Page 46 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

As I reclaim my barstool, I find Ryan watching me with newfound respect. "That was impressive," he says, nodding toward the door Sophie exited through. "No one's ever stood up to her like that before."

"She needed someone to put her in her place," I reply, sipping the last of my cocktail.

"True. But it's more than that." He leans in, lowering his voice. "You actually care about him, don't you? This isn't just..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely.

I glance over at Max, watching as he laughs at something a customer said, his hands never stopping their precise movements as he crafts another drink. My chest fills with a warmth that has nothing to do with whiskey.

"It's complicated," I admit finally.

Ryan follows my gaze, nodding slowly. "Yeah, with Max, it usually is." He straightens, grabbing a bottle from the shelf. "For what it's worth, though, I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not even her."

He moves away to serve another customer, leaving me with thoughts as mixed as one of Max's complex cocktails. I watch the man in question work his magic behind the bar, feeling something shift and settle inside me. Whatever is happening between us—whatever real thing is growing beneath the pretense—I'm no longer sure I want to fight it.

Sophie's parting words echo in my mind:I hope, for both your sakes, this is as real as you're pretending it is.

The thing is, I'm starting to hope that too.

THIRTEEN

Lena

The Luminous Beautycontracts sit on my coffee table like a ticking bomb, sticky flags marking signature lines where Max and I are supposed to commit to twelve months of coupledom. Twelve months of hand-holding, of staged photos, of pretending—except it doesn't feel like pretending anymore. Not since I stood in The Copper Key last night, defending a relationship that isn't even real with the ferocity of a woman actually in love. Not since I watched Max's face as Sophie tried to undermine what we have, saw the way he looked at me afterward like I'd given him something precious. The problem isn't the contract. The problem is that I'm no longer sure where the performance ends and the truth begins.

My phone chimes with Tori's third text in an hour:

Any update on the contracts? Victoria's asking.

I stare at the message without responding. How do I explain that I'm hesitating not because of business concerns but because signing would mean another year of this exquisite torture—wanting Max while pretending it's all for show?

After the bar last night, after his shift ended, we'd shared a cab home. The twenty-minute ride passed in charged silence, his thigh pressed against mine in the backseat, neither of us acknowledging the electricity between us. He'd walked me to my door like a perfect gentleman, hesitated as if he might kiss me, then simply squeezed my hand and said goodnight. I'd stood in my doorway long after he left, feeling bereft and relieved in equal measure.

Now it's Saturday afternoon, and I've spent the morning alternating between staring at these contracts and reliving every moment with Max—from our first meeting at the bar to last night's confrontation with Sophie. The trajectory is clear, even if I've been fighting it. What began as a business arrangement has become something I'm terrified to name.

My doorbell rings, startling me out of my reverie. I'm not expecting anyone, and for one wild moment I think it might be Max, driven by the same restless energy that's been plaguing me. But when I check the peephole, it's Tori, looking impatient in designer sunglasses.

"Were you planning to answer my texts this century?" she demands when I open the door, sweeping past me into the apartment. "Victoria called me twice this morning. Twice, Lena."

"Sorry," I manage, closing the door behind her. "I've been…thinking."

"About?" She spots the unsigned contracts on the coffee table and frowns. "Please tell me you're not having second thoughts. This deal is everything we've been working toward."

"I know." I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "It's just…complicated."

Tori removes her sunglasses, studying me with newfound intensity. "It's Max, isn't it? He's backing out?"

"No, nothing like that." I run a hand through my hair, a decidedly un-Lena-like gesture of frustration. "He's been perfect. Too perfect."

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Oh, honey. You've gone and caught real feelings for your fake boyfriend."

The blunt assessment makes me wince. "That's not—" I begin, then stop, unable to form a convincing denial. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's known you for years." She sits beside me, her expression softening. "I suspected something was happening after the charity gala. Those photos weren't acting, Lena."

Heat creeps up my neck at the memory of that hallway, Max's hands, my shameless response. "It's a mess, Tori. We were supposed to keep things professional, but..."

"But emotions don't follow business plans," she finishes for me. "So what's the problem? If you like him and I'm guessing from those photos that he likes you, why not make it real?"

I stare at her, momentarily speechless. "You're encouraging this? What happened to 'focus on the comeback' and 'don't let emotions interfere with business'?"

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