Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Max
Lena Carter has three million followers and a carefully curated aesthetic for every aspect of her online presence. Yet here she is, asleep in the passenger seat of my ten-year-old Subaru, mouth slightly open, a small snore escaping with each breath. Her hair, usually styled to perfection, is piled in a messy bun with strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing leggings with a coffee stain on the knee and my old band hoodie that she's officially claimed as her own. She looks nothing like the polished influencer whose face graces Luminous Beauty advertisements in Times Square. She looks real and rumpled and completely unguarded. She looks perfect. I turn down the radio, hoping to let her sleep a bit longer as I navigate the winding roads toward our destination—a cabin in the Catskills borrowed from a bartender friend for the weekend. Our first real getaway since Lena's post about our relationship went viral two weeks ago, upending both our lives in ways neither of us fully anticipated.
The response to her candid explanation of our unusual beginning was explosive—equal parts supportive messages from fans who appreciated the honesty and critical think-pieces about "performative authenticity" in influencer culture. Victoria Ellis loved it, immediately repositioning the Luminous Beauty campaign to capitalize on the "real love story" angle. Tori has been fielding interview requests from magazines and podcasts eager to explore our "fake-to-real relationship journey." Even Ryan and Drew have been insufferable, smugly taking credit for "facilitating true love" through that stupid bet that almost destroyed us.
Through it all, Lena has navigated the attention with surprising calm—answering questions honestly but maintaining boundaries, sharing genuine moments while preserving others just for us. She seems lighter somehow, as if the alignment of her public and private selves has lifted a weight she carried for years.
As for me, I've become something of a minor celebrity by association—"Bartender Who Stole Influencer's Heart" according to one particularly dramatic headline. The Copper Key has seen an uptick in business from curious customers hoping to encounter me mixing drinks. Ryan jokes that I should create signature cocktails named after relationship milestones: "The Fake Date," "The Contract Extension," "The Big Confession."
But the public interest, while occasionally overwhelming, feels secondary to what we've built between us—a relationship founded on truth and trust after navigating the strangest of beginnings. Which is why this weekend matters so much. Just us, no obligations, no photoshoots, no analyzing engagement metrics or responding to comments. Just Max and Lena, away from it all.
She stirs as I turn onto the gravel drive leading to the cabin, sitting up groggily and wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth. "Are we there?" she mumbles, immediately trying to fix her hair.
"Almost," I reply, smiling at her automatic grooming impulse. "And you don't need to fix your hair. You look beautiful."
"I was drooling," she protests, though her hands drop from her messy bun.
"Adorably."
She squints out the window at the trees surrounding us. "Where exactly are we again?"
"Dave's cabin. Remember Dave? Tall guy, works Thursdays and Sundays at the bar, has that elaborate mustache?"
"Handlebar Mustache Dave," she nods, recognition dawning. "He has a cabin?"
"Inherited from his grandfather. He lets friends use it occasionally." I navigate the final curve, bringing the small, rustic structure into view. "And here we are—home for the weekend."
The cabin isn't luxurious by any standard—a simple one-bedroom structure with a small porch, surrounded by towering pines. But it's clean, private, and nestled in the kind of peaceful natural setting that feels worlds away from Brooklyn.
Lena's eyes widen as she takes it in. "It's perfect," she declares, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "Like something from a rustic fairytale."
"Complete with slightly unreliable plumbing and possibly a family of raccoons living under the porch," I add, pulling to a stop. "But Dave swears the bed is comfortable and the fireplace works."
"You had me at fireplace." She leans across the console to kiss me quickly. "Thank you for planning this. I didn't realize how much I needed to escape until right now."
We unload the car—groceries, overnight bags, the guitar I brought at Lena's insistence. The interior of the cabin is exactly as Dave described: cozy if somewhat dated, with a stone fireplace dominating the main room, a small kitchenette in the corner, and a bedroom just big enough for a queen-sized bed. The furnishings are mismatched but comfortable, evoking a simpler time before mid-century modern became trendy again.
"No proper lighting for photos," Lena observes, a teasing glint in her eye. "Whatever shall I do?"
"You could try just experiencing things without documenting them," I suggest, playing along. "I hear some people do that occasionally."
"Sounds fake, but okay." She wanders to the large windows overlooking a small clearing behind the cabin. "Wow. The view is incredible."
I move to stand behind her, arms encircling her waist as we both take in the vista—dense forest, a slice of lake visible in the distance, the late afternoon sun casting golden light through the trees. She leans back against me, a comfortable weight, her hands coming to rest on mine at her stomach.
"This was a good idea," she says softly. "Just us, no distractions."
"That was the plan." I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "No schedule, no obligations. We can do whatever we want."
She turns in my arms, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "Whatever we want, huh?"
"Within reason," I clarify. "Dave specifically mentioned no skinny-dipping in the lake because, and I quote, 'the neighbors are cool but not that cool.'"
"Noted." She rises on tiptoes to kiss me properly, her body pressing against mine in a way that suggests she has very specific ideas about how to start our weekend. "But there are plenty of other options."
My hands slide to her hips, pulling her closer. "I'm open to suggestions."
"First," she says, surprising me by stepping back, "I want to explore. I haven't been in a proper forest since I was a kid at summer camp."
"Explore now, other activities later?" I confirm, amused by her enthusiasm.
"Exactly." She's already heading for the door, pausing to slip on her shoes. "Coming?"
We spend the next hour wandering the trails around the cabin, Lena exclaiming over interesting rocks and unusual plants with childlike delight. I watch her, struck by how different she seems here—unguarded, playful, completely present in a way she rarely allows herself to be. When she spots a family of deer at the edge of the clearing, her face lights up with genuine wonder, her hand finding mine and squeezing tightly.
By the time we return to the cabin, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the porch. I build a fire while Lena unpacks the groceries, moving around the small kitchen with surprisingly domestic ease. We work together to prepare a simple dinner—pasta with a sauce I've perfected over years of late-night post-shift meals, crusty bread from a bakery we stopped at on the drive up.
"This is ridiculously good," she declares around a mouthful of pasta. "How did I not know you could cook like this?"
"Limited opportunities to demonstrate my culinary skills in your pristine kitchen," I point out. "You get nervous when I so much as boil water in there."
"That's because you somehow manage to splash sauce on the ceiling," she counters, though her smile takes any sting from the words. "But I might have to reconsider my kitchen ban if you keep cooking like this."
"High praise from someone who survives primarily on takeout and protein bars."
She throws a piece of bread at me, which I catch and eat with exaggerated satisfaction. The simple, playful moment feels precious—just us, being completely ourselves, no performance required.
After dinner, I pour wine into mismatched mugs (Dave's cabin isn't exactly stocked with proper glassware) and join Lena on the worn but comfortable couch in front of the fire. She curls against me immediately, fitting perfectly against my side as if designed specifically for this position.
"Tell me something I don't know about you yet," she says, looking up at me with curious eyes.
"After all this time? I'm an open book to you, Carter."
"There's always more to learn." She traces patterns on my chest through my shirt. "Something from before we met. Something that shaped you."
I consider this, taking a sip of wine while searching for a truth I haven't yet shared. "I almost got married once," I admit finally. "Before Sophie, even. Right after college."
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? What happened?"
"We had it all planned—small ceremony, close friends and family, honeymoon in Costa Rica. Two weeks before the wedding, she got an incredible job offer in Singapore." I shrug, the old pain now just a distant memory. "She chose the job. Probably for the best, looking back."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"Don't be. If it had worked out, I wouldn't be here now. With you." I press a kiss to her forehead. "Your turn. Something I don't know yet."
She's quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "I almost quit social media entirely after Cameron's video," she confesses. "Came really close to deleting everything, changing my name, moving to some small town where no one would recognize me."
"What stopped you?"
"Stubbornness, mostly." She smiles ruefully. "I didn't want him to win, to be the reason I gave up something I'd worked so hard to build. And somewhere beneath all the performative aspects, I still believed in the connection I'd made with my audience. The opportunity to share things that matter."
"Like authenticity," I suggest. "The real kind, not the curated version."
"Exactly." She shifts to look at me directly. "Which is why meeting you—someone who saw through the performance from the beginning—mattered so much. Even if our start was unconventional."
"Unconventional is putting it mildly." I brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingertips lingering against her cheek. "But I wouldn't change how we began, messy as it was. It led us here."
Her eyes soften, something vulnerable and open in her expression. "I love you," she says simply. "The real you, the whole you."
"I love you too." The words come easily now, natural as breathing. "Every version of you, but especially this one—messy bun, coffee-stained leggings, completely yourself."
She sets down her wine, taking mine and placing it beside hers on the small table. Then she straddles my lap in one fluid movement, her arms winding around my neck. "Show me," she whispers, her meaning unmistakable as her body presses against mine.
"Here?" I confirm, hands already finding their way beneath her stolen hoodie to the warm skin beneath. "The bedroom is just steps away."
"Here," she affirms, grinding down slightly to emphasize her point. "In the firelight. Just us."
My hands slide higher, discovering she's wearing nothing beneath the hoodie, the revelation sending heat pooling low in my stomach. "You planned this," I accuse mildly, tracing the curve of her ribs, the softness of her breasts.
"I had hopes," she admits with a small gasp as my thumbs brush across sensitive peaks. "Very specific hopes involving you, me, and possibly that bearskin rug."
"It's not actually bearskin," I inform her, already working the hoodie upward. "Dave says it's synthetic. For which local wildlife are grateful."
"Less talking," she suggests, lifting her arms to help me remove the garment. "More of this."
The hoodie lands somewhere behind the couch, leaving her half-naked in my lap, firelight playing across her skin in a way that makes my breath catch. I've seen her like this countless times now, but the sight never fails to affect me—not just the physical beauty, but the trust implicit in her willingness to be vulnerable, to be completely herself with me.
"You're staring," she observes, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice despite everything we've shared.
"Appreciating," I correct, hands resuming their exploration of newly exposed skin. "You're beautiful, Lena. Especially like this—completely real, completely yourself."
Her smile is soft, intimate in a way she reserves just for me. "Then touch me like you mean it, Donovan."
I oblige, my hands and mouth mapping familiar territory with renewed appreciation—the sensitive spot at the base of her throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder, the subtle weight of her breasts in my palms. She moves against me with increasing urgency, her own hands busy with the buttons of my shirt, pushing fabric aside to find skin.
"Too many clothes," she murmurs against my mouth, tugging at my remaining layers with growing impatience.
"Easily remedied." I stand suddenly, lifting her with me, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist as I carefully maneuver us onto the rug before the fire. She lands beneath me with a soft laugh that transforms into a moan as I trail kisses down her neck, her chest, her stomach.
The rest of our clothing falls away between kisses and caresses, discarded carelessly around us as skin meets skin in the warm glow of the firelight. We take our time, exploring with the thoroughness of those who know each other's bodies well yet still find wonder in each discovery. When I finally enter her, her legs wrapped around my hips, her hands tangled in my hair, the connection feels both familiar and brand new—as if we're finding each other again for the first time.
"I love you," I whisper against her lips as we move together, the words both declaration and promise.
"I love you," she echoes, her body arching to meet mine, her eyes holding my gaze with unguarded emotion.
We find our rhythm easily, the synchronicity of those completely attuned to each other's needs and desires. The fire crackles beside us, casting dancing shadows across our entwined forms as tension builds, as pleasure spirals higher between us. When release claims her, I watch in wonder as she comes apart in my arms, my name on her lips, her body tightening around mine. I follow moments later, unable to resist the pull of her, the perfect connection we've found together.
Afterward, we lie tangled on the rug, my arm cushioning her head, her leg thrown across mine as our breathing gradually slows. The fire has burned lower, bathing us in gentle warmth as night presses against the windows.
"I could get used to this," she murmurs, tracing idle patterns on my chest. "You, me, middle of nowhere, no phones, no schedule."
"We could run away," I suggest, only half-joking. "Build a cabin, live off the land, become forest hermits."
"You'd last approximately three days without decent coffee," she points out. "And I'd miss indoor plumbing."
"Fair points. Weekend escapes it is."
She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face with unexpected seriousness. "But we could do this more often. Prioritize time that's just for us, away from everything else."
"I'd like that." I brush my knuckles gently along her jaw. "Time for just Max and Lena, no other identities required."
"Speaking of identities..." She hesitates, a familiar furrow appearing between her brows. "Victoria mentioned extending the Luminous Beauty contract for another year. With some adjustments to reflect our 'evolved relationship status.'"
"How do you feel about that?" I ask carefully, aware of the complex emotions she has about her professional obligations.
"Conflicted," she admits. "On one hand, it's good money and exposure for both of us. On the other hand, I'm trying to move away from performing relationships for public consumption."
"We don't have to decide tonight," I remind her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "This weekend is about us, not contracts or campaigns."
Her smile returns, warm and genuine. "You're right. Future problems for future us."
"Exactly." I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Present us has much more interesting activities planned."
"Oh really?" She raises an eyebrow, mischief returning to her expression. "Such as?"
"Such as testing Dave's claim about the supposedly comfortable bed," I suggest, already shifting to stand, pulling her up with me. "Among other theories that require thorough investigation."
Her laugh—uninhibited, joyful, completely real—follows us to the bedroom, where we spend the rest of the night proving various theories about comfort, compatibility, and creative uses for limited space.
In the morning, I wake before she does, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her asleep beside me—hair a tangled mess across the pillow, one arm flung dramatically above her head, lips slightly parted in peaceful slumber. Three years ago, I was a bartender with a dusty guitar and a fear of both failure and success. Now I'm in a cabin in the Catskills with Lena Carter, watching her sleep and planning breakfast, music flowing through my mind for the first time in years.
Life takes unexpected turns, relationships begin in the strangest of ways, and sometimes what starts as performance becomes the most authentic thing you've ever known. As Lena stirs beside me, reaching for me even before she's fully awake, I send silent gratitude to whatever cosmic alignment brought her into my bar that night with her ridiculous fake relationship proposal.
Some arrangements, it turns out, are worth breaking all the rules for.