Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~10 min read
I wake up to the smell of coffee.
For a moment—just a moment—I forget where I am. My bed is too comfortable. The sheets are too soft. The light coming through the window is all wrong.
Then I remember.
Holden’s apartment. I’m living with Holden Reid.
I groan and pull the pillow over my face.
It’s been three days. Three days of tiptoeing around each other, of careful politeness, of pretending this is totally normal and fine.
It’s exhausting.
My phone says it’s 6:47 AM. Way too early for a Thursday. But I can hear movement in the kitchen, so apparently Holden is one of those people who wakes up before dawn.
Of course he is.
I drag myself out of bed and pad down the hallway in my pajamas—an old college t-shirt and shorts. The apartment is still dim, just the soft glow of morning light and the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen.
Holden is standing at the counter in running clothes, hair damp with sweat, scrolling through his phone while the coffee maker gurgles.
He looks up when I walk in. His eyes do this quick sweep—down, then up—before he catches himself.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I head straight for the coffee maker. “You run in the mornings?”
“Every day.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s healthy.”
“It’s six forty-seven in the morning. Nothing healthy happens before eight AM.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost like he’s fighting a smile.
The coffee maker beeps. I reach for a mug at the same time Holden does. Our hands collide.
I jerk back. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. You go first.”
“No, you were here first—”
“Tessa, just take the coffee.”
I grab a mug and pour. The silence feels heavy. Like we’re both hyper-aware of each other’s presence in this small space.
It’s weird. Three days ago I could barely stand to be in the same room as him. Now I’m seeing him sweaty from a run, in his kitchen, before 7 AM.
This is too domestic. Too intimate.
I need to leave before it gets weirder.
“I have a site visit this morning,” I say, backing toward my room. “Big wedding venue downtown. I’ll probably be gone all day.”
“Okay.”
“So you don’t have to worry about dinner or anything.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Right. Good. Okay.”
I’m rambling. I need to stop rambling.
“But hey,” Holden says before I can escape. “Don’t forget about tomorrow night.”
The gallery opening. Our first public appearance as a married couple.
“I remember.”
“Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up—” He stops. “I mean. We’ll leave together. Since we live here now.”
“Right. Together.”
We stare at each other.
This is so awkward.
“I should get ready,” I say finally.
“Yeah. Me too.”
I flee to my room.
The wedding venue is gorgeous. Historic building downtown, marble floors, crystal chandeliers. My client—a sweet couple getting married in three months—is over the moon.
I should be focused. I should be taking notes, confirming vendors, making sure every detail is perfect.
Instead, I keep checking my phone.
No missed calls. No texts. Nothing from Holden.
Why would there be? We’re roommates. We don’t text during the day.
Except my thumb keeps hovering over his contact.
Should I remind him about tomorrow? Make sure he knows what time? Confirm he has something appropriate to wear?
“Tessa?” My client, Jennifer, is looking at me. “You okay?”
“What? Yes! Sorry. Just thinking about centerpieces.”
“We were actually talking about the ceremony timeline.”
“Right. Of course.” I flip to a new page in my notebook. “Let’s talk timeline.”
I force myself to focus. To be present. To do my actual job instead of obsessing about my fake husband.
By the time I get home—to Holden’s apartment, not home, definitely not home—it’s almost eight PM. I’m exhausted. My feet hurt. I just want to change into pajamas and collapse.
But when I walk in, Holden is in the kitchen. Cooking.
Actually cooking. Not heating up takeout. Not making a sandwich. There are vegetables being chopped. Something is simmering on the stove. It smells amazing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He glances over. “Making dinner.”
“You cook?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I just… I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Tessa.”
He says it matter-of-factly. Not mean. Just stating a truth.
He’s right. I don’t know anything about him. Not really. Just the surface-level stuff I’ve picked up from being Noah’s sister. Holden the sports agent. Holden who’s always at the gym. Holden who dates models and actresses and makes it look easy.
But Holden who cooks dinner on a Thursday night? That’s new.
“I didn’t realize we were doing dinner tonight,” I say.
“We’re not. I just made extra.” He gestures to the pot. “Pasta. If you want some.”
I should say no. I should go to my room and order takeout and maintain our separate lives like we agreed.
But it smells really good.
And I’m really hungry.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Thanks.”
We sit at the kitchen island. Holden serves the pasta—some kind of lemon garlic situation with chicken and vegetables—and we eat in silence.
It’s surprisingly not terrible.
The food is actually good. Really good.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask.
“YouTube.”
“Seriously?”
“I lived alone for six years. It was either learn to cook or eat pizza every night.”
“Noah eats pizza every night.”
“Noah also has the metabolism of a hummingbird.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Holden looks at me. Really looks at me. “You should do that more.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh. It’s…” He trails off. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
But I can’t forget it. Because for a second, there was something in his expression. Something almost… soft.
It makes my chest feel weird.
“So,” I say, changing the subject. “Tomorrow night. The gallery thing. What’s the client like?”
“James? He’s good. Quarterback for the Titans. Just signed a massive contract. This is the art collection launch party.”
“He collects art?”
“His wife does. James mostly just writes checks and shows up looking supportive.”
I twirl pasta on my fork. “And what’s our story? How do we explain me?”
“We don’t have to explain. You’re my wife. That’s the story.”
“But people will ask how we met. When we got married. They’ll want details.”
Holden considers this. “Okay. We met through Noah. You came to one of his parties. We’ve been seeing each other secretly for six months and got married last weekend.”
“Last weekend? That’s really fast.”
“Vegas wedding. Spontaneous. Romantic.”
The word romantic in Holden’s voice does something to my stomach.
“Fine,” I say. “Six months of secret dating, spontaneous Vegas wedding. I can work with that.”
“We should probably know basic things about each other too. In case people ask.”
“Like what?”
“Like… I don’t know. Favorite color?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is necessary. Come on. Favorite color.”
I sigh. “Green. Yours?”
“Blue. Favorite food?”
“Italian. Obviously.” I gesture to the pasta.
“Good. Mine’s Thai. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. Black. You?”
“Same. Morning person or night person?”
“Night. You’re clearly morning.”
“Guilty.” He leans back. “See? We’re already getting better at this.”
He’s right. This actually feels… normal. Like we’re just two people having dinner and getting to know each other.
Not two people trapped in a fake marriage.
“So,” Holden says. “Big wedding coming up? The one you mentioned?”
“In two months. Huge society wedding. Five hundred guests. It’s the biggest event I’ve ever coordinated.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It’s terrifying. If I screw this up, my career is basically over.”
“You won’t screw it up.”
I look at him, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re Tessa Morgan. You don’t do anything halfway.”
Something about the way he says my name makes my heart skip.
This is dangerous. This easy conversation, this comfortable silence, this moment where Holden Reid is being nice to me.
I need to leave before I do something stupid like start liking him.
“I should get some work done,” I say, standing abruptly. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime.”
I’m halfway to my room when he calls out.
“Hey, Tessa?”
I turn. “Yeah?”
“You’re going to be great tomorrow night. Just… be yourself.”
“Myself? I’m supposed to be your adoring wife.”
“Same thing.”
The words hang in the air between us.
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod and disappear into my room.
But when I close the door and lean against it, my heart is racing.
This is bad. This is very bad.
Because for just a second, sitting at that kitchen island, eating pasta and talking about favorite colors, I forgot I was supposed to hate Holden Reid.
I forgot this was all pretend.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Friday arrives too fast.
I spend all day obsessing over what to wear. It needs to be perfect. Sophisticated but not trying too hard. Expensive-looking but not flashy. The kind of dress that says “yes, I belong at this fancy gallery opening with my sports agent husband.”
I finally settle on a black cocktail dress I wore to a client’s engagement party last year. Simple, elegant, hits just above the knee. I pair it with heels that make me almost as tall as Holden.
Almost.
I’m doing my makeup when there’s a knock on my door.
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
I open the door. Holden is in a suit. A really nice suit. Dark gray, perfectly tailored, with a black shirt underneath. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine.
My mouth goes dry.
“You clean up nice,” I manage.
“So do you.”
We stare at each other.
“I, uh…” Holden holds up a small box. “I got you something.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re supposed to be newlyweds. And I just realized you don’t have an engagement ring.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
He opens the box. Inside is a ring. Not huge and flashy. Just a simple band with a small diamond. Elegant. Perfect.
Exactly what I would have chosen for myself.
“How did you—” I stop. “How did you know?”
“I noticed you looking at a client’s ring last year. At Noah’s birthday. You said something about simple being more elegant.”
He remembered that? He remembered a random comment I made a year ago?
“Holden, this is…”
“Too much? I can return it.”
“No. It’s perfect.”
He takes the ring out of the box. Holds his hand out. “May I?”
I give him my left hand. He slides the engagement ring on, right next to the wedding band.
His fingers are warm. Gentle. He holds my hand a second longer than necessary.
“There,” he says softly. “Now we look legit.”
I stare at the rings. They’re beautiful together.
This is just for show. Just part of the act.
So why does my chest feel so tight?
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Ready?”
No. I’m absolutely not ready. I’m not ready to go out in public as Mrs. Holden Reid. I’m not ready to lie to his clients and colleagues. I’m not ready for any of this.
But I nod anyway.
“Let’s do this.”
END OF CHAPTER 4
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