"Hello, Club President?" Grayson answered the phone just as Sienna had walked away. The call was from Quinn, the tennis club's president.
Grayson knew that when Quinn called, it was usually either to fetch stray tennis balls—eighty percent of the time—or to help carry heavy equipment—twenty percent. Either way, it was never anything glamorous.
"Which tennis court?" Grayson cut straight to the chase, knowing his place on the radar. Truth be told, he had zero interest in heading to the courts, but a sudden thought of Lauren—the kind girl who always treated him well—made him wonder if he might run into her.
"You're very direct," Quinn replied with thinly veiled disdain. "But today it's not about collecting balls. Get yourself to Blue Bottle Café. Now."
Blue Bottle Café? Grayson was baffled. Why on earth was Quinn summoning him to a coffee shop?
"You have ten minutes," Quinn snapped before hanging up. Quinn's voice had always carried that ordering tone—never treating Grayson as an equal, more like an underling who would show up at a moment's notice.
Grayson merely shrugged. Curious, he tucked his phone away and made his way out of the campus gates. Blue Bottle Café was located on one of the high-end pedestrian streets just off campus, where designer boutiques sold clothes starting at a thousand dollars a pop.
When he entered the café, Quinn was already there, waving him over from a seat beside a tall potted plant. Today Quinn wore a pristine white dress and foam-padded sneakers. Her air-swept bangs framed gold-blonde hair that gleamed like silk, and a luxury watch winked from her wrist as she sipped her coffee.
"Just you? No Lauren?" Grayson asked. He was genuinely puzzled that Quinn would meet him here rather than at the courts.
"You better not be getting any ideas about Lauren," Quinn snapped, clearly irritated. "Last time you saw Lauren patching up your injury, you thought she liked you, didn't you? Keep dreaming. Lauren's just being kind—she treats everyone that way. Besides, what makes you think you're good enough for her? Get a grip on reality."
"Okay, fine." Grayson kept his reply calm. Before he could add anything, a server approached.
"Sir, may I take your order?"
"Do you have a menu?" Grayson asked.
Quinn shot the waiter a mocking grin. "Don't bother asking him—he's never been to a place like this. Just bring him a coconut latte."
Quinn's dismissiveness stung, but Grayson was used to it. As tennis club president, Quinn always looked down on him. He said nothing to protest, though internally he wondered: why on earth had Quinn called him here?
Quinn simply watched him with an appraising gaze, as though she were an aristocrat evaluating a new servant. Then she burst into laughter so loud she knocked her coffee cup with a slap of her hand.
Grayson felt even more confused. Finally, Quinn regained composure and perched her sunglasses atop her head.
"All right. I'll be direct," she said coolly. "The reason I called you here is because I need you to do me a favor."
"A favor?" Grayson's eyebrows shot up. Why on earth would Quinn ask him for help? If she needed something, there were dozens of her fellow students—many richer, some with far more abilities—eager to oblige her.
Quinn merely took another sip of coffee and continued sizing him up until she smirked.
"My cousin is single right now, and she wants a boyfriend," Quinn explained. "I want you to be her boyfriend."
"What?!" Grayson gaped. He had heard of Quinn's cousin—though he had never met her in person. Rumor said she drove a white Ford, was quite lovely, had a great figure, and held a reputable job. Grayson even remembered overhearing Quinn once in the tennis court bleachers, on the phone with that cousin, who complained that she couldn't find a serious boyfriend. Quinn had also mentioned that her cousin was picky and had high standards. If that was true, why would she suggest Grayson to her cousin?
"President, you must be joking," Grayson said, recovering his composure.
"Don't be ridiculous." Quinn's smile flickered. "My cousin doesn't care about a boyfriend's family background—she just wants someone obedient and decent. You seem like the perfect obedient type. I've told her all about you, and she's fine with your humble circumstances—she only wants someone who will obey her."
Someone who "obeys" her? Grayson tried not to laugh. Was Quinn's cousin a true "queen" type who demanded total compliance?
"All right," Quinn said, checking her phone. "She'll be here soon. Wait here while I go outside to see if she's arrived."
Quinn rose and headed out the café door, leaving Grayson alone at the table. Clearly, she'd never asked if he agreed to be part of this scheme. In Quinn's mind, Grayson would be so grateful to have any chance with her cousin that refusal would never cross his mind.
Outside, Quinn dialed her cousin. "Hey, Cousin, are you here yet? I'm at Blue Bottle Café."
"I've just arrived—parking is a nightmare," came the reply from a woman's voice. "Did you find someone to introduce to me?"
"Found him! You'll be so pleased," Quinn declared. "Cousin, I've worked so hard for you—please thank me properly!"
"Don't worry, little one. If this works out, I'll reward you handsomely," said the cousin, her excitement audible. "But I'm worried: can this guy actually meet my standards? I doubt you could find many guys like him these days. If he's not right, I don't want to waste my time."
"Cousin, relax," Quinn said, proud as can be. "You want a poor, loser boyfriend, right? Well, he's the poorest, most pathetic loser I've ever met. He wears clothes straight out of the last century—dirt‐cheap stuff. He never even shows up for our club dinners, because he can't afford them. He's so obedient—like a slave at our beck and call, fetching any stray tennis ball with a single phone call."
"Really?" The cousin sounded both curious and skeptical. "Is there really a guy like that? I've been searching for precisely this kind of man to make Dylan Mercer jealous. Dylan's the one I want—if he sees me with a loser, he'll have to chase me."
"Cousin, are you sure you want to marry Dylan Mercer?" Quinn asked.
"Of course," the cousin replied. "I'm getting older; my parents are pushing. Dylan isn't much to look at, but he's a manager at a Fortune 500 company. His parents both work in government. He owns a house and drives a BMW. That's more than decent."
"I just don't get why you don't just go out with Dylan. He clearly likes you—he's bought you dinner, given you gifts. All you need is to reciprocate a little, and you'd be together. Why all this elaborate scheme?" Quinn asked.
"That's where you're wrong," the cousin said. "If I pursued Dylan, he'd think he owned me. But if he sees me out with someone else first, then he'll come after me. That way, I can control the dynamic. He'll want me, and I'll be the one in charge."
"I see!" Quinn exclaimed, impressed. "So you want a total loser to play your fake boyfriend. Once Dylan sees you with a broke nobody, he'll be consumed by jealousy and chase you. Then you can dump the loser, accept Dylan's proposal, and voila—success!"
"Exactly. The faker must be as loser-ish as possible." The cousin laughed. "Once Dylan makes his move, I'll toss the loser aside. Problem solved."
"Wow, cousin, you're a genius," Quinn gushed. She meant it sincerely—she had never seen such cunning. "Well, let's go in. I hope he's not too ugly; I still have to look at him for a few days."
"You'll be fine," Quinn said with a knowing smile as she reentered the café, her cousin at her heels.
"That's him, Cousin," Quinn said, pointing to Grayson.
Grayson happened to look up at that instant and froze. Quinn's cousin was… a vision. She steered a white Ford up to the curb and climbed out—the café's patrons automatically turned to stare. She was tall with long legs clad in snug jeans that showcased every curve. Dior lipstick glowed on her porcelain skin, and her whole presence radiated breathtaking, impossible beauty.
"Cousin!" Quinn greeted her eagerly. The two cousins—close in age and both stunning—embraced.
"I trust you found the guy?" the cousin asked Quinn sourly, surveying the café.
"I found him," Quinn said, a triumphant grin flickering across her face. "Cousin, you'll love him."
Quinn's cousin gave Grayson an appraising glance before focusing back on Quinn. "Just so I understand: this guy is the obedient sort? He does exactly what you tell him?"
"Absolutely!" Quinn chirped. "He's the purest loser I've ever met. I swear, his clothes look like they're from last millennium. He never shows up at our club dinners—he's just too broke. And he's obedient to a fault: when I say fetch, he fetches without question; one phone call, and he comes running to collect tennis balls."
Grayson's cheeks burned at the conversation unfolding behind him, but he forced himself to stand and turn to face Quinn's cousin. "Hello," he said cautiously.
Quinn's cousin swept her gaze over him, eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and challenge. She had no way of knowing Grayson's true background—that he had lucked into a windfall, that his family's circumstances were far more complex than his shabby cardigan suggested. To her, he was just another puppet to manipulate.
But as Grayson met her crisp, confident gaze, he reminded himself: appearances were never everything, and sometimes, the most unexpected people carried the most surprising truths. Now, as he prepared to greet Quinn's cousin, he braced himself for the charade that would follow—one more obstacle in a campus life already full of twists and turns.