I follow his gaze to the stack of board games Maren keeps specifically for family trivia nights. The Black Lantern really is practically a postcard for small-town charm—string lights year-round, locally sourced menu, dogs and kids welcome. Half the town brings their children here for weekend lunch and trivia nights. Dammit, he has a valid point.
“I can’t believe I’m negotiating terms.” I tap my nails against the bar top anxiously. “If—and I mean IF—we actually did this ridiculous thing, what would we even tell people?”
“The truth, modified.” He leans back. “We reconnected at the wedding, sparks flew. The Brandon thing happened, I asked you out. It writes itself.”
“Nobody would believe I’d date you,” I point out. “I’ve called you a fuckboy to your face, and behind your back more than once.”
His grin widens. “That’s exactly what makes it believable. Everyone loves a reformed bad boy story.”
“You’re not reformed though,” I point out dryly.
“They don’t know that.” He winks, and I hate that it’s actually charming.
“How long would we even do this?” I can’t believe I’m really asking.
“Two months minimum. Through September.” His expression shifts to something more calculated. “My contract stuff should be sorted by then, and that gives you solid exposure.”
“And then what happens?” I find myself leaning forward despite my better judgment.
“Mutual, amicable breakup. Distance got too hard with me back in Europe. We tried to make it work but it wasn’t meant to be. Still friends, no drama whatsoever.”
I chew my lip. “If we did this… I’d have to tell Maren. She’s my best friend.”
“No way.” He shakes his head firmly. “She’d tell Calvin, who’d tell my other brothers. And Alex is a horrible secret keeper. Too many people would know. Too easy for it to get out.”
“But she’ll know something’s off,” I say, fidgeting with a coaster. “She can read me like a book.”
“Look,” he leans forward. “The fewer people who know, the better. Either Maren has to lie to her husband about his own brother, or Calvin finds out and lectures me about responsibility. Neither option is great.”
Dammit, he’s right. Asking Maren to lie to Calvin isn’t fair at all. Putting Maren in that position, making her choose betweenme and her husband? That’s not something I can do to my best friend.
I sigh, already feeling guilty. “Fine. But if she figures it out and gets mad, I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Deal. I’ll take full responsibility for corrupting you.” He places a hand over his heart solemnly.
“Okay, if we’re doing this, we need ground rules.” I try to think practically. “First rule: no kissing.”
“What?” he asks, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’m not saying we need to make out constantly, but people who are dating generally kiss sometimes.”
I cross my arms defensively. “Not necessarily. Some people aren’t into PDA at all. For all anyone knows, I’m one of those people.”
“Okay, then hand holding at absolute minimum,” he counters.
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m not a prude. Hand holding is fine. And hand on waist is acceptable when we’re in public together, I guess. For believability purposes.”
“I can work with those parameters.” He drums his fingers on the bar, thinking. “You’ll need to come to any racing events I have scheduled this summer though. There are a few sponsorship things. Including one in Miami.”
I gulp.Miami. The only times I’ve traveled are to visit extended family in Mexico or my parents in Southern California. This is racing world Miami with Jack Midnight. “Okay… sure. And you share me on your social media and mention my music? But naturally, not an obvious promotion?”
“Of course.” He flashes that dimpled grin. “Professional and subtle. And we need to be seen around town together regularly too. Coffee shops, restaurants. Full visibility in Dark River.”
This is suddenly feeling overwhelming. I’m going to be lying to the entire town. Great. “Alright. And absolutely no dramawhen we eventually fake break up. I mean it. No messy ending that makes me look like the girl who got dumped by the famous racing driver.”
“Scout’s honor.” He holds up three fingers in what I assume is supposed to be a scout salute.
“Were you even a Scout?” I ask suspiciously.
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “For like three days when I was nine. Got kicked out for hot-wiring the scoutmaster’s car and taking it for a joyride around the campground.”
