Page 2 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The bartender watches me with an amused half-smile that makes my stomach do something inconvenient. He's tall, with the kind of forearms that suggest he moves kegs for a living, and dark hair that curls slightly at his collar. His eyes—a startling shade of green that my followers would demand a filter name for—crinkle at the corners like he's perpetually holding back a laugh.

"I'm weighing my options," I say, sliding my finger around the rim of the glass.

"For better drink choices? I can help with that." He leans his hip against the bar, casual in a way that suggests he's either completely confident or absolutely clueless about the effect he might have on women.

"For terrible life decisions. The drink is collateral damage."

He nods solemnly. "Ah. Those decisions. The bar is an excellent place for those." He extends a hand. "I'm Max."

"Lena." I shake his hand and feel calluses against my palm. Not soft hands. Not influencer hands. The opposite of Cameron's meticulously moisturized grip.

"So, Lena, what terrible life decision are you contemplating? Quit your job? Get a tattoo? Steal a boat? I should warn you I'm morally obligated to talk you out of the boat thing."

Despite myself, I laugh. "Nothing so dramatic. Just...a social experiment."

"Those are dangerous. I once participated in a social experiment that involved eating ghost peppers. Couldn't taste anything for three days."

"Why would you agree to that?"

"A bet." He shrugs, the movement accentuating shoulders that tell me he does more than just tend bar. "I'm tragically competitive."

The idea that strikes me is so sudden and so perfect I have to grip the edge of the bar. "What if I made you a bet right now?"

His eyebrow lifts. "I'm listening."

"I bet—" I pause, formulating the words carefully, "—that you can't convince people we're a couple."

Max's smile freezes, then slowly transforms into confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A fake relationship. For show." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "I need someone to pretend to date me. For reasons."

"Ominous reasons? Illegal reasons? Reasons that end with me missing a kidney?"

"Personal reasons." I wave a hand dismissively. "Look, it's simple. We go on a few fake dates. Take some pictures. Act couple-y in public. Then in a month or so, we have an amicable split."

He stares at me like I've sprouted a second head. "And the benefit to me would be...?"

"Free meals. Good company." I tap my fingernails against my glass. "The satisfaction of winning a bet."

"I don't even know you."

"Exactly." I smile my best influencer smile, the one that's landed me contracts with skincare brands and swimwear companies. "Clean slate. No baggage. Just a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Max studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he refills my glass without asking. "You're running from something."

It's not a question, which makes it harder to deflect. "Aren't we all?"

"Most people don't recruit random bartenders to help them run."

"Maybe most people lack imagination."

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Or self-preservation instincts."

I take a sip of my refreshed drink. "Is that a no?"

"It's a 'you haven't convinced me yet.'" He leans closer, close enough that I can smell his aftershave, something citrusy and clean. "Why me? There are easier ways to find a fake boyfriend."

The honest answer—because you look nothing like the polished men in my social circle, because you seem real in a way nothing in my life has felt lately—sticks in my throat. Instead, I say, "You have an honest face."

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