Page 12 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

It looks like everything my followers want to believe about love.

"That should work," I say, aiming for businesslike and missing by a mile.

"Good." Max runs a hand through his hair, messing up its careful styling. "Is that a wrap, director?"

The teasing tone helps restore my equilibrium. "For today. You actually did great once you relaxed."

We pack up the picnic in comfortable silence. As we walk back toward the park entrance, Max casually takes my hand, interlacing our fingers.

"What are you doing?" I ask, startled.

"Hand-holding in public. Isn't that in the manual?" His smile is innocent, but something in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what effect he's having on me. "We might be seen."

"Right." I clear my throat. "Good thinking."

His hand is warm around mine, calluses from what I now know is guitar-playing rough against my palm. The contrast between his hands and Cameron's smooth ones is stark. Cameron was meticulous about his skincare routine, his hands always smelling faintly of expensive lotion. Max's hands tell a different story—one of work and music and life lived outside of careful curation.

We part ways at the subway entrance, our goodbye casual and friendly. But as I ride home, editing the willow tree photo for maximum impact before posting it, I keep thinking about that kiss—how it was supposed to be performance but felt like discovery.

My phone chimes with notifications as the photo goes live with a carefully casual caption:Some days surprise you in the best possible ways

Comments flood in immediately:

*Who is this mystery man?!*

*OMG you look so happy!*

*The way he's looking at you…girl*

Tori texts seconds later:

THIS is what I'm talking about! Perfect counter-narrative to Cameron's BS. Keep it up.

I should feel triumphant. Phase one of Operation Reputation Rescue is a success. But alone in my apartment, I find myself touching my lips, remembering the gentle pressure of Max's kiss, wondering if he's thinking about it too or if I'm just another job to him.

It was fake, I remind myself sternly. Manufactured intimacy for the camera.

But as I drift off to sleep, one stubborn thought follows me into dreams: if that kiss was fake, why did it feel more real than anything I've experienced in years?

FOUR

Max

Meetingthe parents wasn't in the contract. At least, not in the first week of our fake relationship. But when Lena called, voice tight with panic because her monthly family dinner coincided with her cousin's engagement announcement and "showing up alone would be social suicide," I heard myself agreeing before my brain could catch up with my mouth. Which is how I find myself standing on the doorstep of a brownstone in Park Slope, wearing the only blazer I own and feeling like an imposter in more ways than one.

"Remember," Lena whispers, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress for the fifth time, "we met at The Copper Key when you made me a specialty cocktail. We've been dating for almost three weeks."

"I know the script." I adjust the wine bottle in my grip—a Cabernet that cost more than I'd normally spend but still probably falls short of Carter family standards. "Relax. This isn't my first rodeo."

"You regularly pretend to date women in front of their families?"

"No, but I've met parents before. The principle's the same, whether it's real or fake."

She gives me a doubtful look. "My family can be…intense."

"So can drunk bachelor parties at 2 a.m., and I handle those just fine."

The door swings open before she can respond, revealing a woman who is unmistakably Lena's mother—same dark hair with expert highlights, same elegant features, though etched with fine lines that suggest Lena twenty-five years from now.

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