I reach for my phone and type inLuke Dewinter + Kissinginto Google. There’s a range of blurry photos from the past ten years of him with various women. Nothing R-rated, but it’s obvious that Luke is very...tactile with his lovers.

“I think we can get away with a kiss or two at first, and then taper it off to hand holding once people get used to the idea of us,” I say, trying to sound like the idea of kissing him doesn’t set me on fire.

Luke stares at my phone for a bit.

For a stomach-twisting moment, I wonder if he’s remembering his time with any of those women. Regretting that he didn’t ask one of them to be his fake wife instead.

Luke abruptly closes the window and passes my phone back to me. “I’d be different,” he says abruptly. “With my wife.”

My wife. Something about those words sings through me. The words remind me that as much as we tell ourselves this is fake, there will be a legal document at the end of the month saying that I am Luke Dewinter’s wife.

I shove that terrifying thought away and try to focus on what he’s actually saying. “Do you mean that one-night stands are more exciting than if you’re sleeping with the same woman every night?”

“No, I...argh,” he grumbles and runs a hand through his hair. “Forget it. Just write down in the rules that I can kiss you in public if we need to convince people.”

Do his ears look a little pink?

“Luke, I want to know what you meant,” I say stubbornly. “If we’re going to fake a freaking marriage, we need to be on the same page.”

“I just...” Luke stands, restless, hands jammed in his pockets. It’s clear he wants to pace, but there’s not enough room. Just a small patch of clear floor between my bed, the door, the bathroom, and the corner with all my kitchen stuff. “It didn’t matter if anyone took photos of me like that, because being with those women didn’t matter to me. Just like being with me didn’t matter to them.”

I think he’s underestimating his appeal to women, but I bite my tongue.

“If I was married, she’d matter.We’dmatter,” Luke continues. “And that means I wouldn’t let anyone take fucking photos of us so they can sell it to some grubby gossip website or get more followers. And if they did, I’d make sure they’d never do it again.”

He sounds frustrated and menacing, in defense of his hypothetical future wife.

I don’t think he knows how sweet that is. I feel something ache in the vicinity of my heart. I try not to think about what it would be like to end up with someone who’s half as protective of me as Luke is of his imaginary future wife.

I turn back to the notebook and scribble down our public kissing rule.

8. Limited PDA allowed to maintain the ruse. Hand holding allowed, as is kissing. No tongue.

Luke looks at the rule and snorts. “What, are we in middle school?”

I glare. “We’re keeping it classy. You need to look respectable, remember?” I don’t add the real reason—If this is going to work, I need as many barriers between myself and Luke as I can get. And yes, that means litigating what type of kisses are allowed.

He sighs. “Fine. No tongue. Let’s sign the damn thing.”

“Not so fast,” I say. “There’s one more thing. And this is important, or I won’t do this.”

9. Every night, Hazel gets to ask Luke one personal question for his book. And he needs to answer truthfully, without ducking the question.

I stand and hand the notebook to Luke and wait, holding my breath.

In the tight space, the movement brings us way closer together than I intended.

He shakes his head. “Hazel, this is...”

“It doesn’t have to go in the final draft of the book,” I hurry to say. “You’ll have a chance to edit the book before anyone else sees it, and you can delete anything you want. And I don’t have to use my recording device.” I search his face. I need him to understand why this is important. “But I can’t write the story of who you are, if you keep trying to hold me at arm’s length.”

Luke grimaces. “How about I give you $600,000 instead of $250,000? Think how many novels you could write with that...”

“How much money do youhave?” I blurt. “Never mind, not the point.” I tap the notebook with my pen. “Number nine is nonnegotiable. You can’t bribe your way out of this.”

He narrows his eyes. “$700,000.”

I laugh. He’s joking right?