Page 69 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Not with your taste in music," Ryan snorts. "But seriously, you need to show her that you're willing to be vulnerable, to risk rejection, to put yourself out there completely."

"And that rebuilding trust takes time and consistent effort," Drew adds. "You can't just explain once and expect everything to be fixed."

They're right, and the realization hits me with startling clarity. I've been passively accepting the end of the best thing that's ever happened to me. I've been respecting Lena's boundaries, yes, but also protecting myself from the harder, more vulnerable work of fighting for her, of proving day after day that she can trust me again.

I think about all the moments—the night in the rain, the hallway at the charity gala, the weekend at the cabin, countless quiet evenings and lazy mornings that transformed a business arrangement into the most authentic relationship I've ever experienced. I think about how she defended me to Sophie, how she encouraged me to play music again, how she gradually shed her carefully curated persona to show me the real woman beneath.

And what did I do? I hid the truth about the bet until it exploded in our faces. Then I explained once, accepted her rejection, and retreated to lick my wounds.

"I'm an idiot," I mutter, the realization washing over me.

"Finally, he gets it," Ryan says triumphantly. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know yet." But for the first time in two weeks, purpose stirs within me, replacing the numb acceptance I've been hiding behind. "But I'm not giving up. Not without a fight."

Drew claps me on the shoulder. "That's more like it."

"I'm still on shift for another three hours," I say, glancing around at the steadily filling bar.

"I'll cover you," Ryan offers, surprising me. "Kevin's coming in for the late shift anyway. Go change your life or whatever."

"You'd do that?"

"Consider it penance for my role in this whole bet fiasco." He stands, coming behind the bar to grab an apron. "Besides, I make better tips than you anyway."

"In your dreams," I retort, but I'm already untying my apron, my mind racing ahead to what comes next. How do I begin to rebuild Lena's trust? How do I show her that what we had—what we could still have—is worth fighting for?

Twenty minutes later, having raced home to change and make myself marginally more presentable, I find myself standing outside a flower shop, paralyzed by indecision. Flowers seem simultaneously too trite and too necessary. What kind of flowers say "I'm sorry I made a bet about not falling for you, then fell for you, then hid the bet, but I love you more than I've ever loved anyone and please give me another chance to prove you can trust me"?

The florist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, watches my internal struggle with poorly concealed amusement.

"Let me guess," she says finally. "You messed up big time, and you're hoping flowers will help your case?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You've been staring at those roses like they might bite you for about ten minutes." She crosses her arms. "What did you do?"

"It's complicated." I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit that's left me looking perpetually windblown lately. "But basically, I betrayed her trust, and now I need to prove that I'm worth a second chance."

The florist nods thoughtfully. "Roses are too obvious. Lilies too funereal." She taps her chin. "What's she like, this woman?"

The question catches me off guard. What is Lena like? Not the polished influencer image she presents to the world, but the real Lena I fell in love with.

"She's complex," I begin, the words flowing easier than expected. "Funny and sharp and secretly insecure. She can't whistle and she's afraid of geese. She pretends to be perfectly put-together, but she's most beautiful when she's messy and unfiltered. She's brave in ways she doesn't even recognize."

The florist's expression softens. "Sounds like you know her well."

"I thought I did," I admit. "I hope I still do."

She moves through the shop, selecting stems with practiced precision—soft blue delphiniums, cheerful yellow ranunculus, delicate white anemones with dark centers. "These," she declares, arranging them in a simple glass vase. "Nothing too perfect or symmetrical. Beautiful but real. Like your girl."

The bouquet is unlike anything I would have chosen—not traditional roses or predictable lilies, but something unique, slightly unconventional, surprisingly perfect. Like Lena.

"It's perfect," I say, reaching for my wallet. "How much?"

"Normally? Eighty-five dollars." She wraps the vase in brown paper, securing it with twine. "But for true love in need of redemption? Seventy-five."

I hand over my credit card, oddly touched by the ten-dollar discount on my romantic desperation. "Any advice to go with the flowers?"

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