Page 33 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Thank you." I gesture toward the door. "Shall we?"

The car waiting outside is sleek and black, provided by the event organizers who want their high-profile guests arriving in style. Max holds the door for me, the gesture automatic rather than gallant. Once inside, the silence between us feels oppressive, charged with everything we're not saying.

"About Sunday," I begin, staring straight ahead.

"Don't." His voice is quiet but firm. "Let's just get through tonight. Do what we need to do. We can talk about the rest later."

"Okay," I agree, relief and disappointment warring in my chest. "Professional it is."

His mouth twists in a humorless smile. "Always."

The drive to the Plaza Hotel passes in stilted small talk about the weather, the traffic, the charity cause for tonight's gala—children's literacy programs in underserved communities. Nothing about brunch. Nothing about the night that preceded it. Definitely nothing about how his profile in the dim car light makes my heart beat faster despite my best intentions.

The gala venue is a spectacle of old-world opulence—crystal chandeliers dripping from ornate ceilings, champagne fountains, ice sculptures, and New York's elite dressed in their finest. As we step from the car, cameras flash, capturing our arrival. Without prompting, Max's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Smile," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "Your audience awaits."

The gentle mockery stings, but I paste on my camera-ready smile as we make our way up the red-carpeted steps. His hand remains at my back, guiding me inside where the real performance begins.

For the first hour, we circulate separately—me seeking out key industry contacts, him at the bar where he's apparently made friends with the bartenders. Occasionally I glance his way, catching him watching me with an unreadable expression that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"That's the boyfriend?" A familiar voice draws my attention. Stephanie Chen, beauty editor for Gloss Magazine, sidles up beside me with two champagne flutes, offering me one. "He's delicious. Much more substantial than Cameron."

"Thanks," I accept the champagne with a practiced smile. "Max is…different."

"I'll say." She casts an appreciative glance toward the bar. "He doesn't look like he belongs in this world, but somehow that makes him more interesting. How did you two meet again?"

I launch into our rehearsed story about The Copper Key and the specialty cocktail, the words flowing on autopilot while my mind wanders. Stephanie is right—Max doesn't belong in this world of air kisses and strategic networking. He's too real, too solid among the carefully crafted personas surrounding us. Yet he navigates it with surprising ease, his natural charm evident even from across the room as he laughs with a circle of admirers.

"He's coming over," Stephanie whispers, nudging me. "God, he moves like he owns the place."

I turn to see Max approaching, two fresh drinks in hand. There's something different about his posture, a deliberate swagger that wasn't there before. When he reaches us, he hands me one of the glasses—not champagne, but something amber with a twist of orange.

"Old Fashioned," he explains. "Made with the Japanese whiskey you pretend not to like but secretly prefer."

The detail catches me off guard—I'd mentioned that preference once, offhandedly, during an early "getting to know you" conversation for our arrangement. I hadn't expected him to remember, much less act on it.

"Max, this is Stephanie Chen from Gloss Magazine," I say, covering my surprise. "Stephanie, my boyfriend, Max Donovan."

"Pleasure," he says, offering his hand with a smile that's all easy confidence. "Lena speaks highly of your publication."

"All good things, I hope," Stephanie responds, clearly charmed.

"Only the best," he assures her, then turns to me. "I've been abandoned by the bartenders. Apparently, they have to serve other guests too. Unreasonable, if you ask me."

The joke is so quintessentially Max—self-deprecating, slightly absurd—that I can't help the genuine laugh that escapes me. His eyes catch mine, a flicker of the old warmth there before it's carefully shuttered.

"I was just telling Stephanie how we met," I say, trying to recapture the easy rhythm we'd developed before everything got complicated.

"Ah, the famous cocktail story." He leans in conspiratorially toward Stephanie. "What she doesn't mention is that she sent back the first drink I made her."

"I did not!" I protest automatically.

"You absolutely did. Said it wasn't 'complex enough.'" He mimics my voice with surprising accuracy. "Completely wounded my professional pride."

Stephanie laughs delightedly. "And you still asked her out?"

"I'm a glutton for punishment," he says with a wink. "Plus, she left a good tip."

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