[Maverick’s POV]
The walk to my hotel suite feels longer than usual.
Floris follows half a step behind me, clutching her phone like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her knuckles are white around the case, and she hasn't said a word since we left the plane.
A small miracle I should probably appreciate but instead find oddly concerning.
I tell myself this is purely strategic. A business decision. The kind of calculated move my grandfather might approve of if he’ll believe in the love-from-the-first-sight fairytale, if he ever knew the truth behind it.
Which he won't. That's rather the point.
She nearly walks straight into the doorframe, suddenly fascinated by the ceilings she was examining, as we enter, and my hand shoots out before conscious thought—landing on top of her head and pivoting her sideways to safety.
Her hair is incredibly soft and silky beneath my palm, and I release her too quickly, trying not to let myself think about it further.
She looks up at me, surprise in her eyes, but I gesture toward the sitting area like nothing happened in a desperate attempt to change the silent topic.
"Take a seat," I say. "Water?"
"Please." Her voice comes out smaller than usual.
Where's the woman who narrates her own life like a nature documentary?
I pour two glasses, taking longer than necessary to arrange my thoughts. When I turn back, she's perched on the edge of the sofa like she's ready to flee at any moment, phone still clutched in both hands.
“Were you serious there, on the plane?” she asks carefully, but I’m not sure for whose sake.
“Were you?” I deflect.
"I was maybe thirty percent serious, actually," she finally admits, a nervous laugh escaping. "Maybe thirty-five? The rest was definitely a joke, so…"
I don't return the smile. "I don't do jokes, Miss Blossom."
Her eyes widen, and I watch reality crash into her like turbulence at thirty thousand feet.
We're actually doing this. This isn't hypothetical anymore.
"Okay…" she breathes. "Okay. So. What exactly would this... entail?"
I settle into the chair across from her, maintaining distance that feels necessary for reasons I don't examine. "Public appearances when needed. Enough interaction to seem believable. Maintaining the facade for my grandfather."
"Your grandfather?" She tilts her head, curiosity breaking through the nervousness. "What does he have to do with your fiancée situation?"
Right. She doesn't know.
I take a measured breath, choosing my words carefully.
"My grandfather controls the company's succession. He has... particular requirements for my future. A suitable wife, approved by him. The women you've witnessed rotating were all his introductions. All his attempts to marry me off to someone… appropriate."
"And none of them worked out."
"Clearly."
I hesitate whether I should tell her about the heir requirement. But she already looks cautious and unsure of this idea.
No, no need to scare her off before we've even begun.
If this works, I'll tell her later. One impossible conversation at a time.
She's quiet, processing, and I find myself waiting for the chatter, the nervous rambling that usually fills every silence. But it doesn't come and the absence unsettles me more than I'd like to admit.
"Why would you agree to this?" I ask, because the silence is becoming unbearable and I genuinely don't understand her. "What's in it for you?"
I expect hesitation. Negotiation. A careful calculation of what she can extract from this arrangement—money, connections, opportunities. That's how these things work. Everyone wants something.
But suddenly she shrugs, almost dismissive. "Because why wouldn't I help if I can help? You clearly need someone, and I'm here. It's not complicated."
The simplicity of it throws me completely.
I've built my entire life around transactions, around understanding what people want and using it strategically. But she's not negotiating. She's not calculating. She's just... offering to help. Because she can.
I don't know what to do with that. It doesn't fit into any framework I understand.
"We need rules," I say finally, because rules I can handle. "Six months. That should be enough time to satisfy my grandfather's initial requirements and establish the relationship publicly."
She nods, suddenly serious. "Six months. Okay. I can do six months."
"Public appearances as needed. You'll accompany me to events, dinners, family functions—whatever's necessary to maintain the illusion."
"Got it."
"But not yet." I hold up a hand. "First, we need my grandfather's approval. Until then, this stays completely secret. No one can know—not the crew, not your friends, no one."
Her brow furrows. "So we just... pretend nothing's happening?"
"We create the image of love at first sight. A relationship that developed privately, away from prying eyes. When we finally go public, it needs to look like we've been keeping this precious and protected." I pause. "Happiness loves silence. That's the story."
"Secret romance. Very dramatic, very romance novel." She nods slowly. "I think I can try to do mysterious."
"And exclusivity." My voice comes out harder than intended. "No dating, no seeing other men. For either of us—I won't see other women as well. If anyone spots you with someone else, the illusion falls apart before it begins."
Something flickers across her face and then just gone before I can identify it. "So for six months, we're each other's only... person."
"Publicly and privately. Separate rooms, always. No expectations of genuine affection. This is an arrangement, Miss Blossom. Nothing more."
"Understood. Purely professional fake engagement with mandatory monogamy." She offers a small smile. "I can do that."
She agrees to each point without argument, and I should feel satisfied. This is exactly what I wanted. A solution to my grandfather's demands without the complication of actual emotion. Clean. Simple. Strategic.
Then she asks the question I've been dreading. "Why me?"
I have a prepared answer. Convenience. Right place, right time. She was there, she understood what I needed, she offered. Logical, impersonal and safe.
What comes out is different.
"Because you see the pattern," I hear myself say. "And you won't expect something real."
She flinches, barely perceptible—just a slight tightening around her eyes, a micro-expression most people would miss. But I notice, I'm practically trained to notice.
I don't understand why noticing bothers me.
Why that tiny flinch feels like I've done something wrong.
She's quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands, and when she speaks again, her voice is carefully neutral. "And at the end of six months? What happens then?"
"We end it quietly. Mutual decision, stayed friends, the usual script. No drama, no complications. You get your money, and we go back to our separate lives."
“My money?” she looks befuddled.
God, did she really plan to do all this free of charge?
“Naturally,” I nod. “You’re doing me a favor. It needs to be repaid.”
"So… Clean break." At least she doesn’t fight me about the payment. Good.
"Clean break," I confirm.
She nods slowly, then extends her hand across the space between us. "Then I guess we have a deal, Mr. Finley."
I take her hand and her palm is warm and so small in mine, delicate and soft, fitting in a way that feels unexpectedly right.
I shake once, professionally, and then I don't let go right away. I can feel her pulse flutter against my fingers—or maybe that's my own heartbeat, confused about where my body ends and hers begins.
I release her a beat too long after I should have.
"I should go," she says, standing quickly. "Early flight tomorrow. Lots of... fake fiancée preparation to do. Is there a handbook? Please tell me there's a handbook."
"I'll have James send you the relevant details."
She nods, moves toward the door, and then she's gone. The suite feels emptier than it should after that and I sat staring at the closed door before James appeared in the connecting doorway, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
"Did you just propose to your flight attendant?"
My jaw tightens. "It's an arrangement."
James's expression says he's not buying it for a second, but he has the good sense not to push.
“Sure,” he chuckles as he disappears back to his own room, leaving me alone with the echo of her voice and the ghost of her hand in mine.
I stare at my phone and her contact still reads "F. Blossom - Crew."
I should update it. Fiancée, maybe. Or just Floris.
I don't change it and the hollow feeling in my chest is satisfaction, I tell myself. I got exactly what I wanted. A solution. A strategy. Six months of performance, and then freedom.
So why does my hand still feel warm where she touched it?