Page 86 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

We spend the next hour wandering the trails around the cabin, Lena exclaiming over interesting rocks and unusual plants with childlike delight. I watch her, struck by how different she seems here—unguarded, playful, completely present in a way she rarely allows herself to be. When she spots a family of deer at the edge of the clearing, her face lights up with genuine wonder, her hand finding mine and squeezing tightly.

By the time we return to the cabin, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the porch. I build a fire while Lena unpacks the groceries, moving around the small kitchen with surprisingly domestic ease. We work together to prepare a simple dinner—pasta with a sauce I've perfected over years of late-night post-shift meals, crusty bread from a bakery we stopped at on the drive up.

"This is ridiculously good," she declares around a mouthful of pasta. "How did I not know you could cook like this?"

"Limited opportunities to demonstrate my culinary skills in your pristine kitchen," I point out. "You get nervous when I so much as boil water in there."

"That's because you somehow manage to splash sauce on the ceiling," she counters, though her smile takes any sting from the words. "But I might have to reconsider my kitchen ban if you keep cooking like this."

"High praise from someone who survives primarily on takeout and protein bars."

She throws a piece of bread at me, which I catch and eat with exaggerated satisfaction. The simple, playful moment feels precious—just us, being completely ourselves, no performance required.

After dinner, I pour wine into mismatched mugs (Dave's cabin isn't exactly stocked with proper glassware) and join Lena on the worn but comfortable couch in front of the fire. She curls against me immediately, fitting perfectly against my side as if designed specifically for this position.

"Tell me something I don't know about you yet," she says, looking up at me with curious eyes.

"After all this time? I'm an open book to you, Carter."

"There's always more to learn." She traces patterns on my chest through my shirt. "Something from before we met. Something that shaped you."

I consider this, taking a sip of wine while searching for a truth I haven't yet shared. "I almost got married once," I admit finally. "Before Sophie, even. Right after college."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? What happened?"

"We had it all planned—small ceremony, close friends and family, honeymoon in Costa Rica. Two weeks before the wedding, she got an incredible job offer in Singapore." I shrug, the old pain now just a distant memory. "She chose the job. Probably for the best, looking back."

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"Don't be. If it had worked out, I wouldn't be here now. With you." I press a kiss to her forehead. "Your turn. Something I don't know yet."

She's quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "I almost quit social media entirely after Cameron's video," she confesses. "Came really close to deleting everything, changing my name, moving to some small town where no one would recognize me."

"What stopped you?"

"Stubbornness, mostly." She smiles ruefully. "I didn't want him to win, to be the reason I gave up something I'd worked so hard to build. And somewhere beneath all the performative aspects, I still believed in the connection I'd made with my audience. The opportunity to share things that matter."

"Like authenticity," I suggest. "The real kind, not the curated version."

"Exactly." She shifts to look at me directly. "Which is why meeting you—someone who saw through the performance from the beginning—mattered so much. Even if our start was unconventional."

"Unconventional is putting it mildly." I brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingertips lingering against her cheek. "But I wouldn't change how we began, messy as it was. It led us here."

Her eyes soften, something vulnerable and open in her expression. "I love you," she says simply. "The real you, the whole you."

"I love you too." The words come easily now, natural as breathing. "Every version of you, but especially this one—messy bun, coffee-stained leggings, completely yourself."

She sets down her wine, taking mine and placing it beside hers on the small table. Then she straddles my lap in one fluid movement, her arms winding around my neck. "Show me," she whispers, her meaning unmistakable as her body presses against mine.

"Here?" I confirm, hands already finding their way beneath her stolen hoodie to the warm skin beneath. "The bedroom is just steps away."

"Here," she affirms, grinding down slightly to emphasize her point. "In the firelight. Just us."

My hands slide higher, discovering she's wearing nothing beneath the hoodie, the revelation sending heat pooling low in my stomach. "You planned this," I accuse mildly, tracing the curve of her ribs, the softness of her breasts.

"I had hopes," she admits with a small gasp as my thumbs brush across sensitive peaks. "Very specific hopes involving you, me, and possibly that bearskin rug."

"It's not actually bearskin," I inform her, already working the hoodie upward. "Dave says it's synthetic. For which local wildlife are grateful."

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