Page 40 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The irony isn't lost on me. Even for a private, off-the-record conversation, I'm curating an image. Old habits die hard.

Remedy is half-empty when I arrive, intentionally five minutes late to avoid the awkwardness of waiting alone. Max is already there, occupying a corner table with two ceramic mugs. He's wearing a faded band t-shirt beneath an open flannel, his hair more unruly than usual, like he's been running his hands through it—a nervous habit I've noticed over our weeks together.

He looks up as I approach, his expression unreadable. "You came."

"You sound surprised."

"Wasn't sure if you'd prefer to just text." He pushes one of the mugs toward me. "Vanilla latte, extra shot, light on the foam."

The fact that he remembers my coffee order shouldn't make my chest tight, but it does. "Thanks."

I slide into the seat across from him, immediately aware of how intimate the small table feels, our knees nearly touching beneath it. An awkward silence descends as we both take too-long sips from our mugs.

"So," I finally say, setting down my coffee. "You wanted to talk about the arrangement."

"Yeah." He leans back, creating more distance between us. "Tori called me this morning. About the Luminous Beauty contract."

"She works fast."

"Twelve months," he says, watching my face carefully. "That wasn't what we agreed to initially."

I twist the mug between my palms, focusing on the warmth rather than the intensity of his gaze. "I know. It's a significant extension. I'll understand if you're not interested."

"I didn't say that." He runs a hand through his hair, confirming my earlier observation. "I just…we should discuss what it means. For us. For this." He gestures vaguely between us.

"Professionally, it's an incredible opportunity," I say, slipping into the familiar safety of business talk. "The exposure alone would be valuable for you, not to mention the compensation, which would be substantial."

"I'm not worried about the money, Lena."

"Then what are you worried about?"

His eyes meet mine directly. "You know what."

The air between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with the weight of everything we're not saying. I reach for my coffee again, needing something to do with my hands.

"We can keep things professional," I say, not entirely believing my own words. "What happened at the gala was…a momentary lapse. It doesn't have to happen again."

"Right." His voice is flat. "A momentary lapse. Twice now."

"We were caught up in the moment. It happens."

"Does it?" He leans forward, voice dropping lower. "Because I've done plenty of acting in my life, Lena, but what happened in that hallway wasn't acting. Not for me."

My heart stutters against my ribs. "Max?—"

"If we're doing this for another year," he continues, "we need to be honest about what's happening here. Otherwise it's going to get messy."

"It's already messy," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "But that doesn't mean we can't handle it. We're adults."

"Adults who can't seem to keep their hands off each other when left alone for more than five minutes."

The bluntness makes me flush. "That's an exaggeration."

"Is it?" His eyebrow raises in challenge.

"Look," I say, trying to regain control of the conversation. "I think part of the problem is that we only see each other in these high-pressure, performative situations. It creates an artificial intensity."

"So what's your solution?"

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