Page 2 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

“Stop gaping like a fish and admit I’m right,” Jonathan chides, forcing me to clamp my mouth shut. Why do I embarrass myself so much in his presence?

“How do you know I haven’t switched to regular milk?” I ask, adding, “And it’s been five years since I left town. You shouldn’t remember every detail about me.”

Jonathan deadpans, “You can’t reverse lactose intolerance—at least not that I know of. And besides, it’s not my fault I have a great memory, unlike you. You weren’t gone for five years; it’s been four years and eight months, exactly.”

Mia soon returns with our order and leaves us to our standoff.

“Geez, you remember a lot about me,” I mutter, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Jonathan chokes on his coffee, and to my surprise, his ears flush red as I look his way.

Finally, he says, “You always bring an energy with you, Emma. It’s impossible not to notice.” His voice dips slightly, like he’s about to say more, but then he exhales and shakes his head instead. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back here.”

With that, he places money on the counter and turns to leave, his expression giving nothing away.

Defiance rises in me, battling the nagging doubt creeping in. Maybe he’s right. I’ve always taken up space, but now I feel myself pulling inward, questioning.

Mia joins me, nudging my arm. “Don’t let him get to you. You’re back home, and that’s what matters. Be yourself—own that energy.”

My eyes water as Mia wraps her arms around me. “Thank you. I missed you—I just can’t compare this to talking over FaceTime.”

Mia laughs. “It isn’t the same, and don’t let Jonathan ruin your day. Focus on the people who matter.”

I wish it were that simple. Jonathan has always managed to pierce my hard exterior, knowing exactly how to provoke anger or sorrow. I managed to forget him during my years away, but now that I’m back, I can’t escape him—not when he’s my brother’s best friend.

I wave Mia goodbye and step out of the café, the crisp air doing little to settle the unease curling in my chest. I rub my arms, trying to shake the lingering tension of the encounter. Even now, my mind replays every sharp word exchanged. I should feel triumphant, but instead there’s only a restless ache. Why does he always get under my skin so easily? Why, after all these years, does he still affect me like this? I exhale slowly, but the doubt stubbornly persists. His words sting because they hit too close to home—I left this town to chase my dream of becoming a renowned author, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing.

I had one hit—a book that paid my rent for years and sparked hope of bestseller fame. Then my second book flopped, and so did my third. Failure after failure left me depressed, drained my inspiration, and rendered me incapable of writing another word for my agent.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely register the vibration in my pocket until the shrill ring cuts through my spiraling doubts. With a sigh, I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. It’s Agnes, my agent.

“Hey, Agnes.”

“Emma, when can I expect the next manuscript? I truly believe that with the right marketing, you’re due for another hit,” she rambles, and I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me.

“Agnes, I just got home. Please let me settle in first. I need time to recapture my inspiration, and then you’ll have your next book,” I reply, though we both know it isn’t that simple. Standing outside the café, my shoulders sag, and I add, “I need a little room to breathe.”

After a pause, she finally says, “Just do what you can to make the next book amazing.” Then she hangs up, leaving me burdened with her expectations. Matching my first book’s success seems impossible after two disastrous flops. Each day, I wonder if I should give up writing and get a day job—maybe as a barista, especially if Mia is hiring...

No. I left the city to create art, not to slave away at a coffee shop. I shake off the haunting feeling of inadequacy and exhale deeply.

“Am I the inspiration you need?” a voice asks behind me, nearly making me stumble. I turn to see Jonathan, leaning casually against the café wall with his hands in his pockets.

“You scared me!” I say, pressing a hand to my chest as my heart races. “Do you always sneak up on people, or is this a special talent of yours?” I let out a shaky breath, trying to sound composed. “What are you still doing here, anyway?”

Jonathan’s expression shifts, his gaze flickering over me before his jaw tightens. He exhales slowly. “If you want me to leave you alone, I will. But I don’t think that’s what either of us really wants.”

He hesitates, like he might say something more, but instead he simply nods and turns, strolling away. I watch him go, my cheeks warming as frustration and something else I can’t quite name twist inside me.

Chapter 2

Jonathan

ThelastthingIwant to do is leave Emma alone, yet I’m so furious with her that I vow never to speak to her again. And still she haunts my thoughts: the way her face flushes when she’s angry, how her eyes flash when she tells me off, and the fact that she’s back.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about her since she left for the big city. It was easier to think about Emma less when she was far away. But now, early in the morning, she occupies every corner of my mind.

I stride into the office building a few minutes late—something I shouldn’t make a habit of, considering the responsibilities ahead of me. I’m not there yet, but the inheritance is mine by right. With my grandfather gone and me as the eldest grandkid, I’m poised to take the helm of his business.

Reed, my best friend and coworker, meets me at the door, worry etched on his face. “Have you heard? There’s a board meeting called, and a lawyer’s even here.”

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