Page 4 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Deal." He pulls out his phone. "Now, since we're faking a relationship, I should probably know your last name."

I freeze, realizing I've managed to get this far without revealing who I really am. The moment I say "Carter," he might connect the dots—or worse, Google me. And then this whole arrangement could be over before it begins.

"Carter," I say, watching his face carefully. "Lena Carter."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Either he's an excellent actor, or he truly has no idea who I am.

"Max Donovan," he replies. "So, Lena Carter, are you ready to embark on the most convincing fake relationship this city has ever seen?"

I raise my glass. "To terrible decisions."

He clinks his water glass against mine. "May we not regret them too much."

What I don't tell him is that I already regret plenty. But as I watch him move down the bar to help another customer, his easy confidence and genuine smile making something flutter in my chest, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this particular terrible decision might turn out differently.

TWO

Max

I've madesome questionable choices in my thirty years, but agreeing to be some stranger's fake boyfriend might top the list. The morning after meeting Lena Carter, I wake up convinced I dreamed the whole thing—until her text lights up my phone with a detailed list of "couple behaviors" we need to master. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Scrolling through her message—which includes bullet points and sub-categories, because of course it does—I wonder what possessed me to say yes. Something about the desperation hiding behind her polished smile, maybe. Or the challenge in her eyes when she suggested I couldn't pull it off. Either way, I'm now apparently scheduled for a "relationship strategy session" tomorrow afternoon.

"You did what?" Ryan nearly chokes on his beer, and I immediately regret telling my friends about my new arrangement.

My apartment feels too small for this conversation, especially with Ryan and Drew staring at me like I've announced plans to join a cult. The baseball game we're supposed to be watching drones on in the background, completely forgotten.

"It's not a big deal," I shrug, leaning back against my couch, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Just helping someone out."

"By pretending to date her." Drew's voice is flat with disbelief. "A woman you met once. At the bar. And know nothing about."

"I know her name."

"Groundbreaking detective work, Donovan." Ryan sets his beer down with unnecessary force. "This is how people end up on true crime podcasts, you know that, right?"

I roll my eyes. "She's not going to murder me."

"No, she's just going to use you as some kind of…what? Social experiment? Revenge plot against an ex?" Drew narrows his eyes. "Did she explain why she needs a fake boyfriend?"

"Something about changing narratives." I wave my hand vaguely, uncomfortably aware of how flimsy it sounds. "Look, it's one month of pretending. Free meals, like I said. No strings."

Ryan and Drew exchange a look that I've seen too many times before—the one that says they think I'm being an idiot but are debating how directly to tell me.

"What?" I prompt, irritation creeping into my voice.

"Nothing." Drew takes a swig of his beer. "Just wondering when you became the kind of guy who agrees to be someone's prop."

The comment stings more than it should. "I'm not a prop. We established that. Fifty-fifty partnership."

Ryan snorts. "Right. And you think this mysterious Lena is actually going to treat you as an equal in whatever scheme she's running?"

"You haven't even met her."

"Neither have you, really," Drew points out. "One conversation at a bar doesn't count."

He's not wrong, which only annoys me more. I get up to grab another beer, needing the momentary escape from their judgment. When I return, Ryan's expression has shifted from concern to calculation—a look I've learned to be wary of.

"Let's make this interesting," he says, leaning forward.

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