The Napa Proposition

The scent of antiseptic still clung to Emma’s scrubs as she sank onto her sofa, the phone pressed hard against her ear. On the other end, her mother, Isabella Rodriguez, was in full wedding-planning mode, which was, unfortunately, indistinguishable from full-on interrogation mode.

“And Mija, are you sure you don’t want to bring a plus-one? It’s not too late. I can call the caterer. It’s just… everyone will be there with their partners. Your Tía Sofia will ask questions. You know how she is.”

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, picturing the seating chart her mother had undoubtedly laminated and color-coded. A single, glaringly empty chair next to her own. “Mom, we’ve been over this. I’m fine going alone. It’s Sofia’s big day, no one will be paying attention to me.”

A dramatic, long-suffering sigh crackled through the phone. “That’s what you always say, Emmita. ‘I’m fine.’ You’re a brilliant doctor, my brilliant, beautiful girl, but you work too much. All those little babies you take care of… don’t you want your own? A handsome man to share your life with? Look at your sister. She found a wonderful man.”

The comparison landed like a dull thud in her chest. Sofia, the golden child, was marrying her college sweetheart, a man who checked every box on the Rodriguez family list. Emma, meanwhile, had a demanding residency followed by an even more demanding career. Her relationships tended to fizzle out, unable to compete with 24-hour shifts and medical emergencies.

“My life is very full, Mom,” Emma said, her voice tighter than she intended.

“Full of work,” Isabella corrected. “I just worry. Your father and I, we want to see you happy. Settled. Is that so much to ask? At the rehearsal dinner, you’ll be at a table with all of Sofia’s single cousins from Miami. You know what that means.”

Emma did know. It meant a parade of well-meaning but invasive questions, pitying looks, and clumsy setup attempts. It meant feeling like a project, a problem to be solved. The exhaustion from her twelve-hour shift, the lingering stress of a difficult case with a preemie, and the relentless, suffocating weight of her mother’s expectations all swirled into a perfect storm of desperation.

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, a desperate, reckless act of self-preservation.

“Actually,” she said, her own voice sounding foreign and distant. “I am bringing someone.”

Silence. A blessed, shocked silence on the other end of the line.

“What?” Isabella finally breathed, her tone shifting from concern to pure, unadulterated excitement. “Emma, why didn’t you say so? Who is he? Is it serious? Of course, it must be serious if you’re bringing him to the wedding!”

Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs. Oh god. What had she done? She scrambled for a name, any name, but her mind was a complete blank.

“His name… is Jake,” she managed, the name popping into her head from a billboard she’d passed on her drive home. “And yes, Mom. It’s serious.”

The lie hung in the air, glittering and fragile, long after Emma had ended the call with her ecstatic mother. Two hundred miles away, in a quiet, dimly lit restaurant, the man whose name she had stolen was staring at a different kind of lie: the one he’d been telling himself for months.

The lie that things would turn around.

Jake Morrison ran a damp cloth over the polished oak surface of the bar at “The Ember,” his restaurant, his dream, his albatross. The motion was automatic, muscle memory from a thousand nights spent doing the same. But tonight, the place was empty. It had been empty more nights than not lately. The warm, inviting space he’d poured his life savings and every ounce of his soul into—with its exposed brick, soft Edison bulb lighting, and the tantalizing scent of smoked paprika and rosemary that seemed permanently infused into the walls—felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb.

On the bar, next to a bottle of top-shelf bourbon he hadn’t sold a glass of in a week, lay a crisp, cream-colored envelope. The letter inside was anything but pleasant. He didn’t need to read it again. The words were burned into his brain: NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE. The numbers swam before his eyes—a figure so large it felt fictional, a deadline so close it felt like a guillotine. Thirty days. He needed a miracle, or he needed cash. Lots of it.

He leaned his palms on the bar, dropping his head as the full weight of his failure pressed down on him. He’d started as a bartender, charming customers and saving every dollar, all while sketching out menus on cocktail napkins and experimenting with flavor profiles in his tiny apartment kitchen. He wasn’t just a bartender; he was a chef. He knew it in his bones. The Ember was meant to be his proof, his culinary statement to the world. He’d envisioned tables filled with people laughing, savoring his signature braised short ribs, raving about the complex notes in his sauces.

Instead, he had debt. A mountain of it. He’d been too ambitious, opening in a competitive market without enough capital to weather the slow season. Pride had kept him from asking for help, and now, desperation was a bitter taste in his mouth, more potent than any whiskey.

He straightened up, catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The charming smile he usually wore for customers was gone, replaced by the weary lines of stress around his eyes. He looked tired. He felt gutted. He’d sell his soul for a solution, do just about anything to keep the ovens on, to save this one thing that was entirely his. His phone, lying face down on the bar, buzzed. He ignored it. Probably another supplier chasing an overdue invoice. But it buzzed again, insistent. With a sigh, he flipped it over. It was a text from his friend Marco, a guy who always knew someone who knew someone.

Hey man. Got a weird one for you. Friend of a friend. Needs a fake boyfriend for a fancy Napa wedding this weekend. Pays ridiculously well. You in?

The coffee shop Emma had chosen was neutral territory—a minimalist space with blond wood and the rich, grounding scent of espresso. She clutched a lukewarm latte, her knuckles white. This was insane. She was a doctor, a woman who made life-or-death decisions based on data and diagnostics. Now she was about to hire a stranger to lie to her entire family.

He walked in precisely at two o’clock, and she knew it was him instantly. Marco’s text had only said “Jake, tall, easy smile.” It hadn’t done him justice. He was taller than she’d pictured, with broad shoulders that filled out a simple grey t-shirt in a way that was anything but. His dark hair was a little messy, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed a strong jaw. When his eyes, a warm, clear hazel, scanned the room and landed on her, the promised easy smile appeared, and Emma felt an inconvenient flutter in her stomach. This was a problem. He was supposed to be a business expense, not… distracting.

“Dr. Rodriguez?” he asked, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. He slid into the chair opposite her, moving with a fluid grace she hadn’t expected.

“Emma, please,” she said, forcing her tone to be crisp and professional. “And you’re Jake.”

“The one and only,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “So, I hear you need a boyfriend.” He said it so casually, as if she were ordering a sandwich.

Emma’s cheeks heated. “I need a temporary escort for a family wedding. The role is that of a serious, long-term boyfriend. The compensation, as my friend mentioned, is five thousand dollars for the weekend, plus expenses.”

Jake’s eyebrows lifted slightly. The smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened, assessing her. “Five grand for a weekend of good food, fine wine, and my charming company? You must have one hell of a family.”

“They’re… traditional,” Emma hedged, pulling a notebook from her bag. She couldn’t look at him; it was easier to focus on her neat, clinical bullet points. “We need a backstory. I thought we could say we met six months ago at a farmer’s market.”

“A farmer’s market,” he repeated, a note of amusement in his voice. “Okay. I can work with that. Was I selling artisanal kombucha or were you squeezing my heirloom tomatoes?”

Emma looked up, startled by the playful jab. “Neither. We were both reaching for the last loaf of sourdough. Our hands touched. It was very romantic.” The sarcasm dripped from her words.

A genuine laugh escaped him, and the sound was startlingly warm. “I like it. Simple, classic. So, what do I do for a living in this fantasy?”

“You’re a chef,” she said, the lie feeling surprisingly easy. “You’re passionate and on the verge of opening your own place. It explains why you’re so knowledgeable about food—my father will test you.”

He stilled, the humor fading from his eyes, replaced by something more intense. “A chef,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“The rules of engagement are simple,” Emma pressed on, eager to get back to solid, transactional ground. “We’ll need to hold hands. You may be required to put your arm around me. A kiss on the cheek for greetings or goodbyes is acceptable.”

Jake leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, the space between them suddenly shrinking. “What about a real kiss?” he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “For authenticity’s sake. If, say, your Tía Sofia gets suspicious, or your ex-boyfriend shows up to make a scene. A well-timed, convincing kiss could be crucial to the performance.”

His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, and the air crackled with a sudden, palpable heat. Emma’s carefully constructed composure wavered. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a biological response she couldn’t control.

“I think we can cross that bridge if we come to it,” she said, her voice a little breathless. She extended a hand across the table. “Do we have a deal?”

Jake’s smile returned, slow and knowing. He took her hand, his grip firm and warm. His thumb brushed over her pulse point, a small, deliberate movement that sent a jolt straight up her arm.

“Deal,” he said. “It’s going to be a very interesting weekend, Doctor.”