I had reached my breaking point. Every holiday, it was the same thing—my family turning the dinner table into an interrogation room about my love life.
“When are you getting married?”
“Have you met anyone yet?”
My mom’s probing looks, my dad’s hopeful smile—it was like a broken record. And honestly, I couldn’t handle another round.
So, sitting in my car by the park that cold afternoon, dreading the upcoming holiday weekend, an idea—crazy, ridiculous, but genius—popped into my head.
That’s when I saw him.
A man sat slumped on a bench near the entrance, wrapped in a worn, frayed coat that looked like it had been through decades of winters. His face was lined and tired, eyes distant, but… there was something about him. He still had a quiet handsomeness, like life had tried to break him but hadn’t fully succeeded.
And suddenly, the idea crystallized.
“What if…” I whispered to myself, “…he could be my fiancé? Just for the weekend.”
It was insane. Absolutely insane. But it could work. Anything to shut down my family’s endless questions.
I got out of the car, my heart pounding as I walked over. He looked up, his gaze meeting mine in a silent, guarded question.
“Hi,” I began, feeling like a lunatic. “I know this is going to sound… strange, but… would you be willing to pretend to be my fiancé? Just for a weekend. In exchange, I’ll give you a warm place to stay, new clothes, and a good meal.”
He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if this was a joke. Then, to my shock, he simply nodded.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
No questions. No hesitation. That was almost more unnerving than a refusal—but I was in too deep to back out.
“Great,” I said, forcing a smile. “Let’s get you ready for the weekend.”
Back at my apartment, I handed him some clothes left behind by my ex.
“These should fit,” I said, passing him a clean shirt and jeans. “You can take a shower. I’ll start dinner.”
He smiled faintly. “A shower sounds amazing.”
As he disappeared into the bathroom, I stood at the counter chopping vegetables, asking myself for the hundredth time, Mia, what are you doing? You don’t even know his name.
The bathroom door creaked open, and I turned. My jaw nearly dropped. His damp hair clung to his forehead, his face scrubbed clean, his posture somehow straighter.
“That’s the best shower I’ve had in years,” he joked, his voice lighter than before.
I laughed. “Glad to hear it. I hope dinner will be just as good.”
We sat down, and as he took his first bite, he sighed. “Perfect. Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time. I’m Christopher, by the way.”
“Mia,” I replied.
Soon, the conversation flowed easily. He liked old western movies and The Old Man and the Sea. He had a dry sense of humor that caught me off guard. I found myself laughing more than I had in months.
Later, I went for a glass of water and froze. The dishes were washed and neatly stacked.
“You did the dishes?” I asked.
“Seemed like the least I could do.”
It was such a small thing, but it hit me harder than I expected.
The next day, I took him to a salon. The stylist trimmed away the overgrown hair, revealing sharp cheekbones and kind eyes.
“This feels weird,” he muttered, glancing at the mirror.
“Good weird or bad weird?” I teased.
“Definitely good,” he smirked.
We bought him a new shirt, blazer, and polished shoes. By the time we were done, he looked like a man who could walk into any room and turn heads.
Holiday dinner began better than I dared hope. My mother’s eyes lit up at the sight of him. Christopher was perfect—polite, attentive, charming. I relaxed, thinking my plan had worked.
Then it happened.
“You look so familiar,” Mom said, squinting at him. “Have we met before? Or maybe I saw you on TV?”
Christopher smiled politely. “No, I don’t think so. Just one of those faces.”
She laughed, but there was something in her eyes. “What did you do before you met Mia? Business?”
Christopher hesitated. “Yes. Business. But everything changed about five years ago. There was… a car accident.”
Mom’s face drained of color. Her grip on the tablecloth tightened.
“A car accident?” she repeated, her voice flat.
Christopher nodded slowly.
Mom’s tone sharpened. “Not everyone walks away from accidents unscathed, do they?”
I looked at her, confused.
“He’s not the kind of man you need,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling.
“Mom!” I protested, but Christopher quietly excused himself and stepped outside.
That’s when my mother told me the truth.
Five years ago, she was in a late-night crash outside the city. No witnesses. She claimed the man she hit—Christopher—was under the influence. He refused testing. She hadn’t taken him to court, but the bitterness in her voice was sharp.
“He’s dangerous, Mia. You can’t trust him.”
I went outside. Christopher was leaning on the fence, staring into the dark.
“My last name is Hartman,” he said quietly before I could speak. “Yes, I was in that accident. I was on sedatives for anxiety after my wife died. I was careful. But… I guess life had other plans.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small gold ring.
“This was my wife’s. You’re the first person I’ve wanted to give it to. Thank you for dinner, Mia. It meant more than you know.”
He pressed the ring into my palm and walked away.
Days later, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. My mother finally admitted she’d been speeding that night. She’d been scared—and she had taken money meant for him.
I placed an ad in the local paper:
“Christopher Hartman, if you see this, meet me at the restaurant where we last had dinner. I’m there every evening. —Mia”
The very next night, he walked in.
“I saw your ad,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I told him everything—about my mother’s admission, the money, how I believed him.
“She wants to make it right,” I said softly. “And… I want you in my life. For real this time.”
Christopher’s eyes softened. “I didn’t think I’d care for anyone again. But you… you changed that.”
We sat there, hands touching on the table, no pretenses left. By the end of the night, I knew—this wasn’t my fake fiancé anymore. This was the man I was falling for.
And from the way he looked at me, he felt the same.