Chapter 2: Unpacking the Lies

Catherine pushed open the heavy metal door to the rented apartment in the converted warehouse, her arms loaded with two cardboard boxes that smelled faintly of dust and old paper. The space felt smaller than the empty rooms they'd walked through yesterday, all exposed brick and tall windows that let in the gray coastal light like an unwelcome guest. Malcolm followed close behind, carrying a sleek black duffel and a garment bag slung over one shoulder, his steps measured and quiet on the reclaimed wood floors.

She set her boxes down with a thud that echoed too loudly. The apartment had been rented just that morning to sell their story, with its open kitchen, one decent bedroom, and a pull-out couch in the living area that suddenly looked inadequate. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the view of the historic downtown street below.

"This is it," she said, her voice raspy from the morning's negotiations at the bookstore. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, fingers lingering as if the gesture could steady the churn in her stomach. "Bedroom's yours for the three months. I'll take the couch. Rules are rules."

Malcolm surveyed the room with that architect's eye, head tilting slightly as he assessed load-bearing walls and sight lines. His bronze skin caught the light from a pendant lamp, and he rubbed the scar on his thumb without seeming to notice. The duffel landed on the floor with a soft thump.

"We'll rotate," he replied, voice deep and even. "Fair's fair. I don't need special treatment, Collingwood. This isn't a favor."

She watched him unzip the bag and pull out a stack of neatly folded shirts, the fabric crisp and expensive-looking. A coffee maker that wasn't hers sat on the counter, gleaming like an intruder. Blueprints were pinned to the far wall with thumbtacks, their lines sharp against the brick. The realization hit her like cold water: he'd started moving pieces of himself in while she was still locking up the shop.

Her shoulders hunched slightly. This wasn't just sharing space. It was an invasion, however polite. She crossed to the kitchen and yanked open a cabinet, finding his espresso pods lined up like soldiers. The sight made her hands clench at her sides.

"You didn't waste time," she muttered, the words sharper than she'd intended. Sugar. She needed sugar in her coffee, even if it was barely noon. The stress was already gnawing at her.

He didn't look up from unpacking a small box of books—architecture tomes, mostly. "Efficiency saves time. We have family dinner tomorrow night, remember? Diego's text wasn't a suggestion. Abuela expects us at seven sharp."

Catherine poured water into the new coffee maker, her movements jerky. The machine gurgled to life, filling the air with a rich, bitter scent that clashed with the faint mustiness of old books from the boxes. She added four sugars to her mug when his back was turned, stirring so hard the spoon clinked against the ceramic.

The apartment felt wrong already. Her mother's quilt still draped the couch, faded blue patches worn soft from years of use, but now it shared space with his sleek laptop on the coffee table. She wanted to shove everything back into boxes, tell him the deal was off. Instead she took a scalding sip and burned her tongue.

"We need to get our story straight," she said, forcing her tone neutral. "Six weeks ago at the charity gala for the historic preservation society. We talked about old buildings. Sparks flew. We've been seeing each other quietly since."

Malcolm nodded, hanging his shirts in the closet with precise movements. His shoulders filled the doorway, economical and controlled. "You wore a green dress. I brought you coffee after your speech about saving the waterfront district. We argued about adaptive reuse but ended up laughing."

She blinked. "I didn't wear green. And we never laughed."

"We did in this version," he said simply. A faint smile ghosted his lips, gone before she could pin it down. He closed the closet door with a soft click. "Details matter, Catherine. People notice inconsistencies."

The use of her first name jarred her. She set the mug down too hard, sloshing coffee onto the counter. Wiping it with a paper towel, she felt her throat tighten. This was the cost of saving the shop—letting him rewrite their history into something softer, something that could pass inspection.

They worked in near silence after that, unpacking her boxes of clothes and toiletries into the bathroom. Her practical boots lined up beside his polished dress shoes, a study in contrasts that made her stomach twist. She caught him glancing at her notebook when it slipped from a box, its worn leather cover unassuming among the sweaters.

"What's that?" he asked, reaching to steady the stack.

Her hand shot out faster than she meant, snatching it back. "Nothing. Just... personal. Stay out of it."

He held up both hands, palms out. The scar on his thumb caught the light. "Your space. I remember the rules."

But later, while she was downstairs grabbing more boxes from the bookstore storage, he must have helped with the remaining ones. When she returned, the notebook lay on the couch, half-open. Her handwriting stared up at her, raw and jagged.

Mom, I miss the way you hummed while shelving new arrivals. Today a customer asked about your favorite book and I almost cried in front of them. Why did you leave me with her? With this mess?

Catherine's face burned. She grabbed the notebook, clutching it to her chest as if she could press the words back inside. Her fingers trembled against the worn leather. He'd seen it. The private grief she'd never shown anyone, reduced to scattered pages on a stranger's couch.

Malcolm emerged from the bedroom, wiping his hands on a rag. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes flicked to the notebook before meeting hers. "It fell out when I moved the box. I didn't read it. Just picked it up."

"Liar," she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice cracked on the edge. She hunched slightly, shoulders curving in as anxiety clawed up her spine. "You saw enough. Don't pretend you didn't. Like some plot twist I didn't see coming in one of my own damn books."

He rubbed his thumb scar again, a tell she was learning too quickly. The rain picked up outside, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. For a long moment, neither spoke. The air felt thick, charged with everything they weren't saying.

"I lost my dad two years ago," he said finally, words measured like blueprints. "Heart attack at his desk. I found him. Sometimes I still talk to him in my head. Stupid, right? But it helps."

Catherine stared at him, the notebook heavy in her hands. His admission hung between them, unexpected and disarming. She wanted to resent him for it, for matching her vulnerability with his own. Instead her throat tightened further, a sick mix of pity and anger that made her turn away.

"This isn't real," she reminded him, echoing their rules. "We don't do this. The sharing. The... whatever this is."

He nodded once, jaw tight. "Agreed. But we're stuck here. Might as well not pretend we're robots."

She turned away, shoving the notebook into a drawer in the small desk by the window. Her hands shook slightly as she closed it. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air, crisp and expensive, mixing with the coffee and rain. It was too much, too soon.

---

The flickering light fixture above the kitchen sink caught Malcolm's attention while she was chopping vegetables for their makeshift dinner. The bulb buzzed and dimmed intermittently, casting uneven shadows across the counter. Catherine ignored it, focusing on the knife in her hand and the awkward list of facts they'd compiled on another napkin.

Favorite color: hers blue, his gray. Childhood pet: she had a cat named Atticus, he had none. First kiss: fabricated as a college party for both.

She'd added ridiculous amounts of sugar to the pasta sauce, stress-eating a spoonful straight from the jar earlier. The kitchen felt too small with him in it, his height making the space shrink.

Without a word, Malcolm pulled a step stool from the closet—he'd stocked it already, of course—and climbed up. His movements were precise, economical. He unscrewed the fixture with tools from his pocket, the muscles in his arms shifting under his shirt sleeves.

"You don't have to," she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Watching him fix something in her space sent an unwelcome warmth through her chest, followed immediately by irritation. She didn't need rescuing. Not from him.

He didn't respond at first, focused on the wiring. Spanish slipped from his lips under his breath, a muttered "maldita cosa" that sounded almost affectionate. The light steadied under his hands, glowing steady and warm.

When he stepped down, their eyes met across the narrow counter. His were dark, assessing, but there was something softer there too. A crack in the control. Catherine looked away first, stirring the pasta with more force than necessary.

"Thanks," she managed, the word tasting foreign. "Though I could've called the landlord."

"Landlord's slow. And we're supposed to look like we belong here together." He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. "Your turn. Tell me something real about you that isn't in the rules. For the dinner tomorrow."

She plated the pasta, the steam rising in lazy curls. The meal was simple—nothing fancy, just what she could throw together from the fridge. But sharing it felt weighted, like signing another contract with invisible ink.

"I read the last page first because my mom got sick suddenly," she said, surprising herself with the honesty. Her hands tightened on the plates. "No warning. One day she was fine, shelving books. Next, hospital. I guess I like knowing how things end. Prepares me."

Malcolm took his plate, their fingers brushing accidentally. The contact sent a spark up her arm that she ignored, or tried to. He sat at the small table, shoulders squared as always.

"My father expected me to take over the firm the way he did," he replied after a bite. "No questions. Diego was the spare, always competing. I built my own path, but it still feels like following his blueprint."

The words landed between them, rawer than their earlier exchange. Catherine poked at her food, appetite fading. This was dangerous territory, learning him like this. His voice carried that faint Spanish lilt when he spoke of family, revealing more than he probably meant.

They ate in stretches of silence broken by forced questions. What side of the bed do you sleep on? Do you snore? What's your grandmother's name again—Eleanor for her, Consuelo for his, though everyone calls her Abuela.

"She'll test us," he warned, pushing his empty plate away. "Abuela sees through bullshit. We'll need to sell the looks. The touches. Not too much. Just enough."

Catherine's stomach knotted. The idea of his hand on her back, steady and warm, made her skin prickle. She stood abruptly, clearing the dishes. Water rushed loud from the faucet as she washed them, scrubbing harder than needed.

"I won't mess it up," she said over her shoulder. "The shop's on the line. Your promotion too. We both have skin in this."

He joined her at the sink, drying plates without being asked. Their elbows bumped, and she jerked away too quickly. The proximity was suffocating, his cologne wrapping around her like an unwanted embrace. She dried her hands, avoiding his gaze.

Later, as evening deepened, they reviewed the napkin notes one more time. The rain had eased to a patter, but the apartment still felt charged, unfinished. Catherine's eyes kept drifting to the drawer where her notebook hid, wondering what he'd truly seen.

Malcolm's phone buzzed with another text from Diego. He read it, jaw tightening. "They're expecting us tomorrow night. Wear something that looks like you tried but not too hard."

She nodded, retreating to change in the bathroom. The mirror showed her flushed cheeks, the anxiety in her eyes. This was only day one. Three months stretched ahead like an impossible blueprint, full of corners she couldn't yet see.