Boyfriend for the Weekend (Boyfriend Trouble #1)

CHAPTER 1. Noah

Three sharp knocks yank me out of the only decent part of this hangover: unconsciousness. Pain follows immediately.

I groan and shove my face deeper into the pillows, briefly weighing whether I can opt out of existence before the memories load in.

No such luck.

They’re already there, circling patiently, ready to drop the worst of it.

Connor.

Oh God. Connor.

A memory punches through—my voice thick and slurring, explaining that I need a boyfriend for my father’s birthday celebration. Not an actual boyfriend. Just…temporary. Contractual. A limited-time social prop to make my asshole of an ex jealous.

I shoot upright, which is a mistake. The room tilts in slow protest. Nausea rises fast, and I clamp my mouth shut until it passes.

Did I actually cross the hall to Connor’s apartment last night and ask him to be my fake boyfriend?

Connor. My serious, permanently unimpressed, straight neighbor. The one I’ve exchanged exactly six sentences with in two years—four of them about the broken washing machine in the basement.

The knock comes again. Harder this time.

“Noah?” The voice is low. Accented. Irish.

Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s him.

I go completely still, staring at the front door. The couch is too close to it—and so old it creaks if you even think about moving.

Wait. Why am I sleeping on the couch?

“I know you’re in there,” Connor calls. “I can hear you breathing.”

Jesus Christ, can he actually hear me breathing?

I mean, the walls are basically cardboard.

I hear Mrs. Dunlop upstairs sobbing through Turkish soap operas every night, and I always know what Mrs. Horowitz is cooking because my entire apartment ends up smelling like it.

So sure, fine, thin walls. But breathing? That feels invasive.

God. I should’ve taken the down payment money when Mom offered it and bought something with actual insulation. Instead I’m renting this shoebox and calling it independence.

I hold my breath automatically, trying to last as long as possible.

Which turns out to be about eight seconds before I start choking on nothing and have to gasp for air.

I have the lung capacity of a mildly asthmatic hamster.

If he could hear me before, he definitely heard that.

I still have to face him—just slightly more lightheaded.

“Just a minute,” I call back, my voice hoarse.

I push myself off the couch and immediately get tangled in the blanket. The floor sways under my feet, and I have to brace a hand against the wall until it steadies.

I catch my reflection in the mirror by the door and wince.

My eyes are bloodshot, the whites veined red.

My hair sticks up in every direction, refusing to cooperate.

I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes—a wrinkled blue button-down with a smear of something orange and oily on the front that looks suspiciously like instant ramen broth.

When did I eat ramen? I don’t remember that part.

What I do remember, in alcohol-soaked flashes, is Milo’s apartment.

The bottle of tequila. Britney’s laugh, bright in the dim room. The three of us sprawled across Milo’s mismatched furniture, trying to come up with a game plan for my father’s birthday this weekend—each idea worse than the last.

“You should say you have chickenpox,” Milo said, wincing at the tequila before licking the salt off his hand. “It’s contagious. They wouldn’t make you come. Especially if there are pregnant ladies. Will there be pregnant ladies?”

“Nah, plus my dad knows I had chickenpox in preschool,” I said.

“You could say you have the plague,” Milo went on, completely serious. “Or anthrax.”

“Anthrax isn’t contagious, Milo,” I said, biting into a lime wedge. “And why would I have the plague? I’m not a fucking flea.”

That sent Britney into another fit of laughter. She gets a little unhinged when she’s drunk, which is a sharp contrast to the other ninety-nine percent of the time, when she’s a terrifyingly competent attorney.

I let her laugh it out before sighing. “Besides, not going is just as pathetic as going alone—maybe worse. Rick will know I bailed because of him and his fucking Miss Perfect. I need an actual plan. Something that makes him jealous.”

“You need a boyfriend,” Milo said.

Britney nodded, still wiping at her eyes. “He’s not wrong.”

I huffed. “Well, yeah. And if that were so easy, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Britney fell quiet, studying me for a second.

“Wait,” she said. “What if you don’t need a real boyfriend?”

Milo and I looked at her.

“Just one for the weekend,” she continued. “Like in that stupid Darren McAvoy movie we watched.”

I stared at her. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “Just someone to show up, make it convincing, and shut Rick up. Obviously hot.”

I leaned back. “Right. Because finding a hot guy willing to pretend to be my boyfriend—and competent enough not to blow it—should be a breeze. I’ve got exactly three days to pull it off.”

“What about that hot Irish neighbor of yours?” Britney suggested, her words slightly slurred. “The one with the arms. You know. The nurse. Doctor. Whatever.”

“Connor?” I said, even though there was no doubt who she meant. Connor O’Reilly from 4B. Connor with the perpetual five-o’clock shadow and eyes the color of a storm.

“Yes. Him.” Britney nodded eagerly. “He’s perfect. He’s hot, he’s got the accent, and he seems nice enough that he might actually say yes if you ask. Plus nobody at the party knows him, so there’s no weird overlap.”

“Absolutely not,” I said immediately. “He’s straight. If he says no, I still have to see him every fucking day.”

“So?” Britney shot back. “You’ve been talking about moving anyway.”

“That’s different,” I said.

“Not really,” she replied. “Worst case, you move a little sooner.”

“It’s a horrible idea,” I said. “Plus I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. You remember that hot brunette we ran into last week when you came over?”

“That’s even better,” Britney said, like that only proved her point. “If he has a girlfriend, he’s not going to feel weird about it or think you’re actually hitting on him.”

“It’s still crazy.” I snorted, but the alcohol was already taking the edge off my better judgment. “We’re not even friends. Why would he say yes?”

“He would if you gave him a reason,” Milo said, completely confident in a way only drunk people are. “Offer him money. If he’s a doctor, he’s got debt. That way it’s not weird—you’re basically doing him a favor.”

I shook my head and took another shot of tequila.

And that’s when it stopped sounding completely insane.

I groan at the memory and press the heels of my palms into my eyes, which only makes the throbbing worse.

We kept drinking. At some point, the idea stopped sounding ridiculous.

And then I went home, and somehow, at 2:37 a.m.—according to the phone I squinted at in the hallway—I found myself standing in front of Connor’s door.

I knocked. Too hard, probably. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, and I swayed slightly, trying to look casual in case anyone happened to walk by.

Then the door opened, and there he was.

Connor. Shirtless.

The memory hits all at once—his chest bare, skin still slightly damp with sweat.

A small black dachshund curved around his left pectoral, a funny little drawing I’d never seen before.

It felt wildly out of place next to the brutal patterns and flowers inked across his arms and neck.

His hair was pushed back from his forehead, and the fluorescent hallway lights threw sharp shadows along his jaw and down the hollow at the base of his throat.

Shit. Did I wake him up?

I stared. I know I did. And then I blurted it out—my ridiculous proposal.

He looked at me for what felt like forever, his expression impossible to read. “You’re drunk,” he finally said, his accent turning it into less of an observation and more of a verdict.

“Yes,” I agreed, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “But I’d ask the same thing sober. I’d just be less…direct.”

I don’t remember what he said to that. There’s a gap there. But I do remember him sighing and saying, “Go to bed, Noah. We’ll talk tomorrow.” And then he closed the door right in front of my face.

And now here he is, on the other side of mine.

Probably to tell me what an idiot I am. Or to report me to the landlord for harassment. Do they evict people for drunkenly propositioning their neighbors? Probably not. But maybe they make exceptions for especially pathetic cases.

“Noah?” Another knock, softer this time. “I can come back later if you’re still asleep.”

I drag a hand through my hair, which does nothing to improve it, and step toward the door. The pounding in my head flares as I reach for the knob.

Okay. I can do it.

I take a deep breath, which is a mistake, because it makes me painfully aware of how badly I need a shower. I smell like I bathed in cheap tequila. It’s too late to fix that now, though.

I open the door, squinting against the brighter hallway light, and there he is—Connor O’Reilly.

Fully dressed this time, wearing gray joggers and a faded black T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath.

He looks fresh and unfairly put together while I stand here resembling something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and threw up for good measure.

“Hi,” I manage weakly, my brain scrambling for what to say next. How exactly does one apologize for drunkenly offering to pay someone to pretend to be in love with them?

Connor looks at me, his face expressionless, and simply says, “Hi.”

“Look, about last night,” I start, my throat dry. “I was drunk. I shouldn’t have come over and said any of that. It was inappropriate, and I’m really sorry.”

Connor’s slate-colored eyes stay on me, unblinking, and something about his gaze reminds me of Rick. Not the features—Rick’s eyes are hazel, almost golden in certain light—but the way they both look at me like they can see straight through whatever I’m trying to hide.