“Hey, I’m trying to be a singer, not an actress. I can’t hide anything on my face.”
“Clearly.” That mischievous look is back in his eyes. “The problem is my sponsors aren’t nearly as understanding as you. And neither is Ferrari. They’re threatening to pull out if I don’t clean up my image and…” He trails off and goes quiet, tapping the bar surface. Then his eyes light up. “Holy shit. Wait. That thing you said before about the rom-com save?”
“Yeah?” I’m already suspicious of his look.
“We should do it.”
My brain completely short-circuits. I stare at him, mouth open. “I’m sorry, dowhat?”
“Think about it.” He’s getting animated now, hands moving as he talks. “I’m stuck in Dark River for the next month or so anyway. You need followers for your music career, and you’d get a ton of attention dating me. I need image rehabilitation, so your whole wholesome small-town vibe is perfect. We fake date for a couple months, post some photos, attend a few events, everybody wins.”
“Absolutely not.” I start laughing because what else do you do when someone suggests something this insane? “That’s—no. That’s crazy.”
“People do this all the time in my world. PR relationships are standard.AndI’ve got nine million Instagram followers,” he adds, dangling it like bait.
“Ninemillion?” My voice cracks.
“Something like that. Maybe ten million by now. I honestly don’t check that often.” He says it with a casual wave, like ten million people paying attention to his life is totally normal and not absolutely mind-blowing.
“That’s…” I can’t even finish the sentence. I should laugh this off. Send him home. Forget this conversation. But those followers…
“Think about it, Lark,” he says. “One post from me mentioning your music?”
“Okay, but wouldn’t being publicly associated with you be bad for my image?” I try to think logically. “Even if the video isn’t true, no one else knows that. The entire world thinks you were doing drugs at a party. That can’t be great for me.”
“Any publicity is good publicity,” he counters immediately.
“Didn’t youjustsay that bad publicity is actively ruining your contract negotiations?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Touché.” He laughs, not even trying to defend it. “But nobody’s going to think less of you for dating me. If anything, it makes you more interesting.Local girl tames bad boy F1 driver?People eat that up.”
“Tames?” I deadpan. “What am I, a lion tamer?”
“You know what I mean. The narrative changes for both of us. I’m not the party guy anymore, I’m the guy who fell for the talented local musician. You’re not just another aspiring artist, you’re dating a famous driver.”
“So I’m reputation rehab?” I say, trying to look skeptical even though my brain is already frantically calculating how many Instagram followers I could potentially gain from just one post on his account.
“And I’m massive exposure. Fair trade.” His eyes are dancing. He knows he’s reeling me in.
I think about Brandon’s face when Jack’s arm went around me. About Maya’s email saying they need to see I can bring an audience. About ten million potential fans.
“My sponsors want ‘stability and maturity,’” he explains, making air quotes. “A talented girlfriend from my hometown who has actual goals? Doesn’t do drugs? You’re perfect, nice and wholesome. And you get access to my entire following.”
“Oh my god, I’m actually considering this.” I press my palms to my cheeks. “This is what rock bottom feels like, isn’t it? Standing in an empty bar, seriously contemplating a fake relationship with Jack Midnight purely for Instagram followers. My therapist is going to need her own therapist.”
He laughs, loud and genuine, then says, “It’s not rock bottom at all, Lark. It’s strategic thinking. Like a business merger.”
“Abusinessmerger?” I laugh. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don’t you?”
He grins, clearly pleased I haven’t completely shut down the idea yet. “Think of the perks. Instagram exposure, Brandon’sface whenever he sees us, and you get to hang out with me all summer. Win-win-win situation.”
“Your ego is truly something to behold, Midnight.”
“It’s one of my best features,” he replies with a self-satisfied smirk.
I roll my eyes hard. “Okay, but there’s a giant hole in your logic. I’m not even that wholesome. I spent more than a few nights in my youth dancing on bar tops during girls’ nights out. I literally work at a bar serving alcohol, for crying out loud.” I drop my voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. “And last week I said ‘fuck’ in front of Pastor Miller’s seven-year-old daughter during trivia night, and she then went and repeated it word-for-word during Sunday school. I’m basically going straight to hell.”
“That’s cute, but some dancing and occasional swearing hardly counts as wild behavior,” he says with an amused look. “Those are very different kinds of parties than what my sponsors are worried about. Plus this isn’t exactly some sketchy dive bar situation. There’s aConnect Fourgrid in the corner and you serve mocktails.”
