Chapter 2 - The Contract of Convenience
The diner across the street from the café smelled of fried onions and old grease, but it was quiet enough for a conversation that didn't involve espresso grinders.
Maya sat in the corner booth, clutching a mug of lukewarm black coffee, staring across the Formica table at Mason Reed. He looked completely out of place sitting beneath a faded neon sign advertising cherry pie, yet he held himself with such unshakeable poise that the greasy diner seemed to bend around him.
“Let me get this straight,” Maya said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the sticky table. “You have nothing better to do on a Saturday—traditionally the day high-net-worth investors do... whatever it is secret billionaires do—than drive two hours out into the suburbs, sit through an overly religious ceremony, and endure my grandmother asking you about your retirement portfolio?”
“I have nothing pressing on my calendar until Sunday evening,” Mason replied smoothly, taking a measured sip of the terrible diner coffee without a single twitch of distaste.
“And why? Why would you do this? I can’t pay you. I make forty-eight thousand a year, Mr. Reed. If you’re looking for a return on investment, you picked the wrong waitress.”
“I don’t want your money, Maya,” he said, using her first name for the very first time. Hearing it spoken in that deep, gravelly baritone sent a strange, unexpected shiver down her spine. “As you noted, I am adequately capitalized.”
“Then what is it? Is this some weird billionaire hobby? Do you collect eccentric favors?”
Mason set his mug down, his slate-gray eyes fixing on hers with an intensity that made it difficult to draw a full breath. “Your family sounds exhausting. Your cousin’s wedding will be loud, predictable, and entirely devoid of genuine surprises. For twenty-four hours, I would rather step into your world than another boardroom filled with men who agree with everything I say.”
Maya studied him, searching his face for a punchline, a hidden camera, or a sign of psychological instability. She found only a calm, terrifying sincerity.
“There are rules,” Maya said finally, narrowing her eyes.
“Name them.”
“One: You hold my hand when my mother is looking, but you let go the second we’re out of her line of sight. Two: No grand romantic gestures. No poetry, no singing, no public declarations of undying affection that will make my aunts suspicious. Three: You answer to the name Daniel for the duration of the event, because I am not explaining why I replaced my boyfriend twenty-four hours before the altar.”
A faint shadow crossed Mason’s face at the mention of the name. “Daniel.”
“Yes. Daniel.”
“I’d prefer my own name, but for the sake of your family’s blood pressure, I will tolerate answering to Daniel.” He reached into his immaculate charcoal jacket, pulled out a heavy silver pen, and slid a plain business card across the table. There was no company logo on it—just a private mobile number and the initials M.R. “Text me the address, the dress code, and any critical family lore I need to memorize. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”
Maya looked down at the card, then back up at him. “You’re actually doing this.”
“I don't make proposals I don't intend to honor,” Mason said, standing up from the booth and sliding a twenty-dollar bill onto the table—ten dollars more than their bill. He buttoned his coat, his tall, commanding frame casting a shadow over the small booth. “Be ready, Maya. I am notoriously punctual.”
Before she could form a reply, he turned and walked out of the diner, pushing open the glass door and disappearing into the gray Seattle mist.
May you like
Maya stared at the silver card on the table. She had no idea she had just invited a man who commanded private armies and international shipping routes into the blast radius of her mother’s potato salad and her aunt Judith’s judgmental glares.
What could possibly go wrong?
