Page 15 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Actually," I say, setting down my fork, "I like bartending. It's honest work. I connect with people, create things they enjoy, and I'm good at it. Not every job needs to come with a corner office to be worthwhile."

The table falls silent. Lena's hand finds my thigh under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze that might be warning or support.

Robert studies me for a long moment, then surprisingly, his expression softens slightly. "Fair enough. What's your specialty drink?"

The conversation shifts to safer territory—cocktail trends, Jess and Brian's wedding plans, Diana's charity committee work. I relax marginally, focusing on my food and offering opinions only when directly addressed.

"Has Lena taken you to her favorite childhood restaurant yet?" Jess asks during a lull. "That Italian place in the Village?"

"Not yet," I glance at Lena. "But I'd like to try it."

"It's nothing special," Lena says quickly. "Just sentimental."

"Nonsense," Diana interjects. "Salvatore's is an institution. Their tiramisu is divine."

"You should absolutely take him," Jess insists. "Lena used to order the same pasta dish every time. What was it called? The one with the creamy sauce and?—"

"Fettuccine Alfonso," Lena finishes, looking uncomfortable. "I was a boring child with predictable tastes."

"You were a child who knew what she wanted," I say without thinking. "Nothing wrong with that."

Her smile is small but genuine. "That's a charitable interpretation."

"Speaking of charity," Diana says, smoothly changing subjects, "how's your fundraiser campaign going, Lena? Have you hit your engagement targets?"

Lena tenses beside me. "It's paused temporarily. We're reassessing the strategy."

"I told you that wellness angle was overdone," Robert says. "Everyone's a self-care expert these days."

"It wasn't that," Lena says tightly. "There were…other factors."

"Cameron?" Jess asks bluntly.

The table goes silent again. I feel Lena's entire body go rigid.

"I don't think we need to discuss that," Diana says, too late.

"It's fine," Lena's voice is controlled, her smile fixed. "Cameron and I have been over for months. Ancient history."

Brian, bless him, attempts to diffuse the tension. "Anyone see that new Marvel movie? The one with the time travel?"

I reach for my water glass, eager to help change the subject, but my elbow catches the edge of the gravy boat. It happens in slow motion—the boat tipping, rich herb sauce arcing through the air, landing with spectacular precision across my lap and splashing onto Lena's cream-colored dress.

"Shit," I mutter, then catch myself. "I mean—sorry. I'm so sorry."

Diana jumps up. "Oh dear. Let me get some club soda."

Lena looks down at the green splatter across her dress, her expression unreadable. I brace myself for anger, for the mask of polite tolerance to crack, revealing the fury beneath.

Instead, she starts laughing.

Not a polite titter, but a full-bodied laugh that transforms her face. "Your expression," she manages between gasps. "You look like you just ran over someone's puppy."

Her laughter is startling, infectious. I find my own lips twitching. "Well, I did just murder your dress."

"Please," she waves dismissively, still giggling. "This dress has seen worse. Remember the sangria incident, Mom?"

Diana returns with club soda and a towel, her own smile reluctant but present. "How could I forget? An entire pitcher, all over her white graduation dress."

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