Love was Never in the Contract

Chapter 6: Terms & Conditions

June

He clears his throat, adjusting the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. "I, uh, didn't bring much."

"This is it?" I asked, stepping aside to let him in.

He shrugged, his eyes sweeping my apartment. "I've lived out of hotel rooms for five years. Most of my stuff is in storage in Monaco."

"Monaco," I repeated, the word tasting foreign on my tongue.

"It's not as exciting as it sounds." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mostly just somewhere to sleep between races."

"Also my place got vandalized after the accusations hit the news. Been crashing at my Derek's since."

"God, I'm sorry." The reminder of what he's been through yanks me back to reality. While I've been overthinking my schoolgirl dreams, he's been living a nightmare. "They never even apologized for jumping to conclusions, did they?"

"Media doesn't apologize. They just move on to the next scandal." He sets his duffel down. "The apartment's nice. Very... you."

I glance around, suddenly seeing my space through his eyes—the alphabetically arranged bookshelves, the throw pillows, the complete absence of clutter.

"Your room's this way," I say, standing. "Fair warning: it's nothing like what you're probably used to."

He follows me down the hallway. "What am I used to, exactly?"

"I don't know. Something with a view of Monaco and animal skin sheets?"

His laugh is short but genuine. "You've been reading too many tabloids."

I push open the guest room door. "It's not much, but it's yours for the duration." The room is neutral with dove gray walls, white duvet and bare nightstands.

"It's perfect," he says, tossing his duffel onto the bed. "Better than Derek's pullout couch with the bar that digs into your spine."

I lean against the doorframe. "Bathroom's across the hall. Kitchen's open season, but note there's a shelf in the fridge with my name on it—literally. Don't touch what's there unless you want to find out how scary I can be in court."

"Duly noted," he says with mock seriousness. "Anything else I should know? Secret hallways? Ghosts in the attic?"

"Wi-Fi password is taped inside the kitchen cabinet. The building has a gym in the basement if you need it. I work late most nights. I don't cook, so don't expect home-cooked meals. And—" I hesitate, then push through, "—I'd like to go over the contract one more time. Just to make sure we're clear."

His eyebrow lifts slightly. "Now?"

"Preferably. Consider it a housewarming tradition."

"Most people bring plants or wine."

"I bring legal protection. It's more reliable."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Let me just wash up first?"

While he's in the bathroom, I retrieve the contract from my briefcase and lay it on the kitchen table. When he emerges, hair slightly damp at the temples, I've already taken my position, seated with a pen in hand.

"You really don't mess around," he says, sliding into the chair across from me.

I push the document toward him. "Just a few things to highlight."

He skims the first page, a small smile playing at his lips. "You do realize I already signed this, right? At your office, with a notary present. Pretty sure it's legally binding already."

"Humor me."

He raises his hands in surrender. "Floor's yours, Counselor."

I straighten the edges of the document. "First, the cohabitation clause. We present as a married couple in public, but this apartment maintains separate spaces. The guest room is yours, my bedroom is mine, and never the twain shall meet."

"Got it. No sleepwalking into your bed."

I ignore the heat in my stomach. "Second, the social obligations. We attend events together as required by your contract with Lang. We coordinate stories, we act affectionate within reason, we represent each other professionally."

"Define 'affectionate within reason.'"

My pen stills. "Just and-holding and the occasional arm around shoulders. Nothing... excessive."

"And kissing?" His tone is neutral, but something in his eyes makes me glance away.

My throat tightened. "Use your judgment. Whatever sells the story without crossing lines."

"And those lines are?"

I met his gaze. "I think we're both adults who understand the difference between a staged kiss for cameras and something more."

He studied me for a moment before saying. "You're really something, Torres."

"That's West now, technically,"

He let out a laugh. "God, that's weird to hear."

I flip to the next page. "Third, and most importantly, the exclusivity clause."

He turned his attention fully to me. "Remind me of that one."

"For the duration of our arrangement, neither party will engage in romantic or s****l relationships with third parties inside this residence." I meet his gaze directly. "No overnight guests. No dates brought home. No... entanglements that could compromise the appearance of our marriage."

What I didn't say was: I couldn't bear the thought of Tessa sleeping across the hall from me.

"And outside the residence?"

"What you do on your own time is your business," I say carefully. "But discretion is essential. If you're photographed with someone else, the whole arrangement falls apart."

He nods slowly. "Same goes for you."

"Not an issue." I flip to the final page. "Last point: termination conditions. One year maximum, with the option to dissolve earlier by mutual agreement once your name is cleared and your contracts secure."

"And if one of us wants out before that?"

"Sixty days' notice should do. Amicable public separation with no mud-slinging." I slide the contract toward him fully. "Do you have any questions?"

He signs his name at the bottom with a flourish. "Just one. Want to order takeout? I'm starving."

We end up ordering Thai food, eating cross-legged on the living room floor because I've never bothered to buy a proper dining table. The conversation comes in fits and starts—comfortable one minute, awkward the next.

"So," he says, expertly wielding chopsticks, "what's your story, June Torres? I mean, the real one, not the LinkedIn version."

I poke at my pad thai. "You've already got the highlights. Berkeley, Stanford, law firm. Not much else to tell."

"Come on. Nobody's that boring."

"Maybe I am."

He studies me, head tilted. "I don't buy it. The June I remember was quiet, but she wasn't boring."

"You really do remember me from back then?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Something passes across his face like confusion. "Sure. You were... you were Leah's sister. Always with your nose in a book."

Of course. Always defined in relation to Leah. I force a smile. "That's me. Certified bookworm."

He gestures toward the photo I have on the bookshelf—me, Leah, Rhett, and Mom, all grinning in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.

The photograph had been taken at Leah's high school graduation and it was the last picture of all four of us together, taken six months before my mother's diagnosis.

"You look like her. Your mom."

I didn't correct him, though most people said I resembled my dad. It was strange how memory played tricks—how he could remember my mother's face but hadn't recognized mine in that coffee shop.

"Rhett's still around. He runs an auto shop in Oakland. Specializes in classic restorations."

He hesitates. "Do you see him often?"

"When we can. He's got two kids now and I'm the cool aunt who spoils them."

"You should tell him about... this." He gestures between us. "Before he sees it online or something."

I nod, guilt twisting my stomach. "I will. I just need to figure out how to explain it without sounding completely insane."

"'Hey bro, remember the neighbor kid who used to race his bike down our street? We're married now. Pass the salt.'"

Despite myself, I laugh. "That should go over well."

A comfortable silence falls between us as we finish our food. When he starts gathering the empty containers. I stopped him.

"You don't have to clean up,"

"Least I can do. You're giving me shelter." He carries the containers to the kitchen. "Besides, I'm not completely helpless. Despite what the tabloids might suggest."

My phone buzzes. Elena: "DETAILS. NOW. Murder or marriage consummation yet?"

I type quickly: "He's here. This is so weird."

Three dots pulsed before her reply appeared: "Send pics of him doing laundry. I need emotional support."

I glance up to find Caleb leaning against the kitchen counter, watching me with an unreadable expression.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Just Elena being Elena." I set my phone down. "She's the only one who knows about... this arrangement."

He nods. "I haven't told anyone yet."

"What about Tessa?"

His expression tightens. "Tessa knows it's for show."

"And she's okay with that?"

"She understands what's at stake."

I wonder if that's really true, but it's not my place to push. Instead, I stand, suddenly desperate for the safety of solitude. "I should probably turn in. Early meeting tomorrow."

"Right." He sounds almost disappointed. "I'll just watch some tape in the living room, if that's okay? Volume low."

"Sure. Mi casa, su casa. For now, anyway."

At my doorway, I pause. He's already settled on the sofa, pulling up a race on his tablet.

"Caleb?"

He looks up, startled. "Yeah?"

"Just... goodnight."

He let out a smile. "Goodnight, June."

I close my bedroom door and lean against it, heart hammering for no good reason. Through the wall, I can hear the muted sounds of engines revving, tires screeching. The soundtrack to his life and now, somehow, to mine.

I lie in bed, eyes wide open, wondering what I've gotten myself into.