Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Lena
Three days after the charity gala, I still can't concentrate. My editorial calendar sits abandoned on my laptop screen, next week's content plan half-finished because every time I try to focus, my brain replays Max pressing me against that wall, his mouth hot and demanding against mine. I catch myself touching my lips, remembering the feel of him, and I have to physically shake my head to dislodge the memory. This is getting ridiculous. I'm Lena Carter—I curate experiences, not fall victim to them. But here I am, like some lovesick teenager, unable to think of anything but a kiss that was supposed to be just for show.
For the third time in an hour, I force my attention back to the screen, attempting to plan a skincare routine post that won't bore my followers to tears. It's no use. My mind immediately drifts to the way Max's hands felt sliding up my thigh, to the sound he made when I tugged his shirt free, to the words he whispered against my ear?—
My phone rings, Tori's name flashing on the screen like a lifeline. I grab it gratefully.
"Please tell me you have a crisis that needs my immediate attention," I answer.
"Better." Her voice radiates triumph. "I have a contract from Luminous Beauty. Full ambassador program, six figures, exactly as we discussed."
The news should thrill me. It's what we've been working toward since Cameron's video nearly tanked my career—concrete proof that our fake relationship strategy has succeeded.
"That's amazing," I say, trying to inject appropriate enthusiasm into my voice.
"Amazing?" Tori sounds incredulous. "It's career-saving. Victoria Ellis personally called to rave about you and Max. Said your chemistry at the gala was 'exactly the authentic connection' they want for their brand."
Chemistry. The word triggers another flash of memory—Max's thigh pressed between my legs, my desperate grinding against him like a woman possessed. So much for acting.
"Did she mention terms?" I ask, deliberately steering the conversation toward business.
"Twelve-month contract, quarterly photo shoots, monthly social content requirements." Tori's voice shifts to the rapid-fire delivery she uses when excited. "And here's the kicker—they want you and Max as a package deal. The whole campaign is built around your relationship journey. They're calling it 'Real Love, Real Beauty.'"
My stomach drops. "How long would they need Max involved?"
"The full twelve months. Why? Is that a problem?" Her tone sharpens with suspicion. "He's still on board, right? Because if he's getting cold feet?—"
"No, no, it's fine," I interject quickly. "Just clarifying the expectations."
"Good, because they're sending over the contracts tomorrow for both of you to sign. I need you to lock this down, Lena."
"Consider it locked." I rub my temple, feeling a headache forming. "Anything else?"
"Just one thing—what exactly happened at the gala? The photographer Victoria hired sent over preview shots, and there's one of you two by a window that looks…intense."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Just playing our parts. Convincingly, apparently."
"Hmm." Tori's tone suggests she's not entirely convinced. "Well, whatever you did, keep doing it. This contract is your ticket back to the top tier."
After promising to review the contract materials as soon as they arrive, I hang up and drop my head into my hands. Twelve months. Our original arrangement was for one month, maybe two at most. How am I supposed to maintain this facade with Max for an entire year when I can barely make it through a charity gala without nearly having sex with him in a hallway?
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart does a pathetic little flip when I see Max's name on the screen.
We need to talk about the arrangement. Coffee at Remedy, 3pm?
Remedy is a small, deliberately non-trendy coffee shop in a neighborhood that none of my usual crowd frequents. A place where we won't be seen or recognized. A place for an honest conversation, not a performance.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I contemplate how to respond. Professional? Casual? Flirtatious? Nothing feels right after what happened at the gala.
I finally type a response, settling for simple neutrality.
See you there.
His response is immediate:
Just a thumbs up emoji. No joke, no warmth. The knot in my stomach tightens.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear to a coffee shop meeting that isn't even a date. The carousel of discarded options grows—too formal, too casual, too trying-to-look-like-I'm-not-trying, too obviously styled for Instagram. I finally settle on jeans and a loose cream sweater that manages to look effortless while still being flattering, paired with minimal makeup that took twenty minutes to appear natural.
The irony isn't lost on me. Even for a private, off-the-record conversation, I'm curating an image. Old habits die hard.
Remedy is half-empty when I arrive, intentionally five minutes late to avoid the awkwardness of waiting alone. Max is already there, occupying a corner table with two ceramic mugs. He's wearing a faded band t-shirt beneath an open flannel, his hair more unruly than usual, like he's been running his hands through it—a nervous habit I've noticed over our weeks together.
He looks up as I approach, his expression unreadable. "You came."
"You sound surprised."
"Wasn't sure if you'd prefer to just text." He pushes one of the mugs toward me. "Vanilla latte, extra shot, light on the foam."
The fact that he remembers my coffee order shouldn't make my chest tight, but it does. "Thanks."
I slide into the seat across from him, immediately aware of how intimate the small table feels, our knees nearly touching beneath it. An awkward silence descends as we both take too-long sips from our mugs.
"So," I finally say, setting down my coffee. "You wanted to talk about the arrangement."
"Yeah." He leans back, creating more distance between us. "Tori called me this morning. About the Luminous Beauty contract."
"She works fast."
"Twelve months," he says, watching my face carefully. "That wasn't what we agreed to initially."
I twist the mug between my palms, focusing on the warmth rather than the intensity of his gaze. "I know. It's a significant extension. I'll understand if you're not interested."
"I didn't say that." He runs a hand through his hair, confirming my earlier observation. "I just…we should discuss what it means. For us. For this." He gestures vaguely between us.
"Professionally, it's an incredible opportunity," I say, slipping into the familiar safety of business talk. "The exposure alone would be valuable for you, not to mention the compensation, which would be substantial."
"I'm not worried about the money, Lena."
"Then what are you worried about?"
His eyes meet mine directly. "You know what."
The air between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with the weight of everything we're not saying. I reach for my coffee again, needing something to do with my hands.
"We can keep things professional," I say, not entirely believing my own words. "What happened at the gala was…a momentary lapse. It doesn't have to happen again."
"Right." His voice is flat. "A momentary lapse. Twice now."
"We were caught up in the moment. It happens."
"Does it?" He leans forward, voice dropping lower. "Because I've done plenty of acting in my life, Lena, but what happened in that hallway wasn't acting. Not for me."
My heart stutters against my ribs. "Max?—"
"If we're doing this for another year," he continues, "we need to be honest about what's happening here. Otherwise it's going to get messy."
"It's already messy," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "But that doesn't mean we can't handle it. We're adults."
"Adults who can't seem to keep their hands off each other when left alone for more than five minutes."
The bluntness makes me flush. "That's an exaggeration."
"Is it?" His eyebrow raises in challenge.
"Look," I say, trying to regain control of the conversation. "I think part of the problem is that we only see each other in these high-pressure, performative situations. It creates an artificial intensity."
"So what's your solution?"
I hesitate, then offer, "Maybe we should spend more time together in normal settings. No cameras, no audience. Just…getting more comfortable with each other so it's not so charged when we have to perform."
He studies me for a long moment. "You think spending more time together will make us less attracted to each other?"
"I think it will help us manage it better," I counter. "Familiarity breeds…control."
"That's not how the saying goes."
"You know what I mean." I lean forward, warming to my plan. "If this is going to be a twelve-month arrangement, we need to find a sustainable dynamic. One that doesn't involve…momentary lapses."
A ghost of his usual smile flickers across his face. "So your solution to our inability to keep our hands off each other is to spend more time together, hands-off."
"Exactly." I nod firmly. "Platonic relationship building."
"Platonic," he repeats, looking amused despite himself. "Sure. When do we start this platonic bonding exercise?"
"No time like the present." I drain my coffee and stand. "I need to pick up some groceries. You can join me."
"Grocery shopping?" Now he's definitely amused. "That's your idea of relationship building?"
"It's normal. Mundane. Exactly what we need." I grab my purse, already moving toward the door before I can overthink this. "Coming?"
He follows, shaking his head but looking less tense than when I arrived. "You're something else, Carter."
"So I've been told."
The local market is just crowded enough to feel anonymous without being overwhelming. I grab a basket and begin selecting items with Max trailing beside me, hands in his pockets.
"So this is how the other half lives," he comments as I deliberate between two nearly identical bunches of kale.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I've never seen an influencer grocery shop in the wild before. I assumed your food was all delivered in branded boxes."
I roll my eyes, dropping the kale into my basket. "I'm a person, not a robot. I eat real food, shop at real stores, have real bodily functions."
"Fascinating." He picks up an exotic fruit, turning it over with exaggerated curiosity. "And what does the famous Lena Carter do with dragon fruit? Eat it or just photograph it?"
"Very funny." I snatch it from him, returning it to the display. "I'll have you know I cook most of my own meals."
"Really?" His surprise seems genuine. "I wouldn't have guessed that."
"There's a lot you wouldn't guess about me." I move to the next aisle, acutely aware of him following. "I don't post every aspect of my life online, contrary to popular belief."
"Like what?" He falls into step beside me. "Tell me something that's never made it to Instagram."
I consider this as I select a loaf of bread. "I can't whistle. Like, at all. I've tried for years, but it's just sad wheezing sounds."
He laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "That's tragic. What else?"
"I'm terrified of geese. Not just cautious—legitimately phobic. When I was six, one chased me at a park and I've never recovered."
"Geese are assholes," he agrees solemnly. "That's just good survival instinct."
We continue through the store, the earlier tension gradually dissolving as he extracts increasingly ridiculous confessions from me—how I once accidentally dyed my eyebrows orange, my secret addiction to cheesy reality dating shows, the time I got food poisoning during a bikini photoshoot and had to run off-set between takes.
By the time we reach the frozen section, we're both laughing, the awkwardness from the coffee shop seemingly forgotten. This is working, I think triumphantly. Normal, mundane interaction is exactly what we needed.
Then he picks up a pint of ice cream, studying the label. "Mint chocolate chip? Really?"
"What's wrong with mint chocolate chip?"
"It tastes like toothpaste mixed with chocolate," he declares. "Objectively the worst ice cream flavor."
I gasp in exaggerated offense. "Take that back."
"Can't take back facts." He reaches past me to grab a different container. "Cookie dough is clearly superior."
"Cookie dough is just unbaked salmonella wrapped in vanilla mediocrity," I counter, snatching back my mint chocolate chip. "A choice for people without sophisticated palates."
"Sophisticated?" He barks a laugh. "You're eating toothpaste, Lena."
"It's refreshing!"
"It's a dental hygiene product masquerading as dessert!"
We're standing too close now, my back against the freezer door, his arm braced beside me as he tries to reclaim the ice cream container. Our faces are inches apart, and suddenly our ridiculous debate doesn't feel so trivial anymore.
"This isn't about ice cream," I say quietly.
His eyes darken as they drop to my lips. "No, it's not."
"We're supposed to be building platonic comfort."
"How's that working out for you?" He doesn't move away, his body radiating heat in the chilled aisle.
"Not great," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Someone clears their throat, and we spring apart like guilty teenagers. An elderly woman with a shopping cart gives us a knowing look as she reaches around us for a frozen dinner.
The moment broken, Max steps back, running a hand through his hair again. "So much for your theory about familiarity."
"It's been half an hour," I mutter, dropping both ice cream containers into my basket. "Give it time."
"Right. Because time is definitely what we need." He glances at his watch. "Speaking of which, I should go. Early shift tomorrow."
The abrupt shift leaves me feeling off-balance. "Oh. Sure."
"This was..." he gestures vaguely at the grocery store around us, "educational."
"We should do it again," I say, then immediately want to kick myself for sounding so eager.
His expression softens slightly. "Yeah, maybe we should."
We walk to the checkout in silence, the earlier easy camaraderie replaced by something more complicated. As the cashier rings up my items, including both flavors of ice cream, Max shifts uncomfortably beside me.
"Look, Lena, about the gala..."
"We don't have to talk about it," I interject quickly.
"I think we do." His voice drops so only I can hear. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about it. About you. And I'm pretty sure it's the same for you."
The cashier announces my total, and I fumble with my wallet, buying time to compose myself. "This isn't the place, Max."
"Is there ever going to be a right place? Because we keep saying we'll talk later, but later never comes."
I hand over my credit card, hyper-aware of his proximity, of the truth in his words. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth would be nice." His eyes hold mine, searching. "Just once, without the script, without the performance."
The cashier hands me my bags, and I take them gratefully, needing the physical barrier between us. "The truth is complicated."
"It usually is." He helps me gather the remaining bags, our fingers brushing with that same electric awareness that never seems to diminish. "But I'll make it simple. I like you, Lena. The real you—the one who's afraid of geese and can't whistle and argues passionately about ice cream flavors. Not just the Instagram version."
My heart thunders against my ribs. "Max?—"
"You don't have to say anything now." He steps back, hands in his pockets again. "Just think about it. About what this could be if we stopped pretending it's just an arrangement."
He leaves me standing there, grocery bags cutting into my wrists, unable to form a coherent response. As I watch him walk away, I realize with startling clarity that my carefully constructed plan has backfired spectacularly.
Spending normal, mundane time with Max doesn't make him less attractive—it makes him more real, more dimensional, more impossible to compartmentalize as just a business arrangement. And that terrifies me more than any kiss against a wall ever could.
Because kisses can be explained away as momentary weakness, but genuinely caring about someone? That's the kind of complication my carefully curated life doesn't have room for.
I look down at the grocery bags—two pints of ice cream nestled side by side, mint chocolate chip and cookie dough. Despite myself, I smile. Maybe there's room for both after all.