Chapter 12
TWELVE
Lena
I don't typically spend my Thursday nights in dive bars watching men pour drinks, but here I am at The Copper Key, perched on a stool that's seen better decades, nursing a cocktail that Max made with a flourish and a wink. The bar is packed—apparently industry night is a thing—and I've spent the last forty minutes pretending I'm not completely mesmerized by Max in his element. There's something dangerously attractive about a man who's good at what he does, who commands a space with easy confidence, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms that I now know feel exactly as strong as they look. Not that I'm thinking about that. About him pressing me against a wall, his hands everywhere at once. Definitely not thinking about that at all.
The invitation came yesterday—a casual text asking if I wanted to see where he works, meet some of his friends.
No pressure, just figured if we're doing this for a year, you should know my world too.
After our grocery store almost-moment three days ago, I should have declined. Instead, I found myself typing before I could overthink it.
I'd love to.
Now I'm here, wearing jeans and a silk camisole that's probably the least expensive item in the place, watching Max mix drinks with a precision and creativity that borders on artistry. He crafts each cocktail like it's a personal gift, remembering customers' preferences, adding special touches without being asked. It's a side of him I haven't seen before—not the carefully curated boyfriend persona he puts on for my events, but something genuinely, effortlessly Max.
He catches me watching and flashes that crooked smile that does inconvenient things to my insides. "Drink okay?" he calls over the noise of the crowd.
I raise my glass in salute. "Divine. What do you call this again?"
"The Carter Special," he replies with a wink. "One of a kind, complex, deceptively potent."
The bartender working beside him—Ryan, I think—snorts loudly. "Smooth, Donovan. Real smooth."
Max throws a bar towel at him without breaking eye contact with me. "Ignore him. He's jealous of my mixology genius."
"And your overwhelming modesty," Ryan adds, catching the towel.
Their easy banter makes me smile despite the lingering awkwardness between Max and me. Since the grocery store, since his confession— I like you, Lena. The real you .—I’ve been caught in a holding pattern, unable to reciprocate but unwilling to reject him outright. The twelve-month Luminous Beauty contract sits unsigned on my desk, a ticking clock on a decision I'm not ready to make.
A group of rowdy customers calls for Max's attention, and he moves down the bar with apologetic eyes. I sip my drink, letting the honey-whiskey warmth slide down my throat, wondering what I'm really doing here.
"So you're the famous Lena." Ryan slides into the space Max vacated, regarding me with open curiosity. "Max won't shut up about you."
"All good things, I hope." The response is automatic, my social mask slipping into place.
"Mostly." He tilts his head, studying me with disconcerting directness. "Though he didn't mention you'd be so..."
"So what?" I prompt when he doesn't finish.
"Normal," he decides. "From the way he described you, I was expecting someone more..."
"Influencer-y?" I suggest dryly.
He grins, unrepentant. "Something like that. You know, crystals and sage bundles and constant selfie-taking."
"The sage bundles are in my other purse." I take another sip of my drink. "Along with my healing crystals and emergency ring light."
Ryan laughs, seemingly genuine. "I like you better than the last one."
"Last one?"
"Max's ex. She was..." He makes a face. "High maintenance doesn't begin to cover it."
Before I can probe further, another bartender—a woman with a sleeve of tattoos and a septum piercing—calls Ryan away. I'm left pondering this new information. Max has never mentioned an ex, though I suppose it's not surprising he has one. The revelation shouldn't bother me, but something tightens in my chest anyway.
I scan the crowded bar, taking in the diverse mix of people—service industry workers unwinding after shifts, creative types in carefully curated vintage, regular folks just out for a drink. It's worlds away from the carefully filtered environments I usually frequent, where everyone is networking even when pretending not to be. There's an authenticity here that's both refreshing and intimidating.
As I continue my people-watching, my gaze lands on a woman seated at the far end of the bar. She's striking—tall and willowy with a cascade of auburn hair falling over one shoulder, wearing a dress that manages to look both casual and expensive. But it's not her appearance that catches my attention; it's the way she's watching Max. With familiarity. With history. With intent.
Something prickles along my spine. Call it feminine intuition or just good old-fashioned jealousy, but I'd bet my entire skincare collection that I'm looking at the "high maintenance" ex Ryan mentioned.
As if sensing my scrutiny, she glances my way. Our eyes meet briefly before she returns her attention to Max, who's still mixing drinks further down the bar, oblivious to her presence. She slides off her stool with feline grace and begins making her way toward him, navigating the crowd with practiced ease.
Without conscious thought, I find myself moving too, cocktail in hand, drawn by some primal instinct to stake my claim. I reach Max's section of the bar just as she does, sliding in beside him as he finishes serving another customer.
"Max," she purrs, her voice carrying just enough to cut through the ambient noise. "Been a while."
He freezes momentarily, a flicker of something—surprise? discomfort?—crossing his face before he masks it with professional courtesy. "Sophie. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Industry night." She shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Everyone comes eventually."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What can I get you?"
"You remember." She leans across the bar, invading his space with practiced familiarity. "Or has it been too long?"
I clear my throat pointedly, and Max starts, as if just remembering I'm there. "Sophie, this is Lena. My girlfriend." There's something protective in the way he says it, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of my back. "Lena, this is Sophie. An old friend."
Sophie's eyes sweep over me, a quick assessment that feels like a physical touch. Her smile is razor-sharp. "Girlfriend? That's new."
"Not that new," I counter, instinctively moving closer to Max. "Just past our three-month anniversary, actually."
Her eyebrows rise fractionally. "How lovely. Max never was one for long-term commitments."
"People change," Max says tightly. "When they meet the right person."
The possessive warmth in his voice makes my heart flutter, even knowing it's part of our performance. The lines between real and fake blur a little more with each passing day.
Sophie's smile never wavers, but something cold enters her eyes. "They certainly do." She turns her attention fully to me now. "So, Lena, what do you do that managed to capture our wandering musician's heart?"
"Digital marketing and lifestyle branding," I reply, keeping my tone light despite the clear challenge in her words. "And Max isn't wandering anymore. He's exactly where he wants to be."
"Digital marketing," she repeats with a delicate emphasis that somehow makes my career sound like a euphemism for something unsavory. "How…contemporary."
"It pays the bills," I say with a shrug. "Not all of us can rely on trust funds."
I'm guessing at her financial situation based on the subtle tells of old money—the quality of her simple dress, the understated but expensive watch on her wrist, the particular brand of confidence that comes from never having to worry about basic survival. Judging by the slight narrowing of her eyes, I've hit the mark.
"Max always did have eclectic taste," she muses, trailing a finger along the bar top. "First music, then bartending, now…influencers."
The word drips with condescension. Max tenses beside me, looking ready to intervene, but I place a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. I can handle this.
"I prefer 'content creator,'" I correct with a saccharine smile. "Though labels are so limiting, don't you think? Like 'ex-girlfriend' or 'woman still hanging around her former boyfriend's workplace.'"
Ryan, mixing a drink nearby, makes a choking sound that he quickly disguises as a cough.
Sophie's perfect composure slips momentarily before she recovers. "Max and I share history. Deep, meaningful history. The kind that doesn't just disappear because someone new comes along."
"History is called that for a reason," I counter smoothly. "It's in the past. Max's present—and future—is with me."
Max slides an arm around my waist, pulling me closer to his side. "Sophie, if you're here for a drink, I'm happy to make you one. If you're here to cause trouble, you should leave."
"Trouble?" She places a hand over her heart in mock offense. "I'm just getting to know your new…girlfriend. Making sure she understands what she's getting into with someone like you."
"Someone like him?" I echo, feeling a surge of genuine protectiveness. "You mean someone talented, hardworking, and genuine? Because that's who Max is, and I understand that perfectly."
"Genuine?" Sophie laughs, the sound brittle. "Oh, honey. Ask him how genuine he was when he walked away from his music career right when they were about to break through. Ask him why he really left the band. Ask him?—"
"That's enough." Max's voice cuts through her words, uncharacteristically sharp. "This isn't the place, Sophie."
An uncomfortable silence falls between the three of us, the bar's noise seeming to recede as if we're in our own bubble of tension. Sophie studies Max's face for a long moment, then mine, her expression calculating.
"You haven't told her," she says quietly. "Interesting."
Before Max can respond, I step forward slightly. "He doesn't have to tell me anything he's not ready to share. That's called respect—something you might want to look into."
Sophie's eyes widen momentarily at my directness. "Well. She's certainly fiery, Max. I'll give you that."
"One of the many things I love about her," he replies, the words landing with surprising weight despite our audience. He looks down at me, something soft and genuine in his expression that makes my chest tight. "Lena doesn't pretend to be anything she's not."
The irony of this statement in the context of our fake relationship isn't lost on me, but somehow, in this moment, with Max looking at me like I've personally hung the moon, it doesn't feel like a lie.
Sophie watches this exchange with narrowed eyes. "Love," she repeats, testing the word. "That's…fast."
"When it's right, you know," I say, the cliché flowing easily from my lips even as my heart races at the implications. "But you wouldn't understand that, would you?"
It's a direct hit. Something flickers across her perfect features—hurt, maybe, or regret. For a moment, I almost feel bad for her. Almost.
"Well," she says finally, reaching for her purse. "This has been illuminating. Good to see you, Max. Truly." Her gaze shifts to me, assessing one last time. "And nice to meet you, Lena. I hope, for both your sakes, this is as real as you're pretending it is."
With that parting shot, she glides away, navigating through the crowd and out the door without a backward glance.
The moment she's gone, Max exhales heavily, his arm still around my waist. "I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be," I say, surprised by how much I mean it. "Exes happen. Even fake relationships have to deal with real baggage."
He studies my face, something vulnerable in his expression. "You were amazing. The things you said..."
"All part of the performance," I hedge, though we both know that's not entirely true.
"Was it?" His voice drops lower, meant only for me despite the crowded bar. "Because it sounded pretty genuine to me."
Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal too much of my confused heart, Ryan appears beside us.
"Hate to break up this moment," he says, not looking sorry at all, "but we've got thirsty customers, Donovan."
Max nods, reluctantly releasing his hold on me. "I'll be right there." He turns back to me, hesitating. "Will you stay? My shift ends in an hour."
There are a dozen reasons I should say no. I have content to plan, emails to answer, a carefully curated life that doesn't include waiting around in dive bars for bartenders to finish their shifts. But what comes out is, "I'll be here."
His smile is like sunshine breaking through clouds. "I'll make you another Carter Special."
"I'll hold you to that." I watch him return to work, the consummate professional despite the emotional confrontation we just experienced.
As I reclaim my barstool, I find Ryan watching me with newfound respect. "That was impressive," he says, nodding toward the door Sophie exited through. "No one's ever stood up to her like that before."
"She needed someone to put her in her place," I reply, sipping the last of my cocktail.
"True. But it's more than that." He leans in, lowering his voice. "You actually care about him, don't you? This isn't just..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely.
I glance over at Max, watching as he laughs at something a customer said, his hands never stopping their precise movements as he crafts another drink. My chest fills with a warmth that has nothing to do with whiskey.
"It's complicated," I admit finally.
Ryan follows my gaze, nodding slowly. "Yeah, with Max, it usually is." He straightens, grabbing a bottle from the shelf. "For what it's worth, though, I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not even her."
He moves away to serve another customer, leaving me with thoughts as mixed as one of Max's complex cocktails. I watch the man in question work his magic behind the bar, feeling something shift and settle inside me. Whatever is happening between us—whatever real thing is growing beneath the pretense—I'm no longer sure I want to fight it.
Sophie's parting words echo in my mind: I hope, for both your sakes, this is as real as you're pretending it is.
The thing is, I'm starting to hope that too.