Page 43 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The cashier hands me my bags, and I take them gratefully, needing the physical barrier between us. "The truth is complicated."

"It usually is." He helps me gather the remaining bags, our fingers brushing with that same electric awareness that never seems to diminish. "But I'll make it simple. I like you, Lena. The real you—the one who's afraid of geese and can't whistle and argues passionately about ice cream flavors. Not just the Instagram version."

My heart thunders against my ribs. "Max?—"

"You don't have to say anything now." He steps back, hands in his pockets again. "Just think about it. About what this could be if we stopped pretending it's just an arrangement."

He leaves me standing there, grocery bags cutting into my wrists, unable to form a coherent response. As I watch him walk away, I realize with startling clarity that my carefully constructed plan has backfired spectacularly.

Spending normal, mundane time with Max doesn't make him less attractive—it makes him more real, more dimensional, more impossible to compartmentalize as just a business arrangement. And that terrifies me more than any kiss against a wall ever could.

Because kisses can be explained away as momentary weakness, but genuinely caring about someone? That's the kind of complication my carefully curated life doesn't have room for.

I look down at the grocery bags—two pints of ice cream nestled side by side, mint chocolate chip and cookie dough. Despite myself, I smile. Maybe there's room for both after all.

TWELVE

Lena

I don't typically spendmy Thursday nights in dive bars watching men pour drinks, but here I am at The Copper Key, perched on a stool that's seen better decades, nursing a cocktail that Max made with a flourish and a wink. The bar is packed—apparently industry night is a thing—and I've spent the last forty minutes pretending I'm not completely mesmerized by Max in his element. There's something dangerously attractive about a man who's good at what he does, who commands a space with easy confidence, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms that I now know feel exactly as strong as they look. Not that I'm thinking about that. About him pressing me against a wall, his hands everywhere at once. Definitely not thinking about that at all.

The invitation came yesterday—a casual text asking if I wanted to see where he works, meet some of his friends.

No pressure, just figured if we're doing this for a year, you should know my world too.

After our grocery store almost-moment three days ago, I should have declined. Instead, I found myself typing before I could overthink it.

I'd love to.

Now I'm here, wearing jeans and a silk camisole that's probably the least expensive item in the place, watching Max mix drinks with a precision and creativity that borders on artistry. He crafts each cocktail like it's a personal gift, remembering customers' preferences, adding special touches without being asked. It's a side of him I haven't seen before—not the carefully curated boyfriend persona he puts on for my events, but something genuinely, effortlessly Max.

He catches me watching and flashes that crooked smile that does inconvenient things to my insides. "Drink okay?" he calls over the noise of the crowd.

I raise my glass in salute. "Divine. What do you call this again?"

"The Carter Special," he replies with a wink. "One of a kind, complex, deceptively potent."

The bartender working beside him—Ryan, I think—snorts loudly. "Smooth, Donovan. Real smooth."

Max throws a bar towel at him without breaking eye contact with me. "Ignore him. He's jealous of my mixology genius."

"And your overwhelming modesty," Ryan adds, catching the towel.

Their easy banter makes me smile despite the lingering awkwardness between Max and me. Since the grocery store, since his confession—I like you, Lena. The real you.—I’ve been caught in a holding pattern, unable to reciprocate but unwilling to reject him outright. The twelve-month Luminous Beauty contract sits unsigned on my desk, a ticking clock on a decision I'm not ready to make.

A group of rowdy customers calls for Max's attention, and he moves down the bar with apologetic eyes. I sip my drink, letting the honey-whiskey warmth slide down my throat, wondering what I'm really doing here.

"So you're the famous Lena." Ryan slides into the space Max vacated, regarding me with open curiosity. "Max won't shut up about you."

"All good things, I hope." The response is automatic, my social mask slipping into place.

"Mostly." He tilts his head, studying me with disconcerting directness. "Though he didn't mention you'd be so..."

"So what?" I prompt when he doesn't finish.

"Normal," he decides. "From the way he described you, I was expecting someone more..."

"Influencer-y?" I suggest dryly.

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