Page 42 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"What's wrong with mint chocolate chip?"

"It tastes like toothpaste mixed with chocolate," he declares. "Objectively the worst ice cream flavor."

I gasp in exaggerated offense. "Take that back."

"Can't take back facts." He reaches past me to grab a different container. "Cookie dough is clearly superior."

"Cookie dough is just unbaked salmonella wrapped in vanilla mediocrity," I counter, snatching back my mint chocolate chip. "A choice for people without sophisticated palates."

"Sophisticated?" He barks a laugh. "You're eating toothpaste, Lena."

"It's refreshing!"

"It's a dental hygiene product masquerading as dessert!"

We're standing too close now, my back against the freezer door, his arm braced beside me as he tries to reclaim the ice cream container. Our faces are inches apart, and suddenly our ridiculous debate doesn't feel so trivial anymore.

"This isn't about ice cream," I say quietly.

His eyes darken as they drop to my lips. "No, it's not."

"We're supposed to be building platonic comfort."

"How's that working out for you?" He doesn't move away, his body radiating heat in the chilled aisle.

"Not great," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

Someone clears their throat, and we spring apart like guilty teenagers. An elderly woman with a shopping cart gives us a knowing look as she reaches around us for a frozen dinner.

The moment broken, Max steps back, running a hand through his hair again. "So much for your theory about familiarity."

"It's been half an hour," I mutter, dropping both ice cream containers into my basket. "Give it time."

"Right. Because time is definitely what we need." He glances at his watch. "Speaking of which, I should go. Early shift tomorrow."

The abrupt shift leaves me feeling off-balance. "Oh. Sure."

"This was..." he gestures vaguely at the grocery store around us, "educational."

"We should do it again," I say, then immediately want to kick myself for sounding so eager.

His expression softens slightly. "Yeah, maybe we should."

We walk to the checkout in silence, the earlier easy camaraderie replaced by something more complicated. As the cashier rings up my items, including both flavors of ice cream, Max shifts uncomfortably beside me.

"Look, Lena, about the gala..."

"We don't have to talk about it," I interject quickly.

"I think we do." His voice drops so only I can hear. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about it. About you. And I'm pretty sure it's the same for you."

The cashier announces my total, and I fumble with my wallet, buying time to compose myself. "This isn't the place, Max."

"Is there ever going to be a right place? Because we keep saying we'll talk later, but later never comes."

I hand over my credit card, hyper-aware of his proximity, of the truth in his words. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth would be nice." His eyes hold mine, searching. "Just once, without the script, without the performance."

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