Page 20 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "Do tell."

"Nothing to tell. Just a reminder that this is strictly business to her."

"And that bothers you because...?"

"It doesn't," I snap, more harshly than intended. "It's exactly what we agreed to."

Ryan watches me for a moment, then nods slowly. "Right. Totally buying that."

I'm saved from responding by a commotion at the entrance. A group of after-work professionals streams in, filling the previously quiet bar with chatter. I throw myself into the sudden rush, grateful for the distraction.

Three hours and dozens of cocktails later, the crowd has thinned enough that I can breathe again. I'm wiping down the bar when the door opens once more, and instinctively I look up.

Lena stands in the entrance, scanning the room. She's dressed more casually than I've ever seen her—jeans, a simple sweater, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She spots me and strides over, determination in every step.

"We need to talk," she says without preamble.

"I'm working." I gesture to the bar. "As you can see."

"Then I'll wait." She slides onto a stool directly in front of me, setting her purse on the counter with a finality that says she's not going anywhere.

Ryan appears from the back room, eyes widening when he spots Lena. "Well, well. You must be the famous fake girlfriend."

Lena turns to him, confusion flickering across her face. "And you are?"

"Ryan. Max's roommate and the person who has to listen to him not talk about you." He extends a hand, which she shakes automatically. "He's very committed to pretending this arrangement isn't messing with his head."

"Ryan," I warn, "don't you have inventory to check?"

"Nope. All done." He grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "But I'll make myself scarce anyway. Nice to finally meet you, Lena."

He saunters away, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

"Drink?" I offer, more to have something to do with my hands than out of hospitality.

"No, thanks." She leans forward, elbows on the bar. "I want to know what changed. Everything was fine until yesterday. We were connecting, finding a rhythm, and then suddenly you're treating me like I'm toxic."

"Nothing changed." I busy myself organizing bottles that don't need organizing. "I told you, I was tired."

"Bullshit." The sharpness in her voice pulls my gaze up to meet hers. "Something happened between when we talked on the phone that afternoon and when you picked me up. What was it?"

I consider deflecting again, but the directness in her eyes breaks through my resolve. "I heard you. At your office."

Her brow furrows. "Heard me what?"

"Talking to Tori. About how well your 'boyfriend strategy' is working. About how I'm 'completely manageable' and 'like a puppy.'" The words still sting as I repeat them. "About how you need me for the Luminous Beauty event to 'seal the comeback narrative.'"

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks remarkably like guilt. "Max, that conversation wasn't?—"

"It's fine." I cut her off, not wanting to hear excuses. "Really. It was a good reminder that this is a business arrangement. Nothing more."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I lean closer, lowering my voice. "You're using me to rebuild your brand after your ex trashed it. That was the deal from the beginning. I just forgot for a minute that every moment between us is calculated for maximum engagement. That every laugh, every touch, every conversation is potential content."

Her face pales. "That's not true."

"Authenticity bait," I quote back to her. "That's what you called it."

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