Page 11 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The laugh that bursts out of me is sudden and honest—a real laugh, not the practiced one I use for photos. Max grins, looking pleased with himself, and I capture the moment without thinking. When I check the image, I'm startled by how genuinely happy we both look.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows and painting everything in gold and rose. I scroll through the photos I've taken, surprised by how many good ones we've managed.

"These actually look…real," I say, more to myself than to him.

Max peers over my shoulder, his breath warm against my cheek. "That's because they are real. You stopped directing and started experiencing."

The observation is so accurate it makes me uncomfortable. I clear my throat, setting down my phone. "We still need one more type of shot."

"Let me guess. The romantic one."

I nod, suddenly nervous. "Nothing intense. Just…couple-y."

"Define 'couple-y.'"

"A kiss. A soft one." I try to sound professional. "It's the money shot for establishing a new relationship online."

He studies me for a long moment, eyes unreadable in the fading light. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, casual in a way that makes me wonder if he kisses fake girlfriends all the time. "How do you want to stage it?"

The question breaks the spell, reminding me that this is work, not a real date. I slip back into director mode, grateful for the familiar territory.

"Let's move by the willow tree. The hanging branches create a natural frame." I stand, brushing off my dress. "I'll set up my phone on timer."

We position ourselves beneath the willow, its trailing fronds creating a curtain of green-gold light around us. I prop my phone on a nearby rock, angling it carefully.

"I'll need to be close," I say, stepping into his space.

"I figured." His voice is lower now, quieter.

"Put your hands here." I guide his hands to my waist. "And I'll put mine here." I rest my palms lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my right hand.

He's several inches taller than me, even in my sandals with their slight heel. I have to tilt my face up to meet his eyes, which are greener than I remembered, flecked with gold in the sunset light.

"Ten-second timer," I murmur, reaching back to start it. "Just a gentle kiss. Nothing deep."

"Got it. Gentle." His hands tighten slightly on my waist.

I turn back to him, suddenly aware of how close we are, how warm his hands feel through the thin fabric of my dress. My pulse quickens as the seconds tick down.

"Ready?" I whisper.

He nods, and then he's leaning down as I rise on my toes, and our lips meet just as I hear the subtle click of my phone capturing the moment.

I meant to keep it brief—a peck, really, just enough to look convincing on Instagram. But his lips are soft and warm, and they move against mine with a gentle pressure that makes my eyes flutter closed. His hands slide from my waist to the small of my back, not pulling me closer but simply holding me steady, as if he senses my sudden dizziness.

The kiss is soft but not tentative—more like a question being asked in a language I almost understand. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine, I realize I've curled my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

"Was that okay?" he asks, voice rough at the edges. "For the photo?"

Reality crashes back. The photo. The fake relationship. The entire arrangement that has nothing to do with how his kiss just made my knees go embarrassingly weak.

"Perfect," I manage, stepping back to retrieve my phone with hands that aren't quite steady. "Very convincing."

The photo is better than I dared hope—both of us with eyes closed, his hands respectfully at my waist, my fingers against his chest, the golden light filtering through the willow branches around us like nature's own filter. It looks…genuine. Like a couple sharing a tender moment, unaware they're being photographed.

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