Love was Never in the Contract

Chapter Five: Faking June

The coffee shop was one of those places with exposed brick and overpriced pour-overs. We sat in a corner booth, Caleb's baseball cap and the late hour providing some privacy from potential recognition.

"So," I said, cradling my latte. "I'm guessing you were meeting with Harrison?" James Harrison was our firm's best reputation management attorney.

Caleb nodded. "Your colleague has been helpful, but realistic."

"About?"

"About the fact that being legally cleared doesn't mean much when half the world still thinks you're a monster." He sipped his black coffee. "Sponsors don't care about evidence when their stock prices dip."

I nodded. "The court of public opinion is rarely concerned with actual facts."

"Tell me about it." He ran a hand through his hair. "My team dropped me. Most sponsors pulled out. My accounts are frozen pending civil litigation that probably won't even happen now that the truth's coming out. But the damage..." He trailed off.

"I've been following the case," I admitted. "For what it's worth, I never believed the accusations."

He looked up, surprised. "Why not? Most people were ready to crucify me at first sight of those headlines."

"Professional hazard. I specialize in defending the wrongfully accused. The story had holes from the beginning." I shrugged. "Plus, you never struck me as the type. Back in school, I mean."

"You remember me from school?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"We were neighbors for five years, Caleb. You dated half my sister's friends. Hard to miss."

"Right." He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Those were different times."

"For all of us," I agreed, not wanting to dwell on how invisible I'd been. "So what now? For your career?"

He stared into his coffee for a long moment. "Actually, there might be a way back. A guy named Victor Lang—owns several racing teams and a chain of nightclubs—he's offered me a contract."

"That sounds promising."

"With conditions." Caleb's mouth twisted. "He thinks my image needs a complete overhaul. From playboy to family man. Stability, commitment, the whole package."

"And how do you plan to achieve that overnight?"

"That's the million-dollar question." He laughed without humor. "My girlfriend Tessa is supposed to be the answer, but her family has political aspirations. Senator daddy forbade her from publicly supporting me during all this. She's 'studying abroad' until the dust settles."

"Convenient," I remarked.

"She loves me," he said, though something in his tone suggested he was trying to convince himself. "But she can't defy her family. Not when her father's eyeing a presidential run next cycle."

I nodded, taking a slow sip of my latte to hide my expression. "So you need a reputation renovation, and your actual girlfriend can't help. Tough spot."

"Victor thinks I need to be married," he said bluntly. "Settled down and responsible. The opposite of what people think I am after the scandal."

"Married," I repeated. "That's... quite a commitment for a PR strategy."

"Tell me about it." He drained his coffee. "Anyway, that's my sob story. What about you? Still living in the Bay Area all this time?"

"Berkeley for undergrad, Stanford for law. Now here." I gave him the condensed version. "Lost my mom in high school. Leah a few years later. Same cancer."

His face softened with genuine sympathy. "God, June, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"No reason you would." I kept my tone light. "Rhett and I manage. He runs a custom auto shop in Oakland."

Caleb nodded. "That tracks. He was always tinkering with engines."

We fell into easier conversation then—reminiscing about teachers, neighborhood quirks, the time his mother's garden hose broke and flooded our shared fence line. He was charming when relaxed, his public persona slipping to reveal glimpses of the boy I'd known.

As we were preparing to leave, an idea began forming—ridiculous, risky, potentially disastrous.

"What if..." I began, then stopped.

"What if what?" he prompted.

"What if you had a wife? For the Lang contract."

He raised an eyebrow. "I just told you, Tessa can't—"

"Not Tessa. Someone else. A temporary arrangement."

"You mean a fake marriage?" He looked skeptical. "That's a little extreme, even for PR."

"Is it more extreme than losing your career over false accusations?" I countered. "You said you need image rehabilitation. A stable relationship. Someone with a respectable career who can vouch for your character."

He studied me for a long moment. "Are you suggesting...?"

"It makes sense," I said, suddenly committed to the idea. "I'm an attorney with a good reputation. We have history—the childhood friends angle plays well. And I have no hidden scandals that could backfire."

"Why would you do that?" His confusion was genuine. "What's in it for you?"

I should have had a ready answer—some logical benefit I'd receive. Instead, I shrugged. "Sometimes people just help each other, Caleb."

He didn't look convinced. "This would be a huge imposition. Living together for appearances, public events, the whole charade."

"I have a guest room," I said. "And I'm rarely home anyway. Work keeps me busy."

"Still—"

"Consider it pro bono legal assistance," I interrupted. "Reputation management without Harrison's hourly rate."

He laughed despite himself. "You're serious."

"Deadly." I pulled out a business card, scribbled my personal number on the back. "Think about it. If Victor Lang wants a stable family man, I can help you become one—on paper, at least. One year max, with clear exit conditions once your career is back on track."

He took the card, turning it over in his fingers. "I'll think about it."

"Do that," I said, standing. "And Caleb? For what it's worth, I'm glad they caught the truth on camera. You deserved better than what happened."

⸻

What happened next was a whirlwind. Three days later, Caleb called. A week after that, we drafted a contract—a marriage with an expiration date, complete with public appearance requirements and privacy clauses. We insisted on a strict no-romance stipulation; this was business, not a Hallmark movie.

Elena was the only one I told. My journalist best friend nearly spat her wine across my living room when I explained the plan.

"You're doing WHAT?" she screeched, grabbing my phone to read the text exchange with Caleb. "June Torres, have you lost your brilliant legal mind?"

"It's a business arrangement," I explained calmly. "One year, maximum. He gets his career back, I get..."

"What exactly DO you get?" Elena's eyes narrowed. "Besides living with your teenage crush who never noticed you existed? Because from where I'm sitting, this seems massively one-sided."

I shifted uncomfortably. "The satisfaction of helping someone wrongfully accused?"

"Bullshit." She set down her wine glass firmly. "This is about that crush you never got over."

"It is not—"

"June." Her voice softened. "I love you. You're the smartest person I know. But this is crazy, even for you."

"It's not crazy. It's strategic. The contract is ironclad—I drafted it myself. No real feelings, no messy entanglements."

Elena studied me for a long moment. "Do you know about Tessa?"

"His girlfriend? Obviously. That's why he needs this arrangement."

"She's been in his life for years," Elena said, pulling out her phone to show me a photo. "Pretty socialite, senator's daughter. The whole package."

I looked at the image of Tessa Hargrove with her perfect blonde hair and model like face, my stomach tightening slightly.

"She supposedly loves him," I said.

Elena shrugged. "Maybe. But they break up every few months like clockwork. Never seems to stick."

I handed back the phone. "Does he actually love her?"

"If he does, he's a better actor than I thought." Elena retrieved her wine. "The question is—does any of this matter to you?"

I stared at the photo of Tessa again.

"Not yet," I decided. "Not until I'm sure."

And that's how I found myself, a week later, becoming June West—wife to a man who once thought of me as "plain," contracted to save the reputation of someone possibly still in love with his beautiful on-again, off-again girlfriend.

As I said, life takes unexpected turns.

⸻

Now, as I sit in my apartment—our apartment, technically—nursing a glass of wine after our City Hall ceremony, I wonder what I've gotten myself into.

My phone buzzes with a text from Elena: "How's married life, Mrs. West? Still want me to come over?"

I start to type a breezy response, then delete it. "He's still talking to Tessa," I write instead.

Three dots appear immediately. "Want me to find out what's really going on with them?"

I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Elena's question burns on the screen: "Want me to find out what's really going on with them?"

Half of me—the logical, self-protective attorney half—wants to type a resounding "yes." The other half—the part that's been carrying this torch since I was a teen—feels pathetic even considering it.

Before I can decide, the door swings open. I quickly flip my phone face-down, heart skipping like I've been caught with evidence.

Caleb steps in, looking slightly shell-shocked, his hair ruffled by the wind.

"Hey," he says awkwardly. "Wife."

I set down my phone. "Hey yourself, husband."

And just like that, our charade begins in earnest.