This story will also be posted over at my HPFF account - the link is in my profile. Enjoy :)

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Chapter One – The Proposition

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I was a bestselling romance novelist – my now-famous books, Starcrossed Aurors and Love on the Quidditch Pitch, had sold over a million copies worldwide in less than five years. I was all set to work on book number three. My readers were all but begging for a new story to sink their teeth into. My agent was on my ass about it.

The only problem was, I had absolutely no inspiration.

Nada. Zilch. Zero.

It had been six months, two weeks and thirteen days since I'd written something I hadn't immediately torn to pieces. I was going out of my mind – I had less than two months to write a rough draft of the first chapter, and I had nothing. This was the most serious case of writer's block I'd ever encountered in my twenty-four years.

I'd woken with determination this morning, pushing back the blinding frustration and forcing myself to sit at the small desk in my small cottage on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. But all I'd ended up doing was staring at the pile of blank parchment, my quill sitting untouched in the ink pot.

Slamming my hands on the desk, I'd pulled on a jumper and headed out, hoping the fresh air would help. I'd discovered that in the past, the fields were the best place to gain some fresh perspective when I found myself coming up blank. For some reason, the words just flowed better after I'd walked through the tall blades of grass, working up a small sweat and raking in lungful's of pollenated air.

So, I'd made myself walk, and walk, and walk, until something – I was willing to take anything at this point – caught my imagination. But nothing had, and I'd walked for hours until my feet ached and my cheeks were flushed.

I laid down amongst the stalks of the cornfield, arms stretched behind me, propping my head up as I stared at the sky. At the very least, it was a beautiful day. The blue was so clear and bright, it almost hurt my eyes, but I couldn't look away. With my ears so close to the earth, I could hear insects rustling around.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been there before I was startled out of my peaceful drifting by a string of rough curses and cussing stabbing into the air. For a second, I didn't move, before I frowned, getting up. I crouched to stay hidden in the tall cornstalks, and slowly made my way towards the source.

A woman's voice, motherly and concerned, drifted across to me, and I knew I was going in the right direction, "We just worry about you, is all."

"Well you don't need to!" The curser snapped. I didn't make it a habit of listening in on people's private conversations, but this was the most interesting conversation I'd heard in a while – all I got lately were reminders from my agent, Sarina, that she wanted to see what I was working on. "I'm perfectly fine with the way things are."

I inched forward, to the edge of the cornfield, peeking between some leaves. A stocky, red-haired man stood with his back to me, a plump, older woman facing him, and judging from her own red hair and the maternal note in her voice, I figured this was his mother. I should turn around. This was none of my business.

But then the older woman said, "We just want you to be happy. No one is trying to make you feel like the odd one out – and they didn't mean to drive you all the way out here, because you're the only one not in a relationship. If you want, I can talk to -,"

"Merlin, no!" He ran a hand through his messy hair. "I don't need my mother to fix me up with anyone."

"But -,"

He sighed heavily, "Look, I wasn't going to say anything, but I already have a girlfriend."

My ears perked up – I had a finely tuned bullshit detector, and I immediately heard the current of deceit running through his voice. He was lying. But his mother didn't seem to notice, because her face broke out into a wide smile, her hands clasping together at her chest, "Oh, but that's wonderful Charlie, dear. Why didn't you say anything earlier? Who is she?"

Charlie? The name tugged at something in my memory, but I didn't know what. "Uh – she, uh -,"

It didn't seem to matter to his mother that he couldn't formulate a reply, because she plowed on, speaking in a rush like she was anticipating him interrupting her again. "We'll want to meet her, of course – she must be pretty special to have caught your attention, you're always so focused on dragons, and there's more to life than just those scaly -,"

"Mom." It was a warning that his patience was wearing thin.

"Alright, alright," she flapped her hands at him. "Bring her here, she's more than welcome and she can stay for the week too, Merlin knows there's enough of you staying here already. Honestly, I don't know why you wouldn't bring her as your date for your little sister's wedding."

Then she hurried off, muttering about preparations and her list of things to do.

"Shit."

A laugh slipped past my lips at his predicament before I could help it, and he whirled around, a hand reaching to his back pocket, presumably for his wand. I froze, trying not to make a sound lest I be caught. He took a step in my direction, searching.

"Who's there?" He demanded, his brows furrowing. The itch in my memory before suddenly disappeared as I was hit with recognition – a redhead named Charlie. Now I knew why it seemed so familiar; Charlie Weasley had been the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, from two years above me at Hogwarts. "Ron, I swear, if you were listening, you'll regret it."

He was going to find me. I just knew it. It was my own fault – I was a writer; curious by nature, always wanting to know people's stories. I should've just walked away, rather than walking towards the commotion. Any second now, he would spot the blue of my jumper against the browns of the cornstalks, and if I moved, he'd spot me straight away. Either way, I was as good as spotted.

I may as well just face the proverbial music. Opening my mouth, I said in a lofty voice, like we weren't almost complete strangers and it wasn't a big deal that I'd listened to his conversation, "You probably shouldn't have lied."

His eyes searched the cornstalks, running past me, before suddenly snapping back. His eyes met mine just as I pushed the stalks aside and stepped out into the open. There was no point in pretending I hadn't heard anything.

It was obvious to him that I had.

My voice was slightly lower than most girls' – smooth but also a little gravely, like I'd just rolled out of bed. My best friend called it a sex voice. "Now you're going to have to explain to everyone that there is no girlfriend."

"Who the bloody hell are you?!"

I thought that was a fair reaction, but I rolled her eyes anyway. "Dove. Dove McCullough. I was just passing by."

He squinted at me, folding his arms across his broad chest and drawing my attention to the movement. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying well-muscled arms. He was burly, ridiculously tall, his skin weather-beaten, and right then he had narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

I suddenly felt very short – shorter than I usually did at my already vertically impaired height of five foot two – and a little disheveled, dried leaves and dirt clinging to my thick black hair that usually fell down my back in ringlets. His eyes ran over me, though not in the lecherous way I was used to – my smooth olive skin and large dark brown eyes typically garnered some looks, as did the fact that I was buxom and curvaceous, my fitted jeans and jumper emphasizing my lush body.

No, his eyes ran over me like I puzzled him rather than like he was mentally undressing me. His jaw clenched, light brown eyes flaring in irritation, "Do you make it a habit of eavesdropping on stranger's conversations?"

"Do you make it a habit of lying to your mother?" I shot back, mimicking his posture by crossing my arms defensively in front of me. I cocked my leg in a challenging pose – yes, I had been eavesdropping, but I wasn't going to apologise for it.

We stared at each other, neither one giving in. Then, grudgingly, he muttered, "How'd you know I was lying?"

"It was pretty obvious."

"Well, not to my mother," he replied, like he was trying to defend his lying skills.

"I don't really think that's your best defense, considering the way your situation is unfolding," I pointed out. I shifted on my feet, turning to leave. "Good luck finding a girlfriend by tomorrow."

I walked along the edge of the cornfield rather than pushing my way through the middle again, picking out the dried leaves from my hair, and brushing off the dirt clinging to my clothing. I may as well just go home – this little excursion had been a waste of my time. Hopefully tomorrow would yield better results.

"Hey! You – Dove!" I heard heavy footsteps behind me, and I slowed, glancing over my shoulder. Charlie Weasley was chasing after me. I hadn't gotten very far, so he was standing in front of me in a second, blinking down at me. "How are your acting skills?"

Embarrassingly, it took me longer to catch on than it should have, but my mind was already distracted with thinking through possible story ideas. "Acting skills?" I squinted at him like I thought he was crazy. "Why?"

"How'd you like to earn a little bit of money?" He propositioned.

"Excuse me," I snapped, eyes flaring in outrage. I was pretty sure this wasn't what he meant – it was the way he said it that made it seem belligerent. "I'm not an escort!"

He blinked. Then frowned, confused, and I figured it must have been a muggle term – I was never completely sure. "A what?"

"An escort – someone who's hired as a temporary companion for a particular event that usually ends in sex." He laughed. In fact, he laughed so hard it became offensive. When he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees, still laughing heartily, I felt the urge to slap him. I growled a warning, my hands flying to my hips as I glared at him. "What is so funny?"

"You think pretty highly of yourself," he managed to get out, finally straightening up. He was still grinning as he folded his arms across his chest again. "I'm not trying to hire you to shag you, I'm trying to hire you as an actor, to fool my family into thinking you're my girlfriend so they'll get off my back about it."

I huffed indignantly. He was ruder than I remembered from School – if anything, he'd always seemed polite. I pursed my lips, not feeling particularly generous towards him, so my next words came out harsh and biting. "Do you hear yourself? You sound pathetic – you want to trick your family just so you can save face."

"Says the woman hiding in a cornfield and listening in on my conversations."

I shook my head at him incredulously, spinning on my heel and storming off. He made it sound like I'd singled him out specifically to eavesdrop on. His large, calloused hand wrapped around my arm and he jerked me back – harder than he meant to, because I nearly toppled backwards before he righted the situation. "Wait!"

"You're not exactly doing yourself any favours here," I snapped. I lifted my chin defiantly, stubbornly, trying to make up for the fact that he could – very easily – toss me about this field without breaking a sweat. "Why should I help you? What's in it for me?"

He thought on it a second, obviously trying to think of another way of saying it so I wouldn't be offended again. Failing that, he just went with, "I'll pay you. All you have to do is pretend to be in love with me for the week and then be my date for my sister's wedding."

"This is sounding more and more like an escort job. I think you should find someone else."

"I don't know anyone else who I can ask to do this," he said quickly, before I walked off again.

"You don't even know me!"

"But the few female friends I have are already in relationships, or they know my family already." His eyes focused on me intently, urging me to agree. He watched my face closely, waiting for my answer. I pursed my lips after a moment, narrowing my eyes, about to tell him to sod off.

And then it hit me. Inspiration. I need inspiration – and here was the perfect opportunity. A new experience, a new perspective; this could be just what I needed to give me a story idea for my next book. He wasn't the ideal fake-boyfriend, but I could put up with him for a week if it meant I could get a story out of it, or from it. I was stuck in a rut, and this was so completely out of my usual routine that maybe it could be the thing to pull me out of it.

"I don't like to be man-handled," I said pointedly, dropping my gaze to his fingers that were still wrapped around my upper arm, preventing my escape. He let go, the pucker between his brows disappearing as he realized I was acquiescing to his offer. "Cutesy pet names make me gag – either darling or my name, but nothing else. But most importantly, if you step out of line, I will hex you."

"Understood."

"If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right, so as of the moment I meet your family, we are in love – all that couple-ly talk, hand-holding, kissing crap. Three hundred galleons for the whole week."

"Done." He agreed, proffering his hand to me. His chest puffed out triumphantly as I shook his hand, "I'm Charlie Weasley."

"This is a completely professional agreement, Charlie Weasley – no funny business or I'm out." He nodded. "Write a list of things I should know about you and we can go over it tomorrow, before. I'll do the same. I'll meet you in town, at The Looking Glass Café, ten o'clock sharp."

He nodded again, and we parted ways. It seemed remarkably easier than I thought it'd end up being. But as I walked away, I heard him call after me, "You better be worth three-hundred galleons."

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and not dignifying that with a response. Any concerns I could have about this situation I'd just gotten myself into – the what if issue, where I ended up getting hurt because I'd convinced myself we actually were in love – went out the window. It would be easy to keep the acting and the reality separate with him.

He was nothing like the kind of guys I liked. He was a rough man – he didn't mince words, or beat around the bush. He wasn't particularly eloquent, and I doubted he'd ever written any kind of poetry or creative writing in his life. He was a complete opposite to everything I liked in a guy.

I was the creative type – I liked going to art exhibits and to plays, theatre productions, and I liked my boyfriends to have similar interests. Charlie was clearly the outdoorsy type, spending most of his time in the sun, performing manual labour tasks if the taut muscle and sinews of his body were anything to go by.

It would be easy to keep it professional. And there was no way I'd get caught up in the play – we'd be acting, after all – and end up confusing what was real with what we were pretending. I wouldn't get hurt because there was no way I could fall for him.

This would help me. I knew it. I needed a story idea, and maybe here it was. The art of pretending. Yes. I could see it begin to come together in my mind. This could work.

This could work.

A/N: Thanks for reading! What did you think?