The phone buzzed against my ear like an angry wasp, and I already knew this wasn't going to end well.

"Harper Elizabeth Morrison, you tell me right now that you're bringing someone home for Thanksgiving."

Mom's voice carried that particular pitch that meant she'd already worked herself into a full-scale panic. I could practically see her pacing around the kitchen, probably reorganizing the spice rack for the third time today.

"Mom, I—"

"Because your cousin Jessica called, and apparently Chad is bringing his new girlfriend. Your cousin. Your own flesh and blood, Harper. The girl who used to follow you around like a lost puppy when we were kids, and now she's dating your ex-boyfriend."

The words hit me like a slap. Chad. My ex of two years, the one who'd told me I was "too ambitious" and "not family-oriented enough." The same Chad who was now apparently family-oriented enough to date my twenty-two-year-old cousin Jessica, with her perfect blonde curls and her Instagram-worthy life.

"Are you still there? Harper?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm here." I pressed my fingers against my temple, feeling a headache building. "Look, I'm really busy with work right now, and—"

"Don't you dare use work as an excuse. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is going to be? The whole family asking where your boyfriend is while Chad parades around with Jessica like some kind of conquering hero?"

The phone buzzed again. Another call coming in. Then another.

"Mom, I have to—"

"Promise me, Harper. Promise me you'll bring someone. Anyone. I don't care if you have to hire an actor."

The line went dead, and immediately the phone started ringing again. Mom. Then Aunt Linda. Then my sister. The Morrison family phone tree was in full swing, and I was apparently the main topic of discussion.

I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling of my tiny Manhattan apartment. The water stain in the corner seemed to mock me, shaped vaguely like a heart with an arrow through it.

Two hours later, I found myself in O'Malley's, a dimly lit bar tucked between a dry cleaner and a bodega. The kind of place where the bartender didn't ask questions and the whiskey was cheap enough that I could afford to drink away my problems.

"Another?" The bartender, a gruff man with arms like tree trunks, gestured to my empty glass.

"Make it a double."

The amber liquid burned going down, but it was a good burn. A cleansing burn. Maybe if I drank enough, I could forget that my ex-boyfriend was now dating my cousin. Maybe I could forget that I'd be walking into Thanksgiving dinner solo while they played happy couple.

The bar door chimed, and I glanced up to see a man slip inside, pulling a baseball cap low over his face. He moved with the kind of careful precision that screamed "trying not to be noticed." Designer jeans, expensive watch, the kind of shoes that cost more than my rent.

He slid onto the barstool three seats down from me, keeping his head down.

"Scotch. Top shelf. And keep them coming."

His voice was smooth, cultured. Definitely not from around here.

I was about to mind my own business when I noticed the flash of cameras outside the window. Paparazzi. They pressed against the glass like vultures, their lenses searching.

The man beside me tensed, his knuckles white as he gripped his glass.

"Rough day?" I asked, surprising myself.

He looked up, and I caught a glimpse of sharp green eyes and a jaw that could cut glass. Definitely not from around here, and definitely not just anyone.

"You could say that." He took a long sip of his scotch. "Family trying to run my life. Reporters following my every move. The usual."

I laughed, a bitter sound that surprised us both. "Family trying to run your life? Join the club."

He turned to face me fully, and I felt something electric pass between us. "Bad day?"

"Catastrophic day. My mom just informed me that my ex-boyfriend is bringing my cousin to Thanksgiving dinner, and if I don't show up with someone, I'll be the family joke until next Christmas."

"Ouch." He winced. "That's rough."

"What about you? Let me guess—family wants you to marry some socialite you've never met?"

His laugh was dry. "Close. Family wants me to marry a socialite I have met. Several times. She's perfectly nice, perfectly boring, and perfectly wrong for me."

The cameras outside flashed again, and he ducked his head instinctively.

"They're persistent," I observed.

"You have no idea."

I stared at my reflection in the bar mirror, then at him, then at the photographers outside. An idea began to form, crazy and desperate and probably doomed to fail.

"What if I told you I had a solution to both our problems?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you're either brilliant or drunk."

"Probably both." I turned to face him fully. "Look, you need to disappear from those cameras, right? And I need a boyfriend for Thanksgiving. What if we helped each other out?"

"Are you suggesting—"

"A trade. You pretend to be my boyfriend for one weekend, meet the family, endure some turkey and awkward questions. In exchange, you get a place to hide out until this blows over."

He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Look, I'm desperate, you're desperate. We're both adults. We can handle a simple business arrangement."

Outside, the cameras flashed again, and I saw him flinch.

"What's your name?" he asked finally.

"Harper. Harper Morrison."

"Declan." He paused, as if deciding whether to give me more. "Declan O'Sullivan."

The name tickled something in my memory, but the whiskey made it hard to focus.

"So, Declan O'Sullivan, do we have a deal?"

He looked at me, then at the photographers pressing against the window, their camera flashes creating a strobe effect in the dim bar. For a moment, I thought he was going to laugh and walk away.

Then he extended his hand.

"We have a deal."

The leather seat beneath me was softer than anything I'd ever touched, and I tried not to gawk at the polished wood panels and crystal decanters lining the private jet's cabin. Declan sat across from me, his fingers dancing across a tablet screen with the practiced ease of someone who did this every day.

"Before we land," he said, not looking up, "there's something we need to handle."

He turned the tablet toward me, and my stomach dropped. The screen displayed a legal document in dense, intimidating text. Non-Disclosure Agreement blazed across the top in bold letters.

"Seriously?" I laughed, but it came out hollow. "You want me to sign an NDA for a fake relationship?"

His green eyes met mine, and for the first time since we'd boarded, I saw something vulnerable flicker across his face. "Harper, there are things about my life that... well, let's just say discretion is important."

I scrolled through the document, catching phrases like "confidential information" and "financial penalties." My hands trembled slightly as the reality of what I'd gotten myself into began to sink in.

"What exactly are you hiding, Declan? Are you in witness protection? Mafia? Secret government agent?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing that dramatic. I just value my privacy."

I signed the document, my signature looking shaky next to his confident scrawl. As soon as I handed the tablet back, he seemed to relax, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Now," he said, settling back into his seat, "we need to get our story straight. Your family is going to have questions."

"Right." I pulled out my phone, opening the notes app. "So what do you do for a living? And please don't tell me you're unemployed, because my mother will have a field day with that."

"Investment consulting," he said without missing a beat. "I help people manage their portfolios, make smart financial decisions."

I typed furiously. "Okay, that sounds respectable enough. Where did we meet?"

"Coffee shop?"

"Too cliché. My family will see right through that." I chewed my lip, thinking. "What about the library? The main branch downtown. You were researching market trends, I was there for work."

"Work?"

"I'm a marketing coordinator for a nonprofit. Nothing glamorous, but it pays the bills." I glanced up at him. "The library makes us sound intellectual, right? Like we bonded over books instead of just desperation and alcohol."

His laugh was genuine this time, and I felt something warm flutter in my chest. "The library it is. How long have we been dating?"

"Three months. Long enough that it's serious, but not so long that they'll wonder why they haven't heard about you."

We spent the next hour crafting our fictional romance, filling in details about imaginary dates and shared interests. Declan was surprisingly good at this, weaving in little touches that made our story feel real. The way he supposedly brought me coffee every morning during my library visits. How we'd discovered a shared love of old movies and terrible Thai food.

"One more thing," I said as the plane began its descent. "Physical contact."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, we need to establish boundaries. My family is going to expect us to act like a couple, but I don't want things to get... weird."

"What did you have in mind?"

My cheeks burned. "No kissing. Hand-holding is fine, maybe an arm around the shoulders for photos. But nothing that crosses the line into actual intimacy."

"Agreed." His voice was businesslike, but I caught something that might have been disappointment in his expression. "Strictly professional."

The plane touched down with barely a bump, and I pressed my face to the window. Cedar Creek's tiny airport looked exactly the same as it had when I'd left for college eight years ago. The same weathered terminal building, the same rusty hangar, the same endless expanse of cornfields stretching to the horizon.

"Welcome to the middle of nowhere," I muttered.

Declan peered over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. "It's charming."

"You say that now. Wait until you meet my family."

A black car waited on the tarmac—not quite as luxurious as the jet, but still nicer than anything I'd ever ridden in. As we pulled away from the airport, I watched the familiar landscape roll past. The old grain elevator, the defunct gas station with its broken neon sign, the cluster of houses that made up Cedar Creek's downtown.

"You grew up here?" Declan asked, following my gaze.

"Born and raised. Population 847, where everyone knows everyone's business and nothing ever changes." I pointed to a white farmhouse set back from the road. "That's where we're heading. Morrison family homestead, established 1952."

The car crunched over the gravel driveway, and I saw curtains twitch in the front window. Mrs. Henderson from next door was already stationed at her fence, probably timing our arrival so she could casually happen to be checking her mailbox when we got out.

"Showtime," I whispered.

Declan straightened his shoulders, and I watched him transform before my eyes. The tension left his face, replaced by an easy confidence that made him look like he belonged anywhere. Like he could charm my entire family without breaking a sweat.

The car stopped, and the driver came around to open our door. I stepped out first, my heels sinking slightly into the soft earth. The November air was crisp and carried the scent of burning leaves and distant wood smoke.

"Harper!" Mrs. Henderson called out, right on cue. "Is that you, dear?"

I waved, forcing a bright smile. "Hi, Mrs. Henderson!"

Declan emerged from the car behind me, and I heard Mrs. Henderson's sharp intake of breath. Even in his deliberately casual clothes—dark jeans and a navy sweater—he looked like he'd stepped off the pages of a magazine.

Before I could introduce him, I felt his arm slide around my waist, his hand settling naturally at my hip. The contact sent an electric shock through my entire body, and I had to fight not to gasp.

"You must be Harper's boyfriend!" Mrs. Henderson practically vaulted over her fence. "I'm Eleanor Henderson, the neighbor."

"Declan O'Sullivan." His voice was warm, charming. "Harper's told me so much about Cedar Creek. It's even more beautiful than she described."

Mrs. Henderson preened under the compliment, and I felt Declan's thumb trace a small circle against my hip. Such a tiny gesture, but it made my knees weak.

The front door burst open, and my mother appeared on the porch, her face lighting up like Christmas morning. Behind her, I could see the shapes of other family members gathering.

"This is it," I whispered to Declan.

His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer against his side. "We've got this."

But as we walked toward the house, his hand still burning against my hip, I couldn't shake the feeling that our carefully constructed boundaries were already beginning to crumble.

The front porch creaked under our feet as Mom rushed forward, her arms already outstretched. She'd changed into her good sweater—the burgundy one she saved for church and special occasions—and her hair was freshly styled in that way that meant she'd been to Dolores's salon this morning.

"Harper, honey!" She enveloped me in a hug that smelled like vanilla extract and nervous energy. Over her shoulder, I could see Dad hovering in the doorway, Uncle Mike peering around him, and—God help me—Jessica's blonde curls bouncing as she tried to get a better look.

"Mom, this is Declan." I stepped back, feeling his hand find the small of my back again. "Declan, my mother, Susan Morrison."

Mom turned to Declan, and I watched her expression shift from maternal relief to something approaching shock. Her eyes widened as she took in his perfectly styled dark hair, his expensive sweater, the way he carried himself like he owned whatever room he walked into.

"Oh my," she breathed, then caught herself. "I mean, it's wonderful to meet you, Declan. Harper's told us so much about you."

I definitely hadn't, but Mom was already in full hostess mode, ushering us inside where the rest of the Morrison clan waited like a receiving line at a wedding.

The introductions blurred together—Dad's firm handshake and suspicious once-over, Uncle Mike's booming laugh, Aunt Linda's barely concealed curiosity. But it was Jessica who made my stomach clench. She stood next to Chad, her hand possessively linked through his arm, but her eyes were fixed on Declan with undisguised interest.

"Harper!" She bounced forward, all blonde curls and fake enthusiasm. "You didn't tell us your boyfriend was so handsome!"

Chad's jaw tightened, and I felt a petty surge of satisfaction. Let him see what he'd given up.

"Declan's full of surprises," I said sweetly, leaning into his side. His arm tightened around me in response, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that made my head spin.

Mom clapped her hands together. "Well, let's get you two settled! I've got the guest room all ready—" She paused, her face falling. "Oh, no. Harper, I completely forgot. The pipe burst in the guest bathroom yesterday, and there's water damage. The whole room smells like mildew."

My heart sank. "Where are we supposed to sleep?"

"Well..." Mom's cheeks flushed pink. "I suppose you'll have to use your old room. I know it's not ideal, but—"

"Perfect," Declan said smoothly, as if sleeping in my childhood bedroom was exactly what he'd hoped for. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

If only he knew.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the doorway of my old room, watching Declan take in the full horror of my teenage years. The walls were still painted cotton candy pink, covered with posters of boy bands I'd been obsessed with in high school. My old bulletin board displayed ribbons from art competitions, photos of friends I'd lost touch with, and a particularly embarrassing poem about unrequited love that I'd somehow never taken down.

But it was the bed that made me want to disappear into the floor. My old twin bed, with its white metal frame and the same pink floral comforter I'd had since I was fifteen. Built for one person. One very small person.

Declan set his leather duffel bag on the floor with careful precision, his expression unreadable. He walked to the window, examining the view of the backyard like he was assessing real estate.

"So," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "This is cozy."

I groaned, dropping onto the edge of the bed. The springs creaked ominously under even my weight. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea about the guest room. We can figure something else out—maybe you could sleep on the couch, or—"

"Harper." He turned from the window, and I was surprised to see amusement dancing in his green eyes. "It's fine. I've slept in worse places."

I highly doubted that, given the private jet and the designer everything, but I appreciated the lie.

He picked up one of the framed photos from my dresser—me at seventeen, braces and all, holding up a painting I'd done of the old oak tree in our front yard.

"You were an artist," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Was being the operative phrase." I stood up, reaching for the photo, but he held it just out of reach, studying it intently.

"This is good. Really good."

"It's high school art class. Hardly gallery worthy."

"Says who?"

The question hung in the air between us, and I felt something shift. This wasn't part of our carefully rehearsed story. This was real curiosity, real interest, and it made my chest tight.

"Dinner!" Mom's voice carried up the stairs, saving me from having to answer.

Dinner was exactly the ordeal I'd expected. Dad grilled Declan about his job, his intentions, his five-year plan. Uncle Mike told increasingly inappropriate jokes. Jessica made pointed comments about how "nice" it must be to find someone "financially stable" at my age.

But Declan handled it all with the kind of effortless charm that made me wonder if this was just another Tuesday for him. He laughed at Dad's stories, complimented Mom's cooking, and somehow managed to deflect every probing question without actually lying.

By the time we escaped back upstairs, I was exhausted from the performance.

I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror above the sink. The same mirror where I'd practiced asking boys to prom, where I'd cried over college rejection letters, where I'd given myself pep talks before job interviews.

What was I doing? This whole thing was insane. I was sharing a bed with a virtual stranger, lying to my family, and pretending to be in love with someone whose last name I'd learned twelve hours ago.

When I came back to the room, Declan was already in bed, lying on his side facing the wall. He'd somehow managed to fit his tall frame onto the tiny mattress, though his feet hung off the end.

I slipped under the covers, my back to his, the space between us feeling both infinite and nonexistent. The bed was so small that every time one of us moved, the whole thing shifted.

"Harper?" His voice was soft in the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"The painting. In the photo. Why did you stop?"

I stared at the familiar crack in the ceiling, the one shaped like a lightning bolt that I'd traced with my eyes countless nights as a teenager.

"Life, I guess. College, work, bills. Art doesn't pay the rent."

"But you loved it."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yeah. I did."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the old house settling around us and the distant sound of a train whistle.

"I wanted to be a teacher," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Before... everything. I wanted to teach high school history. Make it interesting for kids who thought it was boring."

I rolled over slightly, though I couldn't see him in the darkness. "What happened?"

"Family business. Expectations. The usual story."

There was something in his voice—regret, maybe, or loss—that made my chest ache.

"Do you ever think about going back to it?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then: "Every day."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the polished, charming man who'd won over my family at dinner. This was someone else entirely. Someone real.

"Declan?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For doing this. I know it's crazy."

He shifted, and I felt the mattress dip as he turned toward me. In the darkness, I could just make out the outline of his profile.

"Maybe we're both a little crazy," he said softly.

I closed my eyes, hyperaware of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body just inches away. Tomorrow we'd have to face my family again, continue this charade, pretend to be something we weren't.

But tonight, in the darkness of my childhood room, surrounded by the ghosts of who we used to be, it almost felt like we were exactly who we were supposed to be.