John glanced up when two short knocks sounded on the office door and Williams poked his head in, "Someone here to see you, Master."

"Who is it?" He checked his watch and made another note on the stack of paperwork in front of him. He only had five minutes before he needed to do final inspections on rigs three, seven, and fifteen.

"Me."

John's pencil paused mid sentence and his eyes flicked up. Margaret Hale nodded politely to Williams with a low 'thanks,' and stepped hesitantly into the room.

She was the last person John was expecting to see here today. They had spent the last six months in a constant battle of wits and wills inside and outside of the classroom. After their last blow up, he was damn certain she'd never come near him again unless physically forced.

"Miss Hale," John sat back in his chair and folded his arms. The sight of her produced an edge of irritated annoyance in his voice, almost against his will. Normally he avoided people who pissed him off as much as she did, but for some damn reason when Margaret was around John always kept coming back for more. "What can I do for you?"

Margaret stole a quick glance at Williams who still lingered in the doorway. John shot the old trucker a hard look.

"Out."

Williams grunted, closing the door with a firm yank.

"Must you bark and snap at everyone all the time?" Margaret demanded even as her shoulders relaxed a bit.

"You wanted him to leave."

Her fingers worried a loose string on her jacket. Like she was nervous. "Well—yes, but—"

"Miss Hale, why are you here?"

"I have a favor to ask you," Margaret blurted, her eyes still glued to the floor.

John frowned, waiting for her to continue. He knew he should probably save himself a headache, make an excuse, and disappear, but something about her behavior piqued his curiosity. "You can sit." He commented, the irritated edge in his voice sharpening.

Margaret glanced up, saw the two metal chairs he kept in the office, and grabbed the closest one. The noise of the scrapping metal on the concrete floor seemed heightened by her skittish behavior. John cocked his head to one side as she settled herself.

"It must be one hell of a favor."

"It is," Margaret swallowed. "Well, it's not a favor exactly. It's more of a business proposition. Like an exchange. I honestly can't believe I'm here even asking you—"

"So ask me." John cut in. "I've got work to do."

Margaret finally looked up, her eyes hard and determined, "My cousin Edith is getting married. I'm the maid of honor and I—" she stumbled on her words and cleared her throat, her hands curling into fists as she bit out each word, "I need a date."

John uncrossed his arms and studied her for a moment. "A date."

"If I don't bring a date to this wedding my aunt and cousin will bring one for me. Honestly, they might bring one anyway, no matter what I say." She took a deep breath, pressing her eyes closed. "I'm tired of them interfering in my affairs, especially my love life. So I need—I need a boyfriend. Not a real one, of course, but—a fake one—to make a point."

John blinked, realization washing over him as she paled under his scrutiny, her fingers twisting the fabric of her coat.

No.

She couldn't mean—

He shook his head trying to clear it. Margaret glanced up again, looking like she was going to pass out or puke. Or both.

Oh shit.

She did mean—

"Me?"

Margaret swallowed and nodded. "You."

John stared at her, his grip tightening on his pencil. "You want me … to be your boyfriend?"

"Fake boyfriend. Just for a week. The second week in June, to be exact." Margaret suddenly started talking very fast. "And before you say no and laugh me out of your office, I've been told you also need a date for that winter gala in Washington DC your business friends keep inviting you to. I'd be willing to go as your girlfriend if you come with me to the wedding. As an exchange—"

"How the hell do you know about the gala?" John demanded. He'd barely even thought about it when his mother gave him the invitation on Monday. It was still sitting on his desk in a stack of mail to be shredded and tossed.

"How I know doesn't matter," she snipped. "Look, I'm aware what I'm asking is a bit unconventional but I wouldn't ask if I didn't truly need help—"

"Stop," John interrupted, his voice harsher than he intended. The pencil in his hand snapped and Margaret jumped a little.

They sat there for a moment, the silence growing strained and awkward, her face turning redder as he continued to study her. If he'd thought she was capable of pulling an April Fools prank, John would've laughed. But Margaret Hale was too damn full of herself to set up a stunt like this.

"Mr Thornton, please say something."

"You want me," John felt like a broken record, "to pretend to be your boyfriend at some wedding." He yanked off his hat and tossed it on his desk. "You've lost your damn mind."

It was probably the wrong thing to say but John wasn't exactly on his best game at the moment.

"I—you—" Margaret's eyes snapped with her temper and she shifted in her seat. "I've just humiliated myself by asking you to do me an enormously personal favor. And I've offered to help you in return. You don't have to be an asshole about it—just—will you do it or not? A simple yes or no is all I need."

John jammed his hat back on, walked to the coffee pot, and poured himself a fresh cup, his mind spinning. In twenty-six years he'd been asked on a date a total of three times, and none of them had been as disconcerting as this. The coffee in his cup was nearly gone when he finally turned back to where Margaret sat chewing her thumbnail, watching him.

"Why me?"

"I—well, because—you're exactly the right sort of man for me—for this."

John narrowed his eyes, "You don't even like me."

"I know," Margaret kept chewing her thumbnail and looked about her, as if the right words were hiding in the corner. "That's a point in your favor, actually. There'll be less confusion since neither of us like each other."

John frowned, crossing his arms. Since the day they'd met, she'd made her opinion of him more than clear. But he'd never said he didn't like her. If he was forced to admit it, John would've said he liked her fine, even when she was being a pain in the ass, which was most of the time. Right now though, he didn't know what the hell to think.

"The truth is my family isn't easy and—no matter what I do, they'll be put out. I need someone who doesn't care what people think."

"You're afraid of upsetting your family?" He raised an eyebrow. "You've got no problem telling me to piss off."

"You're different." She rolled her eyes, "I don't give a toss what you think about me."

"But you want to pretend to date me for a week so you can lie to your family. Why do you care what they think?"

Margaret crossed her arms her face thunderous, "My aunt and cousin are all I've got on my mum's side and my mum is— she's quite ill—"

"I know."

Another strained silence followed his gentle admission. Margaret began fidgeting with her coat again.

"If there were another way to do this, I would. But I can't afford to burn bridges with my aunt, and I really don't want to spend a week fielding their attempts at matchmaking," she mumbled. "It'll just be easier this way."

"Grow a damn back bone and tell them to go to hell." John replied, returning her stony glare with one of his own. "You don't need me for that."

"Inviting you to this wedding as my pretend boyfriend is my way of telling them to bugger off. Just using fewer words and not being an complete ass about it."

John snorted.

"You do the same," Margaret glared at him, "If your mother invited someone you didn't particularly enjoy to dinner you'd disappear wouldn't you? And she would know why, wouldn't she?"

John rolled his eyes but he shrugged, "Depends on who was invited."

"Exactly. We all negotiate Mr Thornton," Margaret said with a haughty look. "You declined the invitation to this gala because you don't fancy taking Anne Latimer as your date, but you don't say it to her face—"

"I would if I had to."

"But you've chosen the lesser of two evils because you're a decent human being."

John blinked. It was the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever heard from her. He cleared his throat. "I'm civil when I have to be."

"All I'm asking is for you to help me do the same, Mr Thornton."

"I still think it's fucking crazy," John kicked back the rest of his coffee, chewing on the grounds, shaking his head, "and I hate weddings."

"Of course you do." Margaret flushed, her eyes bright and hard with her temper but she didn't argue. She simply stood and gathered her things, forcing a flat polite smile, "Thank you for listening and not laughing in my face. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself and forget I even asked."

John remained silent as she shouldered her bag and marched out the door, slamming it behind her. There was no way he'd ever forget this. He refilled his coffee cup and stood watching through the dirty window as Margaret trudged up the drive towards the bus stop.

"Crazy-ass woman."

He tried to force himself back to his work but something about the whole impossible situation kept him glued to the spot. His mind continued to play and replay the scene. Outside, Margaret glanced back over her shoulder, as if she knew he was watching her. The look on her face struck John in a way he couldn't quite put into words. He scowled, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Of all the people she could've asked for help, she had come to him. That had to mean something, didn't it?

The bus pulled up, and Margaret sighed, disappearing behind the folding glass door. And then a new hesitant thought crept out of a dusty corner of John's mind.

"Shit."

He almost dropped his coffee cup as the bus pulled away. John snatched up his keys from his desk, scrambled out of the office, and jogged to his truck.

The entire walk home Margaret scolded herself for her utter stupidity for even thinking John Thornton would be the right person for such a mad scheme. Her temper boiled at the thought of him laughing at her, her pace increasing until her breath came in short gasps.

She wasn't prepared to see John's rusted blue truck ideling in front of her father's house. Margaret stopped, straightening her shoulders as John killed the engine, stepped out of the cab, and strolled towards her, a strange look on his face.

Why had he come after her?

John spun his keys about in one hand. He wasn't wearing his hat, his black hair fairly standing on end. He cleared his throat.

"I'll go."

Margaret clutched the strap of her pack in one hand and stared at him, eyes widening. "Sorry?"

"I said, I'll go." John shifted on his feet, "To the wedding."

"But—you said no."

"No," John shoved his keys into his pocket. "I said I hate weddings."

"You called me crazy—"

"It is crazy."

"But?" Margaret demanded, still not quite able to believe what she was hearing. "There's always a 'but' with you."

"But I'll do it—under one condition."

"Which is?"

"I'm not going as your fake boyfriend," John crossed his arms. "I don't lie to people, even shit-heads who deserve it."

"It's not lying—" Margaret insisted, folding her arms around herself. "Not really."

"It's lying."

"Mr Thornton—"

"Lies like that are too damn complicated and I don't like it."

"What exactly are you suggesting we do then?"

John drew in a measured breath and met her eyes, his face neutral, "We date for real. No faking, no lies, and no mess."

"For—real?" Margaret's voice pitched and broke a little. "Hang on—" He couldn't possibly mean it. Could he? She stared at him but his face never shifted. Bloody hell. "—You and me? Actually dating? Like … really?"

"Yes."

Margaret almost dropped her book bag. "That's not—no, I have a perfectly reasonable plan for Edith's wedding and this is not part of it."

"Your plan sucks. Do you really think anyone will believe us if we pretend to date?"

"It's only a few days."

"Nobody is that stupid."

"Edith isn't exactly a bastion of cleverness," Margaret grumbled. "Neither is Aunt Shaw."

"But Adam Bell and George Latimer are damn sharp bastards. Trust me."

Margaret rubbed her forehead. She'd almost forgotten about the gala.

"If I go to this wedding, my mother and sister will hear about it. And then we'll have an even bigger mess."

"Bollocks," Margaret groaned. She'd completely forgotten about his family. Of course, they would never believe them, but— "You don't even like me. How can you suggest this—"

"I never said I didn't like you," John interrupted, stepping closer. "You said that."

"We're not friends. Bloody hell, we're not even friendly—"

"You don't have to be friends to date."

"Yes, you do!" Margaret ran her hands through her hair. "Normal people wait until they've established a solid friendship as a foundation before they—"

"Bullshit. It's dating, not courtship."

"Oh, and I suppose you're the expert on dating, yeah?" Margaret snapped as she started to pace. "Go on then, Mr Expert and do tell me all about it."

"Dating is about attraction and chemistry which we've got in spades." She gaped at him a moment, his face both teasing and intense. His eyes sparked as he caught her gaze and held it in that challenging way that made her stomach pitch. "Tell me I'm wrong, Margaret."

"I do not like you."

"So you've said. Multiple times." John took another step forward, his voice dropping to an irritating rumble. "But we both know that liking and attraction aren't really the same thing."

"Are you saying—" Margaret swallowed, her chest and stomach tightening, "Are you saying you're attracted to me?"

John gave her a slow smile that made Margaret feel suddenly hot and itchy all over. "You tell me—"

"Stop smiling! I don't give a toss about whatever brain chemical nonsense that's come over you right at this moment, but I don't want to date you."

"Except you do," he folded his arms, that confidant irritating smile making his lips twitch. "Twenty minutes ago you asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend. I'm just simplifying everything."

Margaret stepped back, a little dazed. This was anything but simple. Her mind spun, still unable to fully accept what he was proposing. "We don't even get on," Margaret spluttered. "We can barely be in the same room without arguing. How the bloody hell do you expect us to be civil long enough to actually go on a successful date?"

"You're the one who thought we could successfully pretend to date for an entire week," John pointed out. "That's a hell of a lot harder than this."

"I don't see how."

"You can't lie worth shit."

Margaret was still too stunned to even be angry. He was right of course, but she'd die before she admitted such a thing to John Thornton. "We can't—You're too old."

John made a face, "I'm not that old."

"I'm eighteen—"

"Which is young but still legal."

"Dating you would be a bloody nightmare—"

"You don't know that," he insisted. "It could be fun."

"How could us constantly fighting about every little thing be remotely enjoyable?"

"Depends on what we're fighting about." A small lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And we don't fight about everything."

"We would," she snipped. "You know we would."

John considered this for a short moment. He always thought about what she said even when he disagreed. She appreciated that at least. "Maybe we would," He slid his hands into his back pockets and shrugged. "I'm willing to give it a try."

"Why?" Margaret blurted. "Why do this now? Attraction is not enough to—It's not—it's mad and—this isn't what I asked."

"People do this all the time, Margaret. We go on a couple dates, I go to the wedding, and you come to the gala. It's not a big deal."

"Not for you maybe," she grumbled, a little breathless. "And what about the six months between the wedding and the gala? What do we do then?"

"We'll figure it out." He folded his arms. "If you want me to be at that wedding as your boyfriend, we do it for real. Take it or leave it."

They stood there a minute in silence as Margaret tried to think of some reason—any reason—why his plan was worse than hers.

She began pacing again, her mind racing. It would be simpler to date John than to claim to be dating him. She wouldn't have to make up and maintain a story for her family, display romantic feelings she didn't have, or be the recipient of empty intimate gestures from a man she didn't even like.

Besides it wouldn't really be conventional dating—they would simply go through the motions for about six months or so, first at the wedding and then the gala and be done. It was still a business exchange. Margaret stopped and turned to look at John. She frowned. He might be attracted to her but that didn't mean much for men, did it? They were attracted anything with breasts and half a heartbeat. She supposed she ought to be flattered—and grateful he was willing to try this mad scheme.

And then another thought occurred to her. She could use this to send a message to Bess as well. Her friend was forever teasing her about harboring suppressed feelings for John Thornton. What better way to prove Bess Higgins wrong than to date the man?

"Alright," Margaret cleared her throat and swallowed. She locked eyes with John, her stomach pitching a little. "I'll do it."

AN: And the plot thickens, lads. How do you like J turning the tables on M right out of the gate? I've always wanted to poke a few holes in the fake-dating trope.

I hope you enjoy it. Please be honest and tell me what you think. Cheers.