Page 8 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

She considers this, then makes a note. "Acceptable. Now, about hand-holding?—"

"What about it?"

"We should practice."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Practice holding hands? It's not exactly a complicated maneuver."

"There are different types of hand-holding, and each conveys a different message." She extends her hand across the table, palm up. "The interlaced fingers suggest intimacy. The loose grip indicates casual comfort. The tight grip can signal possessiveness or protection, depending on context."

I stare at her outstretched hand, feeling strangely nervous. This is ridiculous. I've held hands with plenty of women. But something about the deliberate nature of it—the performance aspect—makes it feel more intimate than it should.

"You're overthinking this," I tell her, but I place my hand in hers anyway.

Her fingers are soft, nails perfectly manicured, and she slides them between mine with practiced ease. But the moment our palms press together, I feel an unexpected jolt of awareness that travels straight up my arm.

"Too loose," she murmurs, tightening her grip slightly. "We need to look comfortable with each other."

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact between our hands—the slight dampness of my palm, the cool pressure of her rings against my fingers, the surprisingly strong grip of her slender hand.

"Better," she says, but her voice sounds a little breathless. "We should do this whenever we're walking together in public. It's the easiest way to signal coupledom."

"Hmm." It's all I can manage. My hand feels uncomfortably warm in hers, and I'm having trouble focusing on her words. Which is ridiculous. It's just hand-holding, for god's sake.

Ryan's warning echoes in my head:You can't make it through this fake relationship without catching real feelings.

I pull my hand away, perhaps too abruptly. "Got it. Hand-holding. Check."

Lena blinks, then smoothly transitions back to her folder. "Right. So for our first official appearance, I was thinking dinner at Eloise's on Thursday. It's popular enough to be seen but not so trendy that we'll be mobbed by influencers."

I'm grateful for the change of subject. "Sounds good. Though fair warning, I don't own anything fancy enough for a place like that."

She gives me an appraising look that makes me feel like I'm being mentally dressed by a stylist. "We can work with what you have. Navy blue button-down?"

"Probably somewhere in my closet."

"Wear that. With dark jeans—no rips—and your nicest shoes. I'll wear something complementary." She makes another note, then glances at her watch. "I have a call in twenty minutes. Are we aligned on the strategy?"

"As aligned as we're going to be," I mutter.

She stands, gathering her materials with efficient movements. "Perfect. I'll text you the details for Thursday."

I remain seated, watching as she smoothly navigates between tables, several heads turning as she passes. There's something magnetic about her, a polished confidence that simultaneously attracts and warns you to keep your distance.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ryan:

Still feeling strictly business about your fake girlfriend?

I glance up to see Lena pushing through the door, pausing briefly to adjust her hair in her reflection—a gesture so practiced it must be second nature to someone who lives her life online.

Absolutely. This will be the easiest bet I've ever won.

But as I gather my things to leave, I can still feel the phantom pressure of her hand in mine, and a nagging voice wonders if I've underestimated just how complicated this arrangement might become.

THREE

Lena

I've stagedhundreds of photo-worthy moments in my career—sunset yoga poses, candlelit dinners for one that were actually for three million, "spontaneous" laughter over coffee with friends. I can manufacture authenticity like some people bake cookies. But as I adjust my dress for the fifth time, checking the lighting in this carefully selected corner of the park, I realize I've never had to manufacture chemistry before. That was always real, even when everything else was smoke and mirrors.

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