Page 14 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Fascinating." His tone suggests it's anything but. "And is that your career, or...?"

"Dad," Lena interjects, "Max has his master's in music composition. He's just taking some time to focus on other projects."

It's technically true, though I haven't touched my "other projects" in over a year.

"A musician." Diana nods, as if this confirms something. "How creative."

The way she says "creative" makes it sound like "unemployed," but I keep my smile fixed. For Lena's sake.

"What instrument?" Jess asks, seeming genuinely interested.

"Guitar, primarily. Piano, some percussion."

"Max was in a band," Lena says, and I'm surprised she remembers this detail from our park conversation. "They toured nationally."

"Really?" Brian perks up. "Anyone I would've heard of?"

"Probably not. We were called The Last Remark."

Recognition flashes in his eyes. "Wait, seriously? You guys opened for Lunar Drive a few years back. I caught your show in Boston—you were incredible."

The unexpected praise catches me off guard. "Thanks. That was a good tour."

"Why'd you guys break up?" Brian asks. "You seemed on the verge of breaking through."

I feel Lena's curious gaze on me. "Creative differences," I say, my standard deflection. "Sometimes things just run their course."

Robert clears his throat. "Dinner should be ready. Shall we move to the dining room?"

As we follow the family through to an equally pristine dining room, Lena whispers, "You never told me your band was successful."

"We weren't, really. Just had a few good opportunities."

"Still. That's impressive."

There's genuine admiration in her voice that makes me uncomfortable. I'm not here to impress her. This is business—a fake relationship with clear boundaries and an expiration date. The less she knows about the real me, the better.

Dinner is an elegant affair—roast chicken with herb sauce, fingerling potatoes, and asparagus arranged with the precision of a high-end restaurant. I find myself seated between Lena and her aunt, directly across from her father.

"So, Max," Robert begins as soon as we're served, "what are your long-term plans? Bartending is hardly sustainable."

"Dad," Lena warns, "don't interrogate him."

"It's just conversation, sweetheart."

I take a sip of wine, buying time. "I'm considering a few options. The bar pays well, and the schedule gives me flexibility."

"Flexibility for what?" Diana asks. "Are you working on music again?"

The "again" feels pointed, as if they've already researched me and know about my hiatus.

"Among other things," I say vaguely.

"Max is very talented," Lena jumps in. "He's just selective about his projects."

Robert looks skeptical. "Selective is one word for it."

I feel a flash of irritation. Not at Robert's judgment—I've heard worse—but at the way Lena keeps trying to make me sound more accomplished than I am. As if bartending isn't good enough for her family.

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