Page 94 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"I did." He steps closer, something nervous in his movements. "Tony agreed to close early for a private event."

"What private event?" I glance around the empty sidewalk. "There's nobody here."

"Not yet." He holds out his hand. "Come with me?"

Intrigued, I place my hand in his, noticing a slight tremor in his fingers. "Are you okay? You seem…off."

"Never better," he assures me, though the tension in his voice suggests otherwise. "Just follow me."

He leads me around the side of the building to a small alley I've never noticed before, then through a narrow passage that opens onto a surprise—the small parking lot behind Tony's has been transformed. String lights hang in swooping patterns above a single table set with familiar items: two plastic cups of Italian ice (one lemon, one cherry), a portable record player, and a bouquet of wildflowers similar to those he brought me the night I told him I loved him.

"Max," I breathe, taking in the unexpected scene. "What is this?"

"This," he says, gesturing to the humble setting, "is where it all changed. Two years ago, right here in this parking lot, I spilled cherry Italian ice all over my crotch and made you laugh so hard you cried. That was the moment I knew I wanted to marry you—because even with red ice melting down my pants and strangers staring, all I could think was how beautiful you looked when you laughed for real. Not your Instagram laugh or your professional networking laugh, but your actual, unfiltered, slightly snorting laugh."

My heart begins to race as understanding dawns. "Max?—"

"Let me finish," he interrupts gently, taking both my hands in his. "I had this whole speech planned. Actually wrote it down and practiced it in front of Ryan, who was supremely unhelpful and just kept making gagging noises."

Despite the emotion building in my chest, I laugh at the mental image.

"But now that we're here," he continues, "I'm realizing there's no script for this. There's no perfect way to tell you that you changed everything for me. That what started as the strangest job interview of my life became the greatest adventure I could imagine."

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box that sends my pulse into overdrive.

"The first time I proposed to you, it was under a willow tree with photographers hidden in the bushes and a borrowed ring that went back to the jeweler the next day. It was beautiful and meaningful in its own way, but it wasn't real."

He sinks to one knee on the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, a position so achingly familiar yet entirely different from our staged proposal.

"This is real," he says, opening the box to reveal a ring nothing like the flashy diamond from our Luminous Beauty campaign. This one is delicate, vintage-looking, with a small center stone surrounded by intricate metalwork. "No photographers, no script, no contract. Just me asking you to marry me because I can't imagine my life without you in it."

Tears blur my vision as he continues, his voice growing steadier with each word.

"Lena Carter, professional faker of relationships turned love of my life, will you marry me? For real this time, no take-backs, no content strategy, just us building a life together?"

The proposal is nothing like I might have imagined—in a parking lot behind an Italian ice shop in Queens, with plastic cups melting on a folding table and distant traffic providing the soundtrack. It's completely unfiltered, utterly genuine, and perfectly, wonderfully us.

"Yes," I manage through tears that are anything but Instagram-worthy. "Of course yes. Always yes."

His hands shake slightly as he slides the ring onto my finger—not for cameras or followers, but for us alone. The moment it's in place, we both stare at it, the symbol of a journey neither of us could have anticipated.

"It was my grandmother's," he explains softly. "My mom kept it for whoever I might find someday. I had it sized for you last week."

"It's perfect," I whisper, and mean it completely. The vintage ring with its history and meaning outshines any designer piece I've ever featured in sponsored content.

He rises, pulling me into an embrace that feels like coming home. Our lips meet in a kiss that tastes of future promises and happy tears, my hands clutching the front of his jacket as if to anchor myself in this perfect, unscripted moment.

When we finally pull apart, both laughing and crying, he gestures toward the waiting table. "Your ice is melting, future Mrs. Donovan."

"Is that a proposal condition? That I take your name?" I tease, brushing away tears with the back of my hand.

"Absolutely not. Carter-Donovan has a nice ring. Or just Carter. Or we could make up an entirely new last name. Donter? Carovan?"

"Carovan sounds like a minivan manufacturer," I laugh, allowing him to guide me to the table. "But I'm open to negotiations."

We sit across from each other, eating rapidly melting Italian ice as Tony himself emerges from the back door of the shop, beaming at us.

"She said yes?" he calls, his Queens accent thick with emotion.

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