Chapter 2: We don't need to practice this

Grace's POV

The house Jasper rented is in Presidio Heights, second floor of a Victorian townhouse. He's carrying my suitcase up the stairs when he explains, "Immigration might do surprise checks. We need to look like an actual couple. Same address, shared living space, all of that."

I nod, trying to slip into this whole "fake wife" role.

The moment he opens the door, I'm completely blown away. The entire space has this minimalist Scandinavian vibe going on. Clean lines, lots of white and light gray, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the living room with afternoon sunlight. One entire wall is covered with bookshelves packed with tech manuals and... wait, is that The Little Prince?

"You still have this?" I walk over and pull out the obviously worn English edition.

Jasper sets down my luggage and comes to stand beside me. "You gave it to me. On my tenth birthday."

I don't remember that at all. But he does. And after all these years, through countless moves, he's kept this book.

"Master bedroom's this way." He interrupts my thoughts, leading me down the hallway. "You take it. I'll sleep in the guest room."

"What? No, this is your place—"

"Grace." He turns around, his expression serious. "This is our place. At least in immigration's eyes. And besides..." He pauses. "Husbands are supposed to let their wives have the master."

Even fake ones. He doesn't say it, but we both know that's what he means.

The master is huge, with a walk-in closet and private bathroom. Jasper's already cleared out half the closet space for me. "I'll make dinner," he says. "Take your time settling in. Just let me know if you need anything."

After he leaves, I start unpacking. While hanging up my clothes, I notice his side of the closet. All these tailored suits, perfectly cut. A row of dress shirts organized by color, from white to light blue like a gradient chart. This man's definitely got some OCD tendencies. I smile to myself and keep organizing my stuff.

I'm almost done when I hear his phone ring in the living room. Not mine. His. Then his low voice drifts through: "Yeah, Victoria... Right, all settled in... I know... Don't worry..."

Victoria. That name pierces through me like a needle. I quietly move to the doorway, peeking through the crack. Jasper's standing by the windows with his back to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. His profile looks especially striking backlit like this.

"I miss you too," he says, and there's this warmth in his voice, almost like he's smiling. "Once I'm settled, I'll come see you."

My chest tightens. Back in the bedroom, I tell myself this isn't my business. We're just a contract marriage. It's totally normal for him to have a girlfriend or whatever.

At dinner, I try to sound casual. "Who called earlier?"

"Hm?" Jasper looks up from cutting his steak. "Oh, Victoria. My business partner. She was checking how I'm settling in."

"You two... close?"

"Of course. We've worked together for three years." He smiles. "She's brilliant."

I nod and focus on my pasta. But while doing dishes later, I sneak a glance at his phone lying on the dining table. The lock screen shows a photo: Jasper in a suit standing next to this tall, stunning blonde. They're both laughing, clearly at some upscale restaurant. Victoria. Has to be her. Suddenly that steak isn't sitting so well in my stomach.

Around nine that evening, Jasper finds me in the living room with a printed list. "We need to prep for this. Immigration interviews get pretty invasive. I made a list of stuff we should know about each other."

I set down my design sketches and take his list. "Birthday, favorite color, eating habits, daily routines..." I read aloud. "This is really detailed."

"Immigration officers are tough," Jasper says, sitting down beside me. "They ask all kinds of weird questions to test if we're actually a couple. Like, do you know what I do first thing in the morning?"

"Uh... brush your teeth?"

"Running. Five miles, no matter what. Then shower, then coffee. Black, no sugar."

"Got it." I grab a pen and start taking notes. "I'm... actually not a morning person. Usually sleep in till the last possible second, then rush out the door. Breakfast is basically whatever energy bar I can grab."

Jasper frowns. "That's terrible for you."

"I know, but I'm a night owl. That's when I get my best ideas."

"Noted." He's typing something into his phone. "We also need some shared memories. Like, where was our first date?"

"The coffee shop? Where we ran into each other?"

"Too boring." Jasper thinks for a moment. "What about Golden Gate Park? We could say we went for a walk, talked about when we were kids, and decided to give it a shot."

"Give what a shot?"

"Us." He looks at me. "The relationship."

The way that word comes out of his mouth makes the air feel thinner somehow. I clear my throat. "Right. Relationship. Fake relationship."

"Obviously." He quickly looks away.

We spend the next hour quizzing each other like we're cramming for an exam. I learn he hates cilantro, he's allergic to shellfish, his favorite movie is The Shawshank Redemption. He learns I'm obsessed with matcha lattes, I despise early mornings, and my dream is making sustainable fashion mainstream.

"There's one more thing." Jasper suddenly says. "We need to practice some... physical intimacy."

I nearly choke on my own spit. "What?"

"Not like that." His ears are turning red. "I mean holding hands, hugging, basic couple stuff. Immigration officers watch body language. If we look stiff or uncomfortable, it raises red flags."

That actually makes sense. "Okay," I stand up. "Should we try?"

Jasper stands too, walking over to me. We're just standing there, looking at each other, the awkwardness so thick you could cut it with a knife. "Um... maybe start with holding hands?" I suggest.

He extends his hand. I place mine in his. His hand is large, completely enveloping mine. Warm, dry, with calluses probably from all that typing. "This is... fine," I say, my voice a little shaky.

"Yeah." His voice sounds tight too. "Now maybe a hug?"

I nod. Jasper slowly opens his arms and I step forward, letting him wrap them around me. Instantly I'm surrounded by his scent, this subtle pine cologne mixed with laundry detergent. His chest is solid, and I can hear his heartbeat. Or maybe that's mine. I can't tell anymore.

"Grace." His voice comes from above my head, slightly hoarse. "We might also need to practice... kissing."

My brain short-circuits. "Officers might ask us to demonstrate affection," he continues, though I can feel his body is rigid too. "So..."

"So let's practice." I don't know where the courage comes from, but I suddenly look up. Our faces are so close I can see every shade of brown in his eyes. Then I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him.

It's just a brief touch, light and tentative. But Jasper's entire body goes stiff. The next second, he pushes me away.

"We don't need to practice this," he says, his voice strained. Then he turns and walks straight to the guest room. "Good night, Grace."

The door slams shut.

I'm standing in the middle of the living room, my fingers still touching the spot where they met his lips. Why did he push me away? Did I do something wrong? Or does he just... not want to touch me at all?

Fine. Whatever.

"Wasn't trying to kiss you anyway," I mutter at the closed door before storming back to the master bedroom.

But lying in bed, sleep won't come. My mind keeps replaying that kiss, and the look in his eyes when he pushed me away. That almost pained expression. No, I must've imagined it. This is just a business arrangement. He was right to push me away. We really don't need to practice kissing.

Right. We definitely don't.