Page 39 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

Lena

Three daysafter the charity gala, I still can't concentrate. My editorial calendar sits abandoned on my laptop screen, next week's content plan half-finished because every time I try to focus, my brain replays Max pressing me against that wall, his mouth hot and demanding against mine. I catch myself touching my lips, remembering the feel of him, and I have to physically shake my head to dislodge the memory. This is getting ridiculous. I'm Lena Carter—I curate experiences, not fall victim to them. But here I am, like some lovesick teenager, unable to think of anything but a kiss that was supposed to be just for show.

For the third time in an hour, I force my attention back to the screen, attempting to plan a skincare routine post that won't bore my followers to tears. It's no use. My mind immediately drifts to the way Max's hands felt sliding up my thigh, to the sound he made when I tugged his shirt free, to the words he whispered against my ear?—

My phone rings, Tori's name flashing on the screen like a lifeline. I grab it gratefully.

"Please tell me you have a crisis that needs my immediate attention," I answer.

"Better." Her voice radiates triumph. "I have a contract from Luminous Beauty. Full ambassador program, six figures, exactly as we discussed."

The news should thrill me. It's what we've been working toward since Cameron's video nearly tanked my career—concrete proof that our fake relationship strategy has succeeded.

"That's amazing," I say, trying to inject appropriate enthusiasm into my voice.

"Amazing?" Tori sounds incredulous. "It's career-saving. Victoria Ellis personally called to rave about you and Max. Said your chemistry at the gala was 'exactly the authentic connection' they want for their brand."

Chemistry.The word triggers another flash of memory—Max's thigh pressed between my legs, my desperate grinding against him like a woman possessed. So much for acting.

"Did she mention terms?" I ask, deliberately steering the conversation toward business.

"Twelve-month contract, quarterly photo shoots, monthly social content requirements." Tori's voice shifts to the rapid-fire delivery she uses when excited. "And here's the kicker—they want you and Max as a package deal. The whole campaign is built around your relationship journey. They're calling it 'Real Love, Real Beauty.'"

My stomach drops. "How long would they need Max involved?"

"The full twelve months. Why? Is that a problem?" Her tone sharpens with suspicion. "He's still on board, right? Because if he's getting cold feet?—"

"No, no, it's fine," I interject quickly. "Just clarifying the expectations."

"Good, because they're sending over the contracts tomorrow for both of you to sign. I need you to lock this down, Lena."

"Consider it locked." I rub my temple, feeling a headache forming. "Anything else?"

"Just one thing—what exactly happened at the gala? The photographer Victoria hired sent over preview shots, and there's one of you two by a window that looks…intense."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Just playing our parts. Convincingly, apparently."

"Hmm." Tori's tone suggests she's not entirely convinced. "Well, whatever you did, keep doing it. This contract is your ticket back to the top tier."

After promising to review the contract materials as soon as they arrive, I hang up and drop my head into my hands. Twelve months. Our original arrangement was for one month, maybe two at most. How am I supposed to maintain this facade with Max for an entire year when I can barely make it through a charity gala without nearly having sex with him in a hallway?

My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart does a pathetic little flip when I see Max's name on the screen.

We need to talk about the arrangement. Coffee at Remedy, 3pm?

Remedy is a small, deliberately non-trendy coffee shop in a neighborhood that none of my usual crowd frequents. A place where we won't be seen or recognized. A place for an honest conversation, not a performance.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I contemplate how to respond. Professional? Casual? Flirtatious? Nothing feels right after what happened at the gala.

I finally type a response, settling for simple neutrality.

See you there.

His response is immediate:

Just a thumbs up emoji. No joke, no warmth. The knot in my stomach tightens.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear to a coffee shop meeting that isn't even a date. The carousel of discarded options grows—too formal, too casual, too trying-to-look-like-I'm-not-trying, too obviously styled for Instagram. I finally settle on jeans and a loose cream sweater that manages to look effortless while still being flattering, paired with minimal makeup that took twenty minutes to appear natural.

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