Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Leo
I’ve learned to recognize the signs of an incoming Archie scheme.
There’s a particular quality to his silence when he’s plotting. A brightness in his eyes that suggests neurons firing in patterns that will inevitably result in my humiliation. A slight curve to his mouth that says he’s already three moves ahead and enjoying the view.
He’s got all of those signs right now, sitting across from me at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched and an expression of studied innocence.
I should run.
Instead, I pour myself my own coffee and wait for the trap to spring.
“We need to talk,” Archie says.
Those words feel like the opening moves in a chess game.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this conversation?”
“Probably because you’re an intelligent man with good instincts.” He smiles, all sunshine and hidden edges. “But hear me out anyway.”
“I’m listening.” I take a sip of coffee because I’m fairly sure I’m going to need caffeine in my system for whatever’s coming.
“I need you to be my boyfriend.”
I inhale approximately forty percent of my coffee. The remaining sixty percent ends up distributed across my chin, my shirt, and I suspect a small amount lands on Archie’s cast.
He watches my respiratory crisis with the serene patience of someone who’s achieved exactly the reaction they were aiming for.
“I need clarification,” I say, once I’ve stopped attempting to drown on dry land. “When you say boyfriend, do you mean actual boyfriend, or is this another situation where I end up in a costume?”
“I mean, if you want costumes to be involved, I’m sure we can arrange something.” Archie’s eyes glint with mischief. “I do have an extensive collection. Some of them are even designed for two people.”
I’m not going to ask about the two-person costumes. I’m absolutely not going to ask.
“Fake boyfriend,” he clarifies, taking pity on me.
Or possibly just wanting to deliver more information before I recover enough to flee.
“My godmother is visiting London, and she’s really protective of me.
If she sees me injured and living with a stranger, she’ll want to move in and take care of me.
But if she thinks I have a devoted partner who’s looking after me, she’ll relax. ”
“And I’m the devoted partner in this scenario.”
“You’re already living with me and helping me out. We just need to add a romantic dimension.”
A romantic dimension. He says it like we’re discussing a business proposal. Like my pulse isn’t doing something inconvenient at the mere suggestion.
“But I’m the one who broke your ankle.”
“She doesn’t need to know that part.”
I should say no. This has disaster written all over it in letters large enough to see from space. Pretending to be Archie’s boyfriend means touching him. Looking at him the way a boyfriend would. Letting people believe we’re together when every day I’m fighting not to want exactly that.
Every day I stay here, the lie between us gets harder to undo. And now he wants me to stand in front of someone who actually loves him and add another layer to it.
“What would it involve?” I ask because my survival instincts have completely abandoned me.
Archie’s smile widens. He knows he’s winning.
“Just the usual. Some casual affection. Pet names if you’re feeling ambitious. The kind of lingering eye contact that says ‘I’ve seen this man naked and I liked what I saw.’” He chuckles at my expression. “Too much? We can workshop that.”
My face is still doing something I can’t control. “How long would this charade need to continue?”
“Just a week or two. However long Elizabeth’s visit lasts.” He leans forward. “Come on, Leo. Think of it as a challenge. You’ve survived princess parties and inflatable dinosaur costumes. How hard can playing the role of my boyfriend be?”
The answer is: very hard. Extremely hard. Potentially the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
But I’ve never been able to resist a challenge. Especially not one delivered with that particular smile, I’m finding.
“If I agree,” I say slowly, “we need ground rules.”
“I love ground rules. Very sexy.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Lay them on me.”
“Physical contact stays within reasonable bounds. Nothing that would be inappropriate in front of your godmother.”
“Agreed. We’ll keep things PG-13.”
“We establish a backstory and stick to it. No improvising details that I’ll have to remember later.”
“Smart. We’ll need to work up a relationship history before she gets here.”
“Then…” I take a breath. “I suppose I’m your boyfriend.”
Archie’s smile could now power a small city. “I knew you’d see reason.”
“I’m not seeing reason. I’m seeing myself being manipulated by a man who’s too clever for his own good.”
Archie has a weird reaction to my words. His smile falters for just a second before he recovers and sends me a wink.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.”
Darling. My stomach does something entirely unhelpful at that word said in Archie’s voice.
What have I gotten myself into?
I’m asking myself that the next morning while I aggressively wipe down the coffee table for the fourth time.
I shouldn’t be nervous, but apparently, I care what my fake boyfriend’s godmother thinks about the tidiness of our apartment.
Archie’s description of Elizabeth has me on edge. She’s English originally, from an aristocratic family, and moved to America in her twenties when she married some Wall Street type. Old money on both sides of the Atlantic.
So I plump pillows that don’t need plumping, straighten picture frames that were already straight, and consider whether the angle of the TV remote on the coffee table conveys “happy couple.”
As I fuss, I realize how much the apartment has changed in the last few weeks.
It no longer gives off impersonal hotel-room vibes.
There’s a half-completed jigsaw puzzle on the dining table, a collection of dog-walking leads hanging by the door, and a shared grocery list on the counter in both our handwriting.
Archie’s glitter-stained party bag is next to my leather briefcase.
My dog-walking shoes sit by the door next to his one functioning shoe.
Under all of my nervous puttering is a darker worry: Elizabeth has known the Mansleys for decades.
When Vaughn and I worked together, Archie was just a teenager, but Elizabeth wasn’t.
There’s a non-zero chance Vaughn might have mentioned me at some point, and she’s going to take one look at me, tilt her head, and say, “Leo Brennan, where do I know that name from?”
Archie is propped up on the couch with his cast elevated, watching me clean with the expression of a director observing an actor who isn’t quite hitting his marks. He’s also holding a clipboard.
Archie and a clipboard are never a good combination.
“Okay,” he says, clicking a pen. “Let’s start with the basics. How did we meet?”
“You know how we met.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Yes, but Elizabeth doesn’t. We need a cute story.” He taps the pen against his lips. “We can’t exactly tell her you assaulted me with maple syrup.”
“I didn’t assault you—”
“Focus, Leo. Meet-cute. Go.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We met at a restaurant. I spilled something on you. I felt terrible. I insisted on helping you.”
“Boring. Where’s the romance?”
“There wasn’t any romance. I gave you a broken ankle.”
“Which is why we need to embellish.” He scribbles something in his notebook. “How about: we locked eyes across the restaurant. There was an instant connection. You were so flustered by how attractive I was that you accidentally knocked over your drink.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“It’s what we’re telling Elizabeth.” He looks up, eyes bright. “Now, we need a fake anniversary. How about…?” He considers. “Three months ago. That’s recent enough to still be in the honeymoon phase but long enough to have moved in together.”
“No one moves in together after three months.”
“We did. It was very romantic. You swept me off my feet.” He grins. “Well, technically, you swept me off my feet and onto a hospital floor, but we’re reframing that.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Now, physical affection. Come sit next to me.”
It’s such an innocent request, yet I approach the sofa like it’s rigged with explosives and sit near him.
Archie’s cast is propped up on the coffee table. He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s ridden up slightly at the hip. I try not to notice that. Instead, I focus on a point approximately six inches above his head.
“Closer,” Archie instructs. “Couples don’t leave a polite two-foot buffer between them.”
I move closer. Our thighs are almost touching now.
“Good. Now put your arm around me.”
“What?”
“Arm. Around me. It’s a very standard boyfriend move, Leo. I promise I won’t bite.” He pauses, then gives me a cheeky grin. “Unless you ask nicely.”
I choose not to respond to that.
Instead, I put my arm around him.
It’s a disaster.
Not because it’s awkward, but because it isn’t. Archie fits against my side like he belongs there, and my brain starts to measure data I don’t want, like the exact temperature of his skin through his shirt, the rhythm of his breathing, and the small scar on his ear that I’ve never noticed before.
“See? Painless,” Archie says, settling more comfortably against me. His hand lands on my thigh and stays there.
I lose my train of thought entirely.
“But you need to make sure you’re snuggling in close. You know, like you actually like me.”
“I do actually like you,” I say without thinking.
Archie goes completely still.
When he turns to look at me, his face is closer than I expected, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
Something that I can’t read flickers across his expression.
“Well,” he says, recovering quickly. His voice is slightly different, though—softer at the edges. “That’s a start.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, it is.”