Chapter 2
TWO
Max
I've made some questionable choices in my thirty years, but agreeing to be some stranger's fake boyfriend might top the list. The morning after meeting Lena Carter, I wake up convinced I dreamed the whole thing—until her text lights up my phone with a detailed list of "couple behaviors" we need to master. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Scrolling through her message—which includes bullet points and sub-categories, because of course it does—I wonder what possessed me to say yes. Something about the desperation hiding behind her polished smile, maybe. Or the challenge in her eyes when she suggested I couldn't pull it off. Either way, I'm now apparently scheduled for a "relationship strategy session" tomorrow afternoon.
"You did what?" Ryan nearly chokes on his beer, and I immediately regret telling my friends about my new arrangement.
My apartment feels too small for this conversation, especially with Ryan and Drew staring at me like I've announced plans to join a cult. The baseball game we're supposed to be watching drones on in the background, completely forgotten.
"It's not a big deal," I shrug, leaning back against my couch, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Just helping someone out."
"By pretending to date her." Drew's voice is flat with disbelief. "A woman you met once. At the bar. And know nothing about."
"I know her name."
"Groundbreaking detective work, Donovan." Ryan sets his beer down with unnecessary force. "This is how people end up on true crime podcasts, you know that, right?"
I roll my eyes. "She's not going to murder me."
"No, she's just going to use you as some kind of…what? Social experiment? Revenge plot against an ex?" Drew narrows his eyes. "Did she explain why she needs a fake boyfriend?"
"Something about changing narratives." I wave my hand vaguely, uncomfortably aware of how flimsy it sounds. "Look, it's one month of pretending. Free meals, like I said. No strings."
Ryan and Drew exchange a look that I've seen too many times before—the one that says they think I'm being an idiot but are debating how directly to tell me.
"What?" I prompt, irritation creeping into my voice.
"Nothing." Drew takes a swig of his beer. "Just wondering when you became the kind of guy who agrees to be someone's prop."
The comment stings more than it should. "I'm not a prop. We established that. Fifty-fifty partnership."
Ryan snorts. "Right. And you think this mysterious Lena is actually going to treat you as an equal in whatever scheme she's running?"
"You haven't even met her."
"Neither have you, really," Drew points out. "One conversation at a bar doesn't count."
He's not wrong, which only annoys me more. I get up to grab another beer, needing the momentary escape from their judgment. When I return, Ryan's expression has shifted from concern to calculation—a look I've learned to be wary of.
"Let's make this interesting," he says, leaning forward.
"Oh god," I mutter.
"I bet you can't make it through this fake relationship without catching real feelings."
Drew perks up immediately. "Good call. Thirty days of pretending to be into someone? Max doesn't have the emotional detachment for that."
"Excuse me?" I scoff. "I'm perfectly capable of keeping things professional."
"Are you, though?" Ryan's grin is shark-like. "Remember Kayla from your band days? You wrote a song about her after two dates."
"That was different. I was twenty-four."
"And Sophie, the girl from the coffee shop?" Drew adds. "You brought her soup when she called in sick after knowing her for a week."
"That's called being a decent human being."
"That's called being a softie who falls too fast," Ryan counters. "Face it, man. You're a romantic masquerading as a cynic. No way you make it through a month of hand-holding and googly eyes without developing actual feelings."
I feel heat creeping up my neck. "You're both full of shit."
"Then prove us wrong." Ryan extends his hand. "If you make it through thirty days of fake dating without developing real feelings for this woman, I'll cover your share of the rent for a month."
My apartment isn't cheap. A month of rent is enough to make me hesitate. "And if I lose?"
"You admit we were right," Drew says. "And you have to play at Ryan's birthday party."
The request hits me like a sucker punch. They know I haven't picked up my guitar for a public performance in over a year. Not since I walked away from music entirely.
"Low blow," I mutter.
"Is it, though?" Ryan's voice softens slightly. "You're wasting your talent bartending, Max. One performance won't kill you."
I stare at the condensation forming on my beer bottle, following a droplet as it races down the glass. The thought of performing again sends a familiar knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. But the confidence in their faces—the absolute certainty that I'll develop feelings for Lena—rankles more.
"Fine." I clasp Ryan's hand. "It's a bet. But I need to establish the parameters. What constitutes 'catching feelings'?"
Drew laughs. "Oh, we'll know. You get this dopey look?—"
"I do not get a dopey look."
"You absolutely do," Ryan confirms. "But fine, let's be specific. You lose if you: one, admit to having real feelings for her; two, get jealous of other guys around her; three, start doing thoughtful shit that goes beyond the fake relationship requirements; or four, try to extend the arrangement past the thirty days."
I nod slowly. "Seems fair. But I get to define what goes 'beyond requirements.' She's already sent me a literal handbook of couple behaviors."
Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "A handbook? Jesus, what kind of woman is this?"
"The organized kind," I mutter, thinking of Lena's meticulous text messages.
"This is going to be the easiest rent money I've ever made," Ryan says smugly.
"Don't be so sure." I drain my beer, a new determination settling over me. "I've changed since my 'falling too fast' days. This is strictly business."
My phone buzzes with another text. I glance down to see Lena's name:
Forgot to mention – we need to coordinate outfits for our first public appearance. Nothing matching (too cheesy), but complementary color schemes work well for photos. What's your wardrobe situation?
Drew peers over my shoulder and bursts out laughing. "Oh yeah, strictly business. Good luck with that, Romeo."
I flip him off and type a noncommittal response, ignoring the sinking feeling that I may have just made a massive mistake.
* * *
The coffee shop Lena chooses for our "strategy session" is exactly the kind of place I normally avoid—all exposed brick, overpriced pour-overs, and people typing importantly on laptops. She's already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner table with two drinks and what appears to be a color-coded folder of materials.
I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to really look at her. In the dim lighting of the bar, I hadn't fully appreciated how striking she is. Today, her dark hair falls in loose waves around a face that's simultaneously friendly and somehow…perfect. Too perfect, almost, like she's been filtered in real life. She's dressed casually in jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than my weekly paycheck, but there's something calculated about the casualness. Even the way she sips her coffee seems practiced.
She spots me and waves, and I make my way over, suddenly conscious of my worn jeans and the fact that I haven't shaved in two days.
"You're seven minutes late," she says by way of greeting, but her smile takes the sting out of it.
"Traffic." I slide into the seat across from her. "Is that for me?"
She pushes a coffee toward me. "Americano with room for cream. I guessed."
"Good guess." I take a sip, surprised that it's exactly how I would have ordered it.
"I'm good at reading people." She taps a manicured finger against the folder. "So, I've been thinking about our strategy."
"I noticed. Your texts were…comprehensive."
A faint blush colors her cheeks. "I like to be prepared."
"Clearly. Though I'm still not sure why you need a fake boyfriend in the first place." I study her over the rim of my cup. "Most people just use dating apps."
Her expression shutters slightly. "It's complicated."
"Try me."
She sighs, setting down her cup with deliberate care. "Let's just say I recently went through a public breakup that didn't cast me in the best light. I need to change the narrative."
"And I'm the narrative device?"
Her lips quirk. "Something like that. You're different from my usual type, which is exactly what I need right now."
"I'm flattered, I think." I lean back, curious despite myself. "What is your usual type?"
"Polished. Professional. Usually in tech or finance." She waves a hand dismissively. "Men with expensive haircuts and opinions about wine pairings."
"Ah. The natural predator of craft cocktail bartenders."
She laughs, and the sound is unexpectedly genuine. "Exactly. Which is why you're perfect. You're the anti-Cameron."
"Cameron being...?"
"My ex. And not someone we need to discuss further." She flips open the folder with a briskness that suggests the topic is closed. "Now, about our social media strategy?—"
"Our what now?"
Lena looks up, blinking as if I've said something confusing. "Our social media presence. How we're going to present ourselves as a couple online."
I stare at her. "I thought this was just about being seen together in public."
"Well, yes, but in 2025, 'public' includes Instagram, TikTok?—"
"No." The word comes out more firmly than I intended. "No social media."
She freezes, her expression caught between confusion and horror. "What do you mean, no social media? That's the entire point of this arrangement."
"You never mentioned that part."
"It was implied! How else would we change the narrative about me if not—" She stops abruptly, seeming to catch herself.
"If not what?" I press.
"Nothing." She runs a hand through her hair, a gesture that seems less practiced than her others. "Look, Max, I need this to be visible. That means some social media presence."
Something clicks into place. "Are you some kind of influencer?"
The way she stiffens tells me I've hit the mark.
"I work in digital marketing and lifestyle branding," she says carefully.
I let out a low whistle. "So that's the game. You need a redemption arc for your online persona."
"It's not a game." For the first time, I hear genuine distress beneath her polished exterior. "It's my career. Which is currently imploding, thanks to my ex's video."
"What video?"
She winces. "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
"Should I?"
"No. God, no." She shakes her head, seeming relieved. "And let's keep it that way for now. It's refreshing to be around someone who doesn't have preconceptions."
I study her, seeing the shadows under her expertly applied makeup, the tension in her shoulders. Whatever happened with this Cameron guy clearly did a number on her. Against my better judgment, I feel a twinge of sympathy.
"Fine. Some social media," I concede. "But I have conditions. No tagging me. No full face shots unless absolutely necessary. And I get approval rights on anything you post that includes me."
Relief washes over her face. "Deal. I can work with that."
"And I'm not downloading TikTok."
"Instagram will suffice." She flips to a new page in her folder. "Now, about our couple behaviors. Public displays of affection are essential for believability."
I take another sip of coffee, bracing myself. "Define 'essential.'"
"Hand-holding at minimum. Arm around waist where appropriate. The occasional kiss on the cheek." She ticks them off clinically, like items on a grocery list. "Nothing excessive, but enough to be convincing."
"And who initiates these PDAs?"
"We both should. Organically." She glances up with a slight frown. "Why?"
"Just establishing parameters. This is a two-way street, remember?"
"Of course." She slides a sheet of paper toward me. "I've drafted a basic timeline for our relationship milestones. First official date tomorrow night, casual brunch with a friend next weekend, and so on."
I scan the paper, equal parts impressed and concerned by her thoroughness. "You've really thought this through."
"Planning is what I do." She hesitates, then adds more quietly, "Control is…comforting."
There's something oddly vulnerable in the admission. I find myself nodding. "I get that."
She looks surprised, as if she expected me to mock her. "You do?"
"Sure. Different contexts, but yeah." I don't elaborate on how controlling every aspect of a musical performance once gave me the same comfort, before it became a prison. "Just don't plan every moment to death. Real relationships have spontaneity."
"This isn't a real relationship."
"No, but it needs to look like one." I tap the timeline. "Leave room for improvisation."
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.