In the privacy of his walk-in closet—one so massive it could easily house a studio apartment—Tristan Vaughn stood completely still, hands on his hips, glaring at the sea of designer suits, silk shirts, and Italian leather shoes that lined the racks like uniformed soldiers. Rows of perfectly tailored jackets, crisp white collars, and gold cufflinks stared back at him with smug superiority.
None of them fit today's mission.
"I look like a goddamn mob boss even in a trench coat," he muttered.
He jabbed a button on his phone. "Nick."
"Oh no," Nick answered, voice already steeped in dread. "Don't tell me you're panicking about your outfit."
"I can't show up in a Tom Ford three-piece suit when I'm supposed to be Jeff, the gardener," Tristan snapped.
"Finally, a breakthrough," Nick deadpanned. "Shall I send in a priest to perform an exorcism on your wardrobe?"
"I need advice. For a casual date look. Not too poor. Not too rich. Normal."
Nick nearly choked on the other end. "You mean… like a civilian?"
"Yes. I want Raine to think Jeff put in effort, not that he accidentally borrowed something from the mafia's annual gala."
There was a pause. Then the sound of rapid typing. Within a minute, a lookbook of casual outfits flooded Tristan's inbox.
"No chains. No silk. No glossy shoes," Nick narrated like a fashion coach. "You're not wooing an heiress at a masquerade ball. You're Jeff, dammit. Understated. Approachable. Human."
After an hour of hellish experimentation—and enduring Nick's howls of laughter over video call when he tried on a neon hoodie ("Bro. You look like a TikTok DJ")—Tristan finally settled on an outfit.
A simple maroon button-up shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Black fitted pants. No tie. No watch. No rings. No accessories that screamed power or wealth. Just… clean, good lines, and a bit of restrained charm. His usually slicked-back hair was brushed casually to the side.
"You look like someone who buys books and cooks pasta," Nick said, impressed. "Raine's gonna melt."
Tristan didn't respond—he was busy inspecting himself in the mirror, the transformation making him… nervous. This wasn't the boss. This was Jeff. Just Jeff. And Jeff didn't have a driver or a Maybach waiting.
He grabbed his phone and called one of his more low-key employees. "You still got that old Honda from college?"
"Uh… yeah?"
"Good. I need to borrow it. Tomorrow evening."
"Wait, isn't that—?"
"I'll return it with a full tank and detailed interior."
—
The next evening, Raine stood outside her modest apartment in a lilac dress with soft embroidery. She tugged at her sleeve, nervously checking her reflection in the window's glass. Her hair had a soft curl at the ends, her earrings were tiny golden suns, and in her hand was a small tote bag with a floral print. She'd even put on perfume.
Then she heard the soft sputter of a car engine.
Turning, she blinked.
A gray Honda Civic, slightly aged but well-kept, pulled up to the curb. Out stepped Jeff.
Not "Jeff in gardening gloves." Not "Jeff with muddy boots." This Jeff wore maroon sleeves, black pants, clean shoes, and a shy smile. Not flashy. Not forceful. But still managing to make her stomach flutter.
He looked… good. Really good.
Tristan coughed, brushing the back of his neck. "Hope this is okay. I didn't want to be late."
"You clean up nice, Jeff," Raine teased, walking toward him with a grin.
"I figured if we're going to a five-star hotel again, I should at least look less like I live in a greenhouse."
They both laughed, and she slid into the passenger seat. The car had the faint scent of lavender air freshener and something citrus—courtesy of a cleaning job done hastily but thoroughly by one very nervous CEO the night before.
As they drove through the city lights, Raine glanced at him from the side.
"You always drive this car?"
He hesitated. "Only when the planets align."
She giggled, and the conversation drifted into playful banter and stories of random garden disasters and taste-test mishaps. She never once suspected this man—Jeff, with the second-hand car and the borrowed cologne—was also the same Tristan Vaughn whose signature graced the ownership papers of the hotel they were heading to.
But tonight, Tristan didn't care about being known.
He only cared that, for once, the girl beside him was laughing, looking his way, and saying his name with warmth.
Even if it wasn't his name.
Even if, just for now, he was still—just Jeff.