Practice Makes Perfect

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed a monotonous, irritating tune that seemed to sync perfectly with the throbbing in Sara’s temples. She stared at the spreadsheet on her monitor, but the numbers swam together, a meaningless jumble of black and white. It was impossible to focus. Her phone, lying face down on the desk, had been the source of her current misery. One thirty-minute call with her mother was all it took to derail her entire afternoon.

“He just sounds so lovely, honey,” her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, dripping with saccharine hope. “Your cousin Jenna’s new boyfriend? An architect! Can you imagine? They met on that app, you know, the one I sent you?”

Sara had gritted her teeth, picturing her Aunt Carol preening at the upcoming family reunion, parading Jenna and her perfect, architect boyfriend around like a prize-winning poodle. Meanwhile, Sara would be relegated to the kids' table of single cousins, fending off a barrage of pitying looks and unsolicited advice.

“I’m happy for her, Mom,” Sara had said, her voice tight.

“Of course, dear. We’re all happy for her. It just gets me thinking… this reunion would be the perfect time to introduce someone. Everyone will be there. Grandma Alice is so looking forward to seeing you.” The unspoken addendum hung heavy in the air: and meeting the man who will finally validate your existence.

It wasn't that Sara didn't want to find someone. She did. But her life—a demanding job at a competitive marketing firm, a tiny apartment that cost a fortune, and the general chaos of city living—didn't leave much room for swiping through endless profiles of men holding up fish. Her last serious relationship had ended over a year ago, a slow, painful fizzle that left her more exhausted than heartbroken. She hadn't had the energy to dive back into the dating pool, and now, that lack of energy was about to be put on trial in front of her entire extended family.

She squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the headache. The reunion was in three weeks. Three weeks to either magically produce a charming, successful, family-approved partner from thin air, or face the Spanish Inquisition, armed with casseroles and thinly veiled insults about her biological clock.

“You’re just so picky, Sara,” her mother had sighed, a familiar refrain. “You can’t expect Prince Charming to just knock on your door.”

Sara had wanted to scream that she wasn’t waiting for Prince Charming. She was waiting for someone who didn’t chew with his mouth open and could hold a conversation that didn’t revolve around his crypto portfolio. The bar was, frankly, on the floor.

The call had ended with a promise from Sara to “put herself out there more,” a vague commitment she had no intention of keeping. What was she supposed to do? Go to a bar and announce she was looking for a fake boyfriend to appease her nosy relatives? The absurdity of it all made a hysterical laugh bubble in her chest.

She took a deep breath, pushing her personal drama aside. She had a deadline. The Sterling account proposal was due by five, and it was her one chance to prove she could lead a major project. She forced her eyes back to the screen, willing the numbers to make sense. If she couldn't control her family, she could at least control her career. She just needed to focus, to block out the noise and the pressure and the image of Aunt Carol’s smug face.

“Trying to win the Sterling account with feelings, Miller?”

The voice, smooth as single-malt scotch and twice as irritating, cut through her concentration. Sara didn’t even have to look up. She could smell his cologne—a subtle, expensive scent of sandalwood and citrus that always announced his presence before he did. Taylor Hayes.

She slowly lifted her head, meeting his gaze. He was leaning against the partition of her cubicle, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers. A lock of dark, wavy hair had fallen across his forehead, and he wore the kind of effortless, confident smile that made their clients swoon and Sara’s jaw clench. He was, objectively, handsome. But his charm was a weapon, and he wielded it with surgical precision.

“I’m using a brand-focused narrative strategy, Hayes,” she said, her tone clipped. “It’s a concept you might want to look up. It involves connecting with consumers on an emotional level, not just bludgeoning them with analytics.”

His smile widened, a flash of white teeth. “Bludgeoning? So dramatic. I just saw the preliminary draft you sent to Henderson. It’s… nice. A lot of beautiful language. But Sterling is a legacy brand fighting off aggressive new startups. They don’t need a poem; they need a battering ram.”

Every word was a carefully aimed dart. He wasn’t just critiquing her work; he was dismissing it as frivolous. “My ‘poem’ is based on extensive market research that shows their target demographic is tired of aggressive, data-driven ads. They want authenticity. They want a story.”

“And you think you’re the only one who can tell it?” He pushed off the partition and sauntered closer, leaning over her desk to look at her monitor. His proximity was a tactical maneuver, designed to put her on the defensive. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she instinctively leaned back in her chair. “Look,” he said, pointing a manicured finger at one of her charts. “Your projected engagement is optimistic at best. If we pivot to a more dynamic, A/B tested campaign focusing on conversion rates, we could guarantee them a fifteen percent ROI in the first quarter.”

He was so close she could see the faint lines around his eyes, the ones that appeared when he was genuinely focused on a problem. That was the most infuriating part. He wasn't just a charming face; he was brilliant. His logic was sound, his numbers were solid, and a traitorous little voice in her head admitted he might be right. But the condescending way he presented it, as if he were a patient teacher correcting a particularly slow student, made her want to throw her stapler at his head.

“This isn’t your project, Taylor,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “Henderson assigned it to me.”

“And I’m just a concerned colleague who doesn’t want to see us lose a seven-figure account because your ‘brand-focused narrative’ puts the board to sleep,” he retorted, his voice still infuriatingly calm. He straightened up, the intensity in his eyes softening back into that easygoing smirk. “Just a thought. We’re a team, after all. It’s in my best interest for you not to crash and burn.”

He gave her a little wink before turning and walking away, his stride as confident as his arguments. Sara watched him go, her hands curled into fists on her desk. He hadn't just derailed her train of thought; he'd set the whole damn train on fire. Her headache was now a raging inferno, and the Sterling proposal, which had been her one refuge from her personal life, now felt like another battlefield. She was fighting a war on two fronts, and she was losing. Badly. She dropped her head into her hands, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the air like a taunt.

The day bled into evening, the office emptying out until only the most dedicated or desperate remained. Sara was firmly in the latter category. She’d managed to salvage the Sterling proposal, incorporating some of Taylor’s infuriatingly logical suggestions while retaining the core of her narrative strategy. It was a compromise that left a sour taste in her mouth, a testament to his uncanny ability to get under her skin and into her work. Just as she was attaching the final file to an email, her phone buzzed again. Mom.

Sara’s heart sank. She couldn’t take another round of well-meaning interrogation. Declining the call would only result in a flurry of worried texts. With a sigh of resignation, she grabbed her phone and purse, seeking refuge in the deserted hallway by the emergency exit. The air here was cooler, the hum of the building fainter.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, leaning her head against the cool metal of the door.

“Sara, honey, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I was just talking to your Aunt Carol…”

Sara squeezed her eyes shut. Of course she was.

“…and she was asking if your plus-one would need the vegetarian meal option. I didn’t know what to say! I just said I’d check with you. So, does he?”

The question was so absurd, so based on a foundation of pure fantasy, that a hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up. Her plus-one. Her imaginary, non-vegetarian boyfriend.

“Mom, there is no plus-one,” Sara said, her voice cracking with exhaustion. “There is no ‘he.’ I told you.”

“Oh, Sara, don’t be like that. There’s still time. You just need to try! What am I supposed to tell Carol?”

That was it. The final snap in a day of a thousand tiny fractures. The professionalism she clung to all day crumbled, replaced by raw, unfiltered desperation. “I don’t know, Mom! Tell her he’s an astronaut and his mission was extended! Tell her he’s a spy and he was called away to avert an international crisis! Tell her whatever you want, because he doesn’t exist! What do you want from me? You want me to stand in the middle of the street and hire the first man who doesn’t look like a serial killer to be my boyfriend for a weekend? Is that what it takes to get everyone off my back?” Her voice had risen to a near-shout, echoing slightly in the empty corridor. Tears of pure frustration pricked at her eyes. “I can’t just conjure a man out of thin air!”

She hung up abruptly, her chest heaving. She pressed her forehead against the cold door, mortified by her own outburst. She felt pathetic, childish, and utterly defeated.

“I might have a solution for that.”

Sara froze. The voice was unmistakable. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs. Taylor was standing at the other end of the hall, near the entrance to the main office, his briefcase in one hand. He wasn’t smirking. In fact, his expression was uncharacteristically neutral, almost thoughtful.

“How much of that did you hear?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, humiliation washing over her in a hot wave.

“Enough to understand the core problem,” he said, walking toward her slowly, his footsteps unnervingly quiet on the linoleum. “You need a fake boyfriend for a family event to appease the matriarchy. Correct?”

She just stared at him, unable to form a response. This was a new level of nightmare.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze direct. “It’s a funny coincidence. My own mother has given me an ultimatum. I either bring a ‘nice, serious girlfriend’ to my cousin’s wedding next month, or she’s setting me up with her dentist’s daughter, who I believe is still convinced essential oils can cure gluten intolerance.”

Sara blinked. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, this was not one of them.

“You’re facing familial pressure,” he continued, his tone as pragmatic as if he were discussing quarterly earnings. “As am I. You have an upcoming event. As do I. Both require a plausible romantic partner.”

He paused, letting the pieces click into place in her mind. Sara’s brain was struggling to keep up, trying to reconcile the image of the unflappable Taylor Hayes being henpecked by his mother.

“What are you suggesting?” she asked, though a wild, impossible idea was already taking root.

“A mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said, a flicker of his usual confidence returning to his eyes. “A strategic partnership. You accompany me to my cousin’s wedding. I accompany you to your family reunion. We craft a believable backstory, establish clear parameters for public displays of affection, and execute our roles convincingly. Afterward, we stage an amicable, no-fault breakup. Everyone is satisfied, and we go back to our lives. And, for the record,” he added with the ghost of a smile, “I am not a serial killer, and I am willing to be a vegetarian for a day if the role requires it.”

Sara’s mind went completely blank. The hum of the building’s HVAC system seemed to roar in her ears. Of all the possible outcomes of her hallway meltdown, this was the one scenario her brain was utterly unequipped to compute. Taylor Hayes, her professional nemesis, was offering to be her fake boyfriend.

“You’re joking,” she breathed, the words laced with disbelief. “This is some kind of sick, elaborate joke.”

“I assure you, my mother’s matchmaking efforts are no laughing matter,” he said, his expression devoid of its usual smirk. “I’m being entirely pragmatic. This isn’t a joke; it’s a business proposal.”

“A business proposal?” She almost laughed. “We’re not negotiating a merger, Taylor. You’re suggesting we lie to our families. That we pretend to be… a couple.” She said the word ‘couple’ as if it were something foul she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. “We can’t stand each other.”

“An irrelevant detail,” he countered smoothly. “Animosity and passion can look remarkably similar from a distance. We’re both competitive, driven people. It’s a believable dynamic.” He took another step closer, lowering his voice. “Listen, we can’t hash this out here. Let’s go to The Daily Grind. I’ll buy you a coffee, and you can list all your objections. I’m confident I can address every one of them.”

Against every shred of her better judgment, a part of her was intrigued. The sheer audacity of it was captivating. Before she could talk herself out of it, she gave a stiff nod.

Fifteen minutes later, they were seated in a secluded corner booth at the coffee shop, the rich aroma of espresso a stark contrast to the sterile air of the office. A steaming latte sat untouched in front of her, a peace offering she hadn’t yet accepted. The small table felt intimate, forcing a proximity that was deeply unsettling. She could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way a stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead.

“Okay,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest as a protective barrier. “Let’s hear it. Why should I, for one second, agree to this insane plan?”

“Reason one,” he said, ticking a finger in the air. “It solves your immediate problem. No more frantic calls from your mom, no more pitying looks from Aunt Carol. You show up with a partner who is, if I may say so, presentable, articulate, and willing to discuss the merits of both cloth versus paper napkins to appease your great-uncle.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And reason two?”

“It solves my immediate problem,” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “I avoid the dreaded setup, and my mother can spend the wedding bragging about my ‘lovely girlfriend’ instead of interrogating my cousins about their fertility plans. It’s mutual preservation.”

“This will never work,” Sara insisted, shaking her head. “We don’t know anything about each other. What’s your favorite color? What’s my middle name? My family will ask questions. They’re like a pack of investigative journalists.”

“My favorite color is navy blue. Your middle name is Louise,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. Sara’s mouth fell slightly open. “It was on your file for the Henderson project onboarding,” he explained with a shrug. “I pay attention to details. It’s what makes me good at my job. We’ll create a dossier on each other. Study it. It’s no different from prepping for a client meeting.”

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, his gaze intense. The playful rival was gone, replaced by the sharp, strategic mind she clashed with at work. “Think of it, Sara. A few days of performance. That’s all it is. We establish a backstory—we met through a mutual friend, a whirlwind romance, whatever. We set clear boundaries. A hand-hold here, a chaste kiss on the cheek there. We attend the events, we play our parts, and then we stage a quiet, amicable breakup a few weeks later. No drama, no mess. We go back to being rivals. It’s a clean, efficient solution.”

She stared at him, her mind racing. Every logical part of her screamed that this was a terrible, catastrophic idea. It was deceptive and destined for failure. But the exhausted, desperate part of her, the part that was sick of feeling inadequate and alone, was listening. She imagined walking into that reunion, Taylor at her side—confident, charming, and undeniably real. She imagined the look on her mother’s face, the relief. She imagined a whole weekend without having to defend her life choices. The temptation was a sweet, potent poison.

“This is a deal with the devil,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

A slow smile spread across his lips, the first genuine one she’d seen all night. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I’m not the devil, Sara. I’m just a guy who really, really doesn’t want to date a woman who sells healing crystals on Etsy.”

A choked laugh escaped her. It was a single, sharp sound of surrender. She looked from his expectant face to her cold latte. The weight on her shoulders felt immense, but for the first time, she saw a way to set it down, if only for a little while.

“Fine,” she said, the word barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and said it again, louder, firmer. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Relief washed over Taylor’s face, so pure and unguarded it was startling. He extended his hand across the table.

“Partners?”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment. It was strong and steady, the same hand that had pointed out the flaws in her proposal just hours ago. Taking it felt like crossing a line she could never uncross. With a deep, steadying breath, Sara reached out and shook it. His grip was warm and firm. It wasn’t a deal with the devil. It was a contract. And it was already signed.