The next day is Monday, and by some miracle we’re all dressed and ready with enough time leftover to stop for donuts on the way to school. I reach back and swipe powdered sugar off Ezra’s cheeks—and Howard’s—before we pull up in front of the imposing brick building, which looks more like an Ivy League college than any elementary school I’ve ever seen.

“Will you walk me into the courtyard and meet my teacher?” he asks Cal.

“Sure thing, dude,” Cal promises. “I’d love that.” He glances at Lottie in the rearview. “What about you, Lot?” he asks. “Want us to walk you in?”

“Um, that’s okay,” she says, in a voice like it would only be slightly more embarrassing if both of us were wearing clown suits.

“You sure?” Cal teases as we pull into the parking lot. “ ’Cause I’d be happy to stroll on in there, press a few palms, tell all your friends what a great gal we think you are here at home—”

“Oh my God, stop it,” she says, burying her face in her book. She sounds like a full-on teenager, but when she pulls the book away she’s smiling—a real smile, the kind I haven’t seen her use on anyone but Cal.

“Have a good day,” I tell her before she heads through the door, chancing a hand between her shoulder blades. To my surprise, Lottie doesn’t pull away.

Ezra’s class is gathered for attendance on the playground outside the kindergarten classroom, the kids climbing all over the fanciest jungle gym I’ve ever seen while the parents mill around double fisting iPhones and venti Starbucks cups. One woman in particular perks up when she sees us.

“You’re Cal!” she coos, popping up on the tiptoes of her buttery leather boots and hugging him hello. “We’ve heard all about you. I’m Tobin’s mom—the redhead over there on the slide, you see him? Welcome to the Henderson School.”

“Thanks,” Cal says, grinning his most charming grin. “We’re glad to be here.”

We meet Ezra’s teacher and the Henderson principal, then watch as Ezra trots off to play with his friends, Howard in tow. “Quite the welcome wagon,” I note as we’re heading back to the car.

Cal just grins at me, slinging an arm around my shoulders and squeezing. “What are you, jealous?”

“No!” I blurt, wriggling out of his grip. I take a deep breath, pushing back my hair. “Look, about what happened last night. This needs to be a professional gig, okay? Otherwise it’s just . . .” I trail off, flushing.

Sexy.

Wanton.

Deliciously hot.

“Weird,” is all I manage. “I mean, you’re paying me, there’s a whole arrangement . . . Technically, it could be considered prostitution if I . . . If we . . .”

“Do it?” Cal gives me a wink. He’s still smiling, the smile of a person who had his mouth on my tits not twelve hours ago.

I feel myself blush. “It’s not funny.”

“I know,” he says, with a sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll keep it professional from now on.”

“Thank you,” I say primly, telling myself I’m not the tiniest bit disappointed that he didn’t argue harder. I can still feel his tongue on my collarbone, a hot unsatisfied ache between my legs; I got myself off twice lying in bed last night, wondering if he was doing the same thing in his bedroom down the hallway, but it wasn’t nearly enough. I want his hands on my body. I want his cock in my—

I clear my throat. “So what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask brightly, climbing into the passenger seat. “Schmoozing a Saudi prince? Beta-testing a new car that just so happens to fly to the moon?”

Cal makes a face. “I took the day off, actually,” he tells me. “I figured we ought to run some errands maybe, get settled into the new place.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised and not altogether mad about it. “Okay.” I whip my phone out and put a list together, when my phone rings.

Turns out it’s an old client from Harper Wells, the owner of a successful chain of dry cleaners whose lawyer dropped dead last year, right in the middle of a partnership dispute. He wound up getting stuck with me, which he wasn’t too pleased about, but in the end I found—and sidestepped—a loophole in the contract which meant he came out ahead. After that, he was basically my best friend.

“I’m getting divorced,” he announces now, then launches into a ten-minute spiel about his cheating husband without waiting for me to answer. I try to break in at least half a dozen times to no avail, sputtering awkwardly as Cal laughs quietly in the driver’s seat.

“I’m so sorry about the divorce, Mr. Rioja, but I’m not actually with the firm anymore,” I manage finally. “But if you call the reception desk and explain what’s going on I’m sure they’d be delighted to put somebody on it.”

“I don’t want somebody else from the firm,” Mr. Rioja says irritably. “They’re morons. I want you.”

I muffle a laugh of my own. “I know,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

When I hang up Cal’s looking at me curiously. “That guy was begging you to be his lawyer again. Why didn’t you go ahead and poach him?”

“Well, because I signed a non-compete agreement, to start with,” I point out.

Cal shrugs like, who cares? “Do you miss it?” he asks as we pull into the Target parking lot. “Practicing, I mean.”

“I miss some parts of it,” I say carefully. I don’t miss the brutal hours and low-level grunt work so much as I miss having a sense of purpose—a place to get dressed and go to every day, the sense that I was building a career for myself.

“Do you think you’ll go back?”

I sigh. “If I ever find a job, maybe.”

“You could always come work for me,” he says.

I laugh, yanking a bright red cart from the nested row of them in front of the store. “I thought that’s what I was doing now.”

Cal makes a face. “I mean in a legal capacity, counselor. We’ve got a pretty good team, but we’re always looking for new blood.”

“Sure. From fake fiancée to fake attorney. What could possibly go wrong?”

“You’re using your skeptical voice, but I’m serious.” The automatic doors whoosh open and I push the cart toward the dollar section. Cal looks around, blinking. “Meanwhile, this place is fucking huge.”

It’s a pretty standard Target, actually, the smell of buttered popcorn and plastic redolent in the air. “Okay, in all seriousness,” I tease. “When was the last time you were in a Target?”

“Um.” Cal shrugs, not meeting my eyes. I think he might actually be blushing. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s never, isn’t it.” I laugh out loud. “You have literally never been in a Target before.”

“Fuck you,” Cal says, but he’s laughing.

“Come on,” I say, steering him toward the Starbucks kiosk. “I’ll buy you a coffee to ease the shock.”

We get a nightlight, and a first aid kit, which I was horrified to realize he didn’t own before, plus some shampoo for the kids and a giant bag of trail mix for me. “You can buy literally anything here,” Cal says with wonder, craning his neck as I steer him briskly through housewares.

“That is the purpose of a store like this, yes.”

I definitely wouldn’t have guessed a Target of all fucking places would knock Cal’s socks off, but the novelty of it seems to genuinely delight him: he gets so distracted he reminds me of Ezra, bouncing an inflatable ball down the aisles and impulse-buying a pair of cheap pajama pants with race cars on them, holding a giant decorative papier-mache bear’s head up to his face. “Do I look scary?” he asks. “I think I probably look very scary.”

“Terrifying,” I assure him, hiding a smile. “Come on, Big Grizzly, we don’t have all day.”

“I’m going to make you call me that all the time,” Cal teases, earning a choice hand gesture for his trouble. “Big Grizzly. And we do, actually. We literally have all day.”

It’s true, I realize with a little bit of a start. I’ve got nothing to do today but stroll the aisles of this Target, to pick out dumb seasonal dishtowels and decide on dinner and be an—admittedly pretend—part of this family. It doesn’t actually fill me with the anxiety I might have thought. “In that case, you want to head over and pick out some stuff to bribe the kids with?”

“Amazing idea.”

He deliberates for a long time in the toy aisle, gnawing his thumbnail in consternation before finally selecting a superhero-themed dress up box for Ezra and a young inventor’s kit for Lottie. By the time we make it up to the cashier, the cart is piled high with a truly ridiculous quantity of shit. Cal throws a giant bar of Toblerone on top at the last minute.

“Success!” he crows, holding his hand up for a high five out in the parking lot. I laugh, and high-five him back.

“If you think that was crazy, just wait until I take you to Costco.”