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“Aiden?”

“Yes.”

“Last night. The things you said.”

“I meant all of them.”

“I know you did. That’s what I’m—” I close my eyes. “Today is going to be complicated.”

“I know.”

“There are going to be a lot of people and a lot of questions, and we have to be convincing, and I need you to—”

“Ruby.”

“Yeah?”

His arm tightens slightly. Not much. Just enough. “I don’t need instructions for today. I know what to do.”

“You do?”

“Stay close to you. Pay attention. Be honest when I can and careful when I can’t.” He pauses. “And don’t tell anyone their cortisol levels are elevated.”

I laugh. It comes out as more of a snort, muffled by the pillow, and his arm tightens again around me—a response to the sound, involuntary, the way his body keeps doing things his brain didn’t authorize.

“That’s actually a very good list,” I say.

“I’ve been composing it for approximately four hours.”

I roll over to face him. He’s right there—inches away on the pillow, dark eyes steady, hair flattened on one side from lying still all night. He looks rumpled, which shouldn’t be possible for a man who was assembled in a lab, but the hotel pillow did something to his hair that makes him look almost human. Almost touchable. Almost mine.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” The corner of his mouth lifts. The real smile, the asymmetrical one. “Your hair is doing something unusual.”

“It’s called bedhead.”

“I like it.”

“You like everything about me. You’re not a reliable source.”

“I’m the most reliable source. I have more data than anyone.”

“I need to get up,” I say into his shirt. “The wedding starts at four. I need to get coffee, shower, do my hair, get dressed, eat something—”

I peel myself out of his arms. It takes more effort than it should—not because he’s holding on, but because I don’t want to leave the warm, steady, hum-filled cocoon that his body creates. I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hands through the hair situation and take stock of the day ahead.

Later today, I will watch my cousin get married. My mother will cry. My brother will stand there looking suspicious. My ex-boyfriend will be in the room with his fiancée. And the man I brought as my fake date will be beside me, performing a relationship that I’m increasingly terrified is not a performance at all.

Great. Fine. No problems here.

The hotel restaurant does a continental breakfast, and I need coffee badly enough to risk the social exposure.

“Stay here,” I tell Aiden. “I’ll only be gone long enough to grab a to-go coffee.”

“As you wish.”

I take the elevator down alone, which feels strange because I’ve gotten used to his presence beside me—the warmth, the height, the way rooms feel different when he’s in them. The lobby is bright and busy with wedding guests milling around in various states of dressed-up. I spot two of Natalie’s bridesmaids by the front desk and a cluster of Ethan’s fraternity brothers by the windows, and I keep my head down and make for the restaurant.