Page 41 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

I hesitate, then offer, "Maybe we should spend more time together in normal settings. No cameras, no audience. Just…getting more comfortable with each other so it's not so charged when we have to perform."

He studies me for a long moment. "You think spending more time together will make us less attracted to each other?"

"I think it will help us manage it better," I counter. "Familiarity breeds…control."

"That's not how the saying goes."

"You know what I mean." I lean forward, warming to my plan. "If this is going to be a twelve-month arrangement, we need to find a sustainable dynamic. One that doesn't involve…momentary lapses."

A ghost of his usual smile flickers across his face. "So your solution to our inability to keep our hands off each other is to spend more time together, hands-off."

"Exactly." I nod firmly. "Platonic relationship building."

"Platonic," he repeats, looking amused despite himself. "Sure. When do we start this platonic bonding exercise?"

"No time like the present." I drain my coffee and stand. "I need to pick up some groceries. You can join me."

"Grocery shopping?" Now he's definitely amused. "That's your idea of relationship building?"

"It's normal. Mundane. Exactly what we need." I grab my purse, already moving toward the door before I can overthink this. "Coming?"

He follows, shaking his head but looking less tense than when I arrived. "You're something else, Carter."

"So I've been told."

The local market is just crowded enough to feel anonymous without being overwhelming. I grab a basket and begin selecting items with Max trailing beside me, hands in his pockets.

"So this is how the other half lives," he comments as I deliberate between two nearly identical bunches of kale.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I've never seen an influencer grocery shop in the wild before. I assumed your food was all delivered in branded boxes."

I roll my eyes, dropping the kale into my basket. "I'm a person, not a robot. I eat real food, shop at real stores, have real bodily functions."

"Fascinating." He picks up an exotic fruit, turning it over with exaggerated curiosity. "And what does the famous Lena Carter do with dragon fruit? Eat it or just photograph it?"

"Very funny." I snatch it from him, returning it to the display. "I'll have you know I cook most of my own meals."

"Really?" His surprise seems genuine. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

"There's a lot you wouldn't guess about me." I move to the next aisle, acutely aware of him following. "I don't post every aspect of my life online, contrary to popular belief."

"Like what?" He falls into step beside me. "Tell me something that's never made it to Instagram."

I consider this as I select a loaf of bread. "I can't whistle. Like, at all. I've tried for years, but it's just sad wheezing sounds."

He laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "That's tragic. What else?"

"I'm terrified of geese. Not just cautious—legitimately phobic. When I was six, one chased me at a park and I've never recovered."

"Geese are assholes," he agrees solemnly. "That's just good survival instinct."

We continue through the store, the earlier tension gradually dissolving as he extracts increasingly ridiculous confessions from me—how I once accidentally dyed my eyebrows orange, my secret addiction to cheesy reality dating shows, the time I got food poisoning during a bikini photoshoot and had to run off-set between takes.

By the time we reach the frozen section, we're both laughing, the awkwardness from the coffee shop seemingly forgotten. This is working, I think triumphantly. Normal, mundane interaction is exactly what we needed.

Then he picks up a pint of ice cream, studying the label. "Mint chocolate chip? Really?"

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