Page 35 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

His hand settles at my waist, warm and steady, as we begin to move to the music. Max is a surprisingly good dancer, leading with confidence but not dominance, his body telegraphing each movement before it happens.

"Where did you learn to dance like this?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Tour life," he replies with a small smile. "You'd be surprised what you pick up on the road."

We move together with unexpected synchronicity, finding a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. The song shifts to something more upbeat, and Max spins me out, then pulls me back with a flourish that makes me laugh in surprise.

"Show-offs," a voice calls out good-naturedly. I turn to see another couple watching us—the woman I recognize as a model for a competing beauty brand, her date a tall man with an athlete's build.

"Just warming up," Max replies with easy confidence.

"Looks like a challenge to me," the woman's date says, grinning. "What do you say to a little friendly competition?"

I'm about to decline politely when Max's hand tightens slightly on mine. "What do you think, Lena? Up for showing them how it's done?"

There's a glint in his eye that awakens something reckless in me, something that wants to stop calculating every move and just feel.

"Absolutely," I agree, surprising myself.

What follows is part dance battle, part flirtation, as the four of us take turns showing off moves of increasing complexity and sensuality. The other couple is good—professional good—with technical precision that draws appreciative glances from surrounding dancers.

But what Max and I lack in technical skill, we make up for in chemistry. Each touch feels electric, each shared glance loaded with meaning beyond the competition. When he dips me low, his face inches from mine, I forget we have an audience. When my body slides against his during a particularly bold move, his sharp intake of breath is entirely genuine.

The music shifts again, slower and more sensual. Our competitors gracefully bow out, acknowledging defeat with good humor, but Max doesn't release me. Instead, his arm tightens around my waist, drawing me closer until there's no space between us.

"Still just for show?" he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.

The question hangs between us as we move together, my body molded to his, his hand splayed possessively against my lower back. I should step away, maintain some professional distance, but the heat of him, the scent of him, the solid reality of him beneath the formal wear makes rational thought impossible.

"I don't know anymore," I admit, the words barely audible over the music.

His eyes find mine, searching, the green darkened to emerald in the dim lighting. For a moment, I think he might kiss me right here, surrounded by New York's elite and several key industry contacts. Part of me—a larger part than I care to admit—hopes he will.

Instead, he spins me again, the movement creating brief distance before pulling me back to him with increased urgency. We're dancing on the edge now, the performance and reality blurring until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

When the song ends, we remain locked together, breathing hard, the air between us charged with unspoken possibilities. Around us, other couples are already shifting into position for the next dance, but Max and I stand frozen, caught in a moment neither of us seems willing to break.

"Lena!" Victoria's voice shatters the spell. She appears beside us, beaming with approval. "You two are magnificent together! The chemistry is exactly what we're looking for in our campaign. Would you mind if our photographer grabbed a few candid shots of you two later? Just to get a feel for the concept?"

Max releases me slowly, his hand lingering at my waist. "We'd be happy to," he answers when I fail to respond, still dazed from whatever just happened between us.

"Wonderful!" Victoria claps her hands together. "Find me after the next set. The lighting near the south terrace is perfect right now."

She bustles away, leaving us in awkward silence.

"So," Max says finally, his voice rougher than usual. "That was..."

"Yeah," I agree, not quite meeting his eyes. "It was."

His fingers brush mine, and I feel a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. "I need some air," he murmurs. "Coming?"

It's a dangerous invitation. Being alone with Max right now, with my body still humming from his touch, feels like playing with fire. But I find myself nodding, following him toward the terrace doors, drawn by a force I've given up trying to fight.

Whatever is happening between us—real or fake, temporary or something more—it's clear that tonight has shifted the dynamic once again. And as Max holds the door open for me, his eyes dark with promise, I realize I'm no longer certain which outcome I'm hoping for.

TEN

Max

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