we do a shit job of pretending to be a couple? What if Peter finds out I’m lying and rats me out to the firm?

Stop, Dean. There’s no point in second-guessing yourself. You can’t do anything about it. I draw up straight and square my shoulders. “Thanks for the opportunity, sir. We won’t let you down.”

Outside Henderson’s office, Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking back there, but I know a con when I see one.”

“Believe what you want, Peter,” I say, my head down as I type a quick text to Lina. Solange did say her cousin would know where to find her if I needed her—and I definitely need Solange now.

Peter shuffles off without another word.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I take a deep breath. Will I live to regret this? Probably. Am I committed to seeing it through anyway? Damn right I am.

Chapter Six

Solange

I reread Dean’s succinct text inviting me for breakfast for the hundredth time, then scan the Instagram-approved coffee bar to confirm that he hasn’t arrived yet.

It’s a bright place. Too bright. White walls, gray floors, teak furniture, with a few strategically placed potted plants serving as the only pops of color. A social media influencer’s dream location from which to influence and shit.

What’s more, chalk-written motivational quotes cover a plethora of surfaces, encouraging the shop’s customers to fully realize their best selves:

Be kind to yourself.

Smile and the world smiles back at you.

Seize the slay. That one’s certainly a choice.

And my personal favorite: Here, coffee is a must; talking isn’t.

The rush of folks getting their first cup of weekday java has passed; what’s left are the diehards, those who treat coffee as sustenance, and they are my people. I wait in comfortable silence, sipping an overpriced special blend and observing the happenings around me.

Minutes later, a woman hunched over her laptop at a neighboring table straightens in her seat, her eyes widening at something—or someone—in her field of view; instinct tells me that Dean is the something or someone who’s captured her attention.

As if on cue, he appears at my side and gestures at the other chair. “Hey, Solange. May I?”