The #FakeBoyfriend Bet (Fauxmance Files #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

Lena

My career is circling the drain like yesterday's champagne, and there's nothing Instagram-worthy about it. Three million followers watch as I smile through gritted teeth and pretend my ex didn't just torch my reputation with a twelve-minute YouTube confessional. Behind every perfect filter hides a mess, and right now, I'm the queen of disaster—though you'd never know it from my feed.

"Four sponsorships canceled this morning." I stare at my phone, scrolling through the damage report as my manager Tori paces her office. "Four. And Luminous Beauty just emailed—they're 'reevaluating our partnership alignment.' That's corporate-speak for 'you're too toxic to sell our face cream.'"

Tori doesn't look up from her tablet. Her fingers tap-tap-tap across the screen like she's trying to morse code her way out of this nightmare. "The internet has the attention span of a goldfish, Lena. Give them something new to talk about."

"Like what? A mental breakdown? A dramatic haircut? I'm not cutting my hair." I twist a strand around my finger, this hair that's been carefully highlighted and treated and photographed for countless paid partnerships. The thought of losing it all—not the hair, but everything I've built—sends acid creeping up my throat.

Three years of curating the perfect aspirational lifestyle. Three years of sunrise yoga poses that took forty-five minutes to capture, of "casual brunches" that went cold while I adjusted the lighting. Three years of building Lena Carter into a brand that women wanted to be and brands wanted to hire. All evaporated because Cameron decided our breakup needed to be as public as possible.

His video—"The Truth About Dating an Influencer: My Toxic Relationship with Lena Carter"—hit two million views in twenty-four hours. The comments section looks like a crime scene. My DMs are a war zone.

"Listen." Tori sets down her tablet with such deliberate calm that I know what follows will be anything but. "We need to change the narrative. Fast."

"I already posted my response video?—"

"Which came across as defensive and scripted, according to—" she squints at her screen "—approximately seventy-eight percent of the comments."

The truth stings worse than the overpriced serum I promoted last month. "What exactly do you suggest I do? I can't just?—"

"You need a redemption arc." Tori's eyes light up the way they do when she smells commission. "Something that makes you sympathetic, relatable. Something that shows you're moving on in a healthy way."

"I am moving on."

"Your last three posts have subliminal digs at Cameron. The one with the wilted flowers? Not subtle."

"It was a metaphor about growth and?—"

"It was petty, and the internet knows it." Tori circles her desk and sits on the edge, leaning toward me with the intensity of someone about to propose a bank heist. "You need a new relationship."

I bark out a laugh. "Right. Because jumping into another relationship immediately is super healthy."

"Not a real one." She arches a perfectly microbladed eyebrow. "A strategic one."

The room seems to tilt sideways. "You're not serious."

"Deadly serious. A carefully orchestrated romance with someone completely different from Cameron. Someone genuine, down-to-earth. Someone who makes you seem more…human."

"I am human."

"Your Instagram says otherwise. You haven't posted a photo with a visible pore in eighteen months."

I slump back in my chair, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulders from holding them in perfect posture for too long. "So what's the plan? Hire an actor?"

"Too risky. They'd want a contract, there'd be a paper trail. No, you need someone real. Someone unconnected to this world."

"Where am I supposed to find this magical unicorn man who's willing to pretend to date me without any ulterior motives?"

Tori's smile is small and sharp, a paper cut waiting to happen. "You're resourceful. Go to a bar. Find someone charming but anonymous. Someone who won't ask too many questions."

Which is how I find myself sitting at the polished oak bar of The Copper Key six hours later, nursing a drink I've barely touched and wondering if I've finally lost my mind. The place strikes the perfect balance between trendy and undiscovered—dark wood, Edison bulbs, and not a selfie-taker in sight. My kind of people wouldn't be caught dead here, which makes it the perfect hunting ground.

A glass clinks against the bar in front of me, and I look up, startled.

"You've been staring at that same drink for twenty minutes. Either it's fascinating, or it's terrible."

The bartender watches me with an amused half-smile that makes my stomach do something inconvenient. He's tall, with the kind of forearms that suggest he moves kegs for a living, and dark hair that curls slightly at his collar. His eyes—a startling shade of green that my followers would demand a filter name for—crinkle at the corners like he's perpetually holding back a laugh.

"I'm weighing my options," I say, sliding my finger around the rim of the glass.

"For better drink choices? I can help with that." He leans his hip against the bar, casual in a way that suggests he's either completely confident or absolutely clueless about the effect he might have on women.

"For terrible life decisions. The drink is collateral damage."

He nods solemnly. "Ah. Those decisions. The bar is an excellent place for those." He extends a hand. "I'm Max."

"Lena." I shake his hand and feel calluses against my palm. Not soft hands. Not influencer hands. The opposite of Cameron's meticulously moisturized grip.

"So, Lena, what terrible life decision are you contemplating? Quit your job? Get a tattoo? Steal a boat? I should warn you I'm morally obligated to talk you out of the boat thing."

Despite myself, I laugh. "Nothing so dramatic. Just...a social experiment."

"Those are dangerous. I once participated in a social experiment that involved eating ghost peppers. Couldn't taste anything for three days."

"Why would you agree to that?"

"A bet." He shrugs, the movement accentuating shoulders that tell me he does more than just tend bar. "I'm tragically competitive."

The idea that strikes me is so sudden and so perfect I have to grip the edge of the bar. "What if I made you a bet right now?"

His eyebrow lifts. "I'm listening."

"I bet—" I pause, formulating the words carefully, "—that you can't convince people we're a couple."

Max's smile freezes, then slowly transforms into confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A fake relationship. For show." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "I need someone to pretend to date me. For reasons."

"Ominous reasons? Illegal reasons? Reasons that end with me missing a kidney?"

"Personal reasons." I wave a hand dismissively. "Look, it's simple. We go on a few fake dates. Take some pictures. Act couple-y in public. Then in a month or so, we have an amicable split."

He stares at me like I've sprouted a second head. "And the benefit to me would be...?"

"Free meals. Good company." I tap my fingernails against my glass. "The satisfaction of winning a bet."

"I don't even know you."

"Exactly." I smile my best influencer smile, the one that's landed me contracts with skincare brands and swimwear companies. "Clean slate. No baggage. Just a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Max studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he refills my glass without asking. "You're running from something."

It's not a question, which makes it harder to deflect. "Aren't we all?"

"Most people don't recruit random bartenders to help them run."

"Maybe most people lack imagination."

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Or self-preservation instincts."

I take a sip of my refreshed drink. "Is that a no?"

"It's a 'you haven't convinced me yet.'" He leans closer, close enough that I can smell his aftershave, something citrusy and clean. "Why me? There are easier ways to find a fake boyfriend."

The honest answer—because you look nothing like the polished men in my social circle, because you seem real in a way nothing in my life has felt lately—sticks in my throat. Instead, I say, "You have an honest face."

"And you," he counters, "have a face that says you're hiding something."

"We all have secrets."

"True." He straightens, wiping down the bar with a cloth. "But most people don't drag strangers into them."

I should walk away. Find another bar, another unsuspecting man who might be more easily persuaded. But something about Max's steady gaze holds me in place. He's not buying my carefully constructed charm, and it's both infuriating and refreshing.

"One month," I say firmly. "Public appearances only. No real feelings, no complications."

"And no explanation?"

I hesitate. "Let's just say I need to change the narrative about my life, and you would be helping me do that."

He considers this, head tilted. "So I'd be, what, the leading man in your personal rebrand?"

"Supporting role, at best," I fire back. "I'm clearly the star of this production."

His mouth twitches. "See, that right there is going to be a problem."

"What?"

"If we're going to sell this—" he gestures between us, "—then we need to be equals. Partners. I'm not going to be your prop boyfriend who stands around looking pretty while you direct the show."

I blink, surprised by his perceptiveness. "I don't?—"

"You absolutely do. I can already see it in your eyes. You're mentally positioning me in photos, aren't you?"

The flush that heats my cheeks is answer enough.

Max crosses his arms. "If I agree to this—and that's still a big if—then we co-direct. Fifty-fifty."

"That's ridiculous. I'm the one who needs—" I stop myself, realizing I'm giving away too much.

"Needs what?"

"Nothing. Fine. Co-directors." I extend my hand. "Partners."

He looks at my hand for a long moment, then slowly takes it. His grip is warm and firm, and something electric passes between us that I immediately file away as irrelevant.

"Still don't know why I'm agreeing to this," he mutters.

"Because you're intrigued," I say confidently. "And because deep down, you know this will make a great story someday."

"Or a cautionary tale." He releases my hand. "So, partner, what's our first move?"

I pull out my phone. "First, we need contact information. And ground rules."

"Ground rules," he echoes, then leans in with a grin that transforms his entire face. "Rule number one: I get creative control over at least thirty percent of our fake dates."

"Twenty percent."

"Twenty-five, and I won't make you go bungee jumping."

I narrow my eyes. "Were you planning on making me go bungee jumping?"

"I am now."

For the first time since Cameron's video dropped, I feel a genuine smile tugging at my lips. "Twenty-five percent, no heights involved, and I get final veto power."

"Deal." He pulls out his phone. "Now, since we're faking a relationship, I should probably know your last name."

I freeze, realizing I've managed to get this far without revealing who I really am. The moment I say "Carter," he might connect the dots—or worse, Google me. And then this whole arrangement could be over before it begins.

"Carter," I say, watching his face carefully. "Lena Carter."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Either he's an excellent actor, or he truly has no idea who I am.

"Max Donovan," he replies. "So, Lena Carter, are you ready to embark on the most convincing fake relationship this city has ever seen?"

I raise my glass. "To terrible decisions."

He clinks his water glass against mine. "May we not regret them too much."

What I don't tell him is that I already regret plenty. But as I watch him move down the bar to help another customer, his easy confidence and genuine smile making something flutter in my chest, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this particular terrible decision might turn out differently.