stargazer

You had also learned that John Shelby was trouble.

Not in the way men usually were. Not the cheap sort of trouble that came with a hand at your waist before permission or a smile that curdled when you said no. John’s trouble was brighter than that. It came in with his hat tilted back, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, eyes full of humor even before he said a word.

He was too easy to look at, and worse, too easy to like.

That was the dangerous part.

“You’ve written that same number twice,” Polly said from beside you.

You startled, pencil slipping slightly between your fingers. “Sorry?”

Polly reached over, tapped the book with one painted nail, and gave you a look sharp enough to make you straighten. “I said you’ve written the same number twice.”

“Oh.” You leaned closer, heat rising in your face as you saw the mistake. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gray. I’ll fix it.”

“It’s Polly,” she said. “And if you call me Mrs. Gray every time you make a mistake, I’ll start thinking you’re trying to make me feel old.”

From across the room, John laughed.

You did not look up. You had been trying very hard, all morning, not to look up.

It was impossible to miss him anyway. He had come in half an hour ago with Arthur, bringing cold air and cigarette smoke with him, his coat dark from the damp outside. Since then, he had made a show of pretending to help, which mostly meant leaning near the counter and distracting anyone within reach.

“You’re making her nervous, John boy,” Arthur said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“I’m standing here.”

“You’re never just standing anywhere. Always got to be doing something with your face.”

John turned, offended. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Arthur looked at you, as if inviting you to answer.

You bent over the book, carefully scratching out the mistake. You did not trust yourself to speak. If you said nothing, perhaps they would forget you were there.

They did not.

“Leave her be,” Polly said. “She does more work in an hour than either of you do in a day.”

John put a hand over his chest. “That hurt, Pol.”

“Good.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get away from you.

John saw it anyway.

That was another thing about him. He noticed too much.

You felt his attention before you heard him move. Then he was closer, not crowding you, but close enough that the scent of smoke and soap reached you over the paper and ink.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said. “My face is well liked around here.”

You glanced up despite yourself.

He was smiling, but not the broad one he wore for everyone else. This was smaller. Almost careful. Like he had lowered his voice for you alone and hadn’t quite known why.

“I’m sure it is,” you said.

Arthur made a noise from behind him.

John pointed without turning. “Shut up.”

“I never said nothing.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking she’s got sense, that one. More than you.”

The smile escaped you then, quick and unwilling, and John looked so pleased by it that you immediately lowered your eyes again.

Polly watched all of this in silence.

She watched you tuck your pencil behind your ear with fingers that weren’t as steady as they had been before John came over. She watched John reach for a stack of slips he did not need, only to forget what he was doing because you had smiled at something Arthur said. She watched Arthur watch the two of you and roll his eyes to the ceiling as if asking God for strength.

By the end of your third week, everyone in the betting shop knew.

Everyone except you and John.

You knew that John was kind to you, but you did not let yourself build anything from kindness. You had done that before. You had taken a smile and made it into promise, taken a man’s attention and dressed it up as devotion, only to be left sitting alone outside a picture house while rain soaked through your shoes.

Once, a man had told you he loved how soft you were. Two months later, you found out he had been saying the same thing to a barmaid with brighter lipstick and easier laughter.

You had learned, slowly and painfully, that men liked sweetness until it bored them. They liked quiet girls until they wanted someone louder. They liked being adored until it asked something of them.

So when John brought you tea without asking, you told yourself he had brought tea for everyone.

When he walked you to the end of Watery Lane after dark, you told yourself Tommy must have told him to.

When he leaned over your shoulder and asked you to check his figures, even though you were fairly certain John Shelby could count money in his sleep, you told yourself he was being polite.

And when his hand brushed yours over a pile of betting slips and he went still for half a second, you told yourself you had imagined it.

John, for his part, thought you were too good to be looked at for too long.

It was ridiculous, and he knew it. He had never been shy. He had never lacked words around women, never struggled to turn a smile into something more if he wanted. But with you, he found himself saying the wrong things or nothing at all.

He liked the way you listened before you answered. He liked that you thanked men who did not deserve it, then looked secretly pleased when Polly snapped at them afterward. He liked the little frown you made when you were adding numbers, and the way you pressed your thumb against the edge of paper before turning a page.

He liked that you were gentle without being weak.

That was the thing that got him worst.

You were gentle in a house full of sharp edges, and John could not understand why that made him want to stand between you and every door that opened.

“Ask her to the pictures,” Ada said one afternoon, perched on the corner of Tommy’s desk like she owned it.

John was cleaning mud from under his fingernail with a letter opener. He did not look at her. “Ask who?”

Ada stared at him.

John kept scraping at his nail.

“Right,” she said. “Play thick. Suits you.”

Tommy, who had been reading by the window, did not lift his head. “She’s talking about Y/n.”

“I know who she’s talking about.”

“Then answer her.”

John set the letter opener down a little too hard. “Nothing to answer.”

Ada laughed. “You look at her like a starving dog outside a butcher’s.”

Arthur, standing near the door with a cigarette between his fingers, let out a bark of laughter. “That’s true, that is.”

John pointed at him. “You stay out of it.”

“Gladly. Sick of watching it.”

“There’s nothing to watch.”

At that, Tommy finally looked up.

John hated when Tommy looked at him like that. Calm. Knowing. Annoying.

“You’ve scared men for less than standing too close to her,” Tommy said.

John’s jaw tightened. “Men should know where to stand.”

Ada softened a little. “And where should you stand?”

John had no answer for that.

He looked through the glass of Tommy’s office instead, out into the shop where you were helping Polly sort the afternoon’s books. You were holding a stack of papers close to your chest, nodding as Polly spoke. A loose piece of hair had fallen near your cheek, and you kept trying to push it back with the back of your wrist because your hands were full.

John had the stupid, sudden urge to go over and do it for you.

He stayed where he was.

“She’s not for men like us,” he said.

Ada’s face changed.

Arthur stopped smiling.

Tommy said nothing, but his gaze moved from John to the window, where you had gone still just outside the office door.

You had come to bring Polly’s ledger in. The book was heavy against your ribs, your fingers curled around the spine of it so tightly that the corners dug into your hand.

John did not see you at first.

“She’s a good girl,” he went on, quieter now, rougher around the edges. “What’s she going to do with all this, eh? With me?”

The words reached you with no kindness attached to them.

She’s not for men like us.

A good girl.

What’s she going to do with me?

It should not have hurt as much as it did. You had no claim on him. No promise. No right to feel as though something had been taken from you. Still, your throat tightened so suddenly that you had to turn away before anyone saw your face change.

Polly saw.

Of course Polly saw.

You set the ledger on the nearest table instead of taking it into the office and went back to your work with your head low.

John noticed the difference within the hour.

At first, he thought you were busy. Then he thought you were tired. Then, when he asked if you wanted him to walk you home and you told him no without looking at him, he felt something drop hard in his stomach.

“No?” he repeated.

You wrapped your scarf around your neck, fingers moving quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s dark.”

“I know the way.”

John glanced toward Polly, but she was watching him with an expression that offered no help at all.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

You looked at him then. It was worse than if you had kept your eyes down. There was no anger in your face, no accusation. Just a careful little distance where warmth had been that morning.

“No,” you said. “Goodnight, John.”

He stood there, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, and watched you leave.

For three days, you were polite to him.

That was how John knew he had done something truly terrible.

You answered when he spoke. You smiled when other people were looking. You passed him papers when asked and thanked him if he held the door. But you no longer lingered near his desk. You no longer made tea and left his cup closer than the others. You no longer looked at him like you were trying not to.

By the third day, Arthur had lost patience.

“She’s avoiding you,” he said.

John was leaning against the counter, watching you speak to a customer at the far end of the shop. “I noticed.”

“Good. Thought you’d gone blind as well as stupid.”

John slid him a look. “Arthur.”

“What? You have. Walking round here with a face like someone kicked your dog and all because you won’t say what you mean.”

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Don’t know what I mean.”

Arthur scoffed. “You want her.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually. You just make things worse because you’ve got a Shelby head on you.”

Before John could answer, the door opened.

The man who walked in had a smile that made your hand freeze over the slip you were writing.

He was dressed well enough to want people to notice, collar neat, hair slicked, gloves tucked into one hand. Nothing about him looked particularly threatening, and perhaps that was why the sight of him made you feel so foolish. He was not a monster. He was just a man. Just a man who had once made you feel chosen, then left you feeling like something easy to set down.

“Y/n,” he said, smiling wider. “Well. Look at you.”

Your pencil rolled from your fingers.

John saw.

The whole shop seemed to shift around that one small sound.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

The man leaned against the counter. Too familiar. Too comfortable. “That any way to greet an old friend?”

You swallowed. “If you’re placing a bet, I can take it. Otherwise—”

“Listen to that,” he said, looking around as if he had an audience. “All proper now, are we?”

John pushed away from the counter.

Arthur caught his sleeve. Not to stop him, exactly. Just to warn him to wait.

The man’s gaze moved over the shop, taking in the Shelby men, then back to you. “Didn’t think this was your sort of place.”

“It’s work.”

“Mm. Your father know you’re working for them?”

“That’s none of your business.”

His smile thinned. There it was. The part you remembered. The quick change when you did not give him what he wanted.

“I was only asking,” he said. “No need to get upset. You always did take things too much to heart.”

You looked down at the counter.

He leaned in just a little.

“Still looking at men like they owe you something, are you? That was always your trouble.” He gave a small laugh, soft enough that it might have passed for harmless to anyone who did not hear the blade under it. “Too easy to disappoint.”

You did not move.

You felt, horribly, like every person in the room had heard him reach into you and name the thing you tried hardest to hide.

John did move then.

Arthur did not stop him.

John crossed the shop in a few quick strides and came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours, but not touching. His eyes were on the man across the counter.

“You placed your bet?” John asked.

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

“Your bet,” John said. “You come in to place one, place it. You come in for something else, walk back out.”

The man looked John up and down, doing a poor job of pretending he was not nervous. “I was having a conversation.”

“No,” John said. “You were talking at a woman who clearly finished with you long before today.”

Your breath caught.

The man’s face tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

John smiled then, but there was nothing easy in it. “Everything in this shop concerns me.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The man looked at Arthur, then at the door, then back at John. Whatever he saw in John’s face helped him make his decision.

He straightened, smoothing his gloves as if leaving had been his plan all along. “Fine. No need for all this.”

John did not step back.

The man gave you one last look, meant to make you feel small.

It might have worked, if John had not shifted slightly in front of you.

The door shut behind him.

Noise returned slowly. A cough. A chair scraping. Arthur muttering something under his breath as he turned away.

You stared at the counter.

John looked at your hands first. They were curled tightly against the wood.

“You all right?” he asked.

It was the gentleness in his voice that nearly undid you.

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words came sharper than you meant them to. John’s face changed, not with anger, but surprise.

You stepped back from the counter. “Excuse me.”

“Y/n—”

“I need air.”

You moved before he could stop you, pushing through the side door into the narrow yard behind the shop. The cold hit your face and helped a little. Not enough.

You pressed your hands to your mouth, embarrassed by the way they shook.

You had not cried when you found out he cheated. You had not cried outside the picture house, not until you got home and took off your wet shoes. You had not cried after the second man stood you up, or the third, when your friend told you perhaps you were trying too hard.

But this felt worse.

Because John had seen.

John, who you had been stupid enough to hope about. John, who thought you were not for men like him and now knew exactly the sort of woman you were. One who could be laughed at. One who could be left. One who still stood there and let a man from her past make her feel like a fool with one sentence.

The door opened behind you.

You wiped quickly beneath your eyes, turning your face away. “Please don’t.”

John stopped a few feet from you. “I won’t come closer.”

That made you feel worse somehow.

He stayed by the door, hands low, shoulders tense beneath his coat. For once, he looked unsure of himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “You didn’t say it.”

“No. But I should’ve knocked his teeth out for it.”

“You can’t knock everyone’s teeth out for me.”

“I can make a decent start.”

Despite yourself, your mouth trembled close to a smile before it disappeared.

John saw that too.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You looked down at the wet ground. “For what?”

He was quiet for a second too long.

“For whatever I did that made you stop looking at me.”

Your chest tightened.

The yard felt too small suddenly, the walls too close, the air too cold in your lungs.

“You didn’t do anything,” you said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He took half a step forward, then stopped himself. “You’ve barely spoken to me for three days. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“I thought that might be easier for you.”

John frowned. “Easier?”

You folded your arms around yourself. “I heard you.”

“When?”

“In Tommy’s office. You said I wasn’t for men like you.”

His face went still.

You hated that stillness. It gave you time to fill in the silence yourself, and you had never been kind in the way you filled silence.

“It’s all right,” you said, before he could speak. “You don’t have to explain it. I know what you meant.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” he said, sharper now, then immediately softened his voice. “Y/n, you don’t.”

You finally looked at him.

John dragged a hand over his face, laughing once under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Christ. I’m bad at this.”

“At what?”

“At wanting something without ruining it.”

The words sat between you.

He looked away first, jaw working as though he was trying to force the rest out and resented needing to say it at all.

“When I said you weren’t for men like us, I didn’t mean I didn’t want you,” he said. “I meant I wanted you too much and didn’t know what the hell to do about it.”

You stared at him.

John looked back at you then, eyes steady despite the nervous movement of his fingers at his side.

“You come in here with your quiet voice and your careful hands, and you make this place feel less like it’s made out of smoke and shouting. And I know what I am. I know what people say about us. About me.” His mouth twisted. “I thought if I had any sense, I’d leave you alone before you got pulled into it.”

You breathed out slowly. “So you were protecting me?”

“Trying to.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

The answer came too quickly to be anything but honest.

John stepped closer, just one pace, and this time you did not move away.

“I know,” he said again. “And I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping back. But then you stopped bringing me tea and started calling me Mr. Shelby in that voice—”

“I did not.”

“You did. Awful thing. Like being stabbed with good manners.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

John’s expression changed at the sound, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

Then the feeling that had been sitting in your chest all afternoon rose again, and you looked away.

“What he said in there,” you said. “It’s true, in a way.”

John’s face hardened. “No, it isn’t.”

“You don’t know what I mean.”

“I know enough.”

You shook your head. “I do expect things. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I expect people to mean what they say. I expect them to come back when they promise they will. I expect them to choose me because I would’ve chosen them.” Your voice thinned, and you hated it. “And then when they don’t, I feel stupid for ever thinking they might.”

John was quiet.

You stared at the brick wall opposite you, at the damp darkening the edges, at anything but him.

“I know I’m not exciting,” you said. “I know I’m not the sort of woman men lose their heads over. I’m just…”

The sentence broke off because you did not know how to finish it without sounding as small as you felt.

John closed the space between you then.

Not quickly. Not in a way that trapped you. He came close enough that you had to look at him, and when you did, his face was serious in a way that made the rest of the world seem to fall back.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like some man who didn’t know what he had gets to decide what you are.”

Your eyes stung.

John lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed his knuckles lightly against your sleeve. Asking without making you answer out loud.

You did not pull away.

“I noticed you the first day,” he said. “You had ink on your finger and you kept hiding your hands every time Polly looked at your work. I noticed you wouldn’t sit down until Finn had a chair, even though he didn’t need one. I noticed you smile when you think no one’s watching.” His voice dipped lower. “And I noticed that every time I get near you, I start acting like a lad who’s never spoken to a woman before.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between laughter and crying.

John smiled faintly. “That is not a small thing, love.”

Love.

He said it so softly that it did not sound practiced.

You looked down at where his hand still hovered near your sleeve. “I thought you were only kind to me because you’re kind to women.”

“I’m not that kind.”

That startled another small laugh from you.

He grinned, but it faded as quickly as it came. “I mean it. I don’t walk women home because I’m worried about the stones in the road. I don’t bring tea I don’t drink just so someone will have a warm cup. I don’t spend half a morning pretending I can’t add because I like the view of a ledger.”

“You pretended you couldn’t add?”

“Badly, I thought.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“Assume next time.”

Your gaze lifted to his.

John’s eyes moved over your face, careful now, softer than he looked inside the shop. “Tell me to leave you alone and I will.”

You did not answer at once.

It would have been safer to tell him yes. Safer to go back inside, finish the books, go home, and let your silly hope die before it became something you could not control.

But John Shelby was standing in front of you looking like he would let you break his heart if it meant you got to choose.

No one had ever given you that before. The choosing.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you said.

The relief that crossed his face was so open it nearly hurt.

“No?”

You shook your head.

John’s hand moved from your sleeve to your fingers. He touched you gently, like he knew you had been handled carelessly before and meant to make a point of the difference. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“I’m not good at soft things,” he said.

“You’ve been soft with me.”

“Not enough.”

“Enough for me to notice.”

He looked at your joined hands. “I’ll do it wrong sometimes.”

“I know.”

His mouth quirked. “You’re meant to say no, John, you’ll be perfect.”

“I don’t think I’d believe that.”

“Fair.”

You smiled properly then, and this time you let him see all of it.

John’s eyes dropped to your mouth and came back up again, a little less steady than before. “Can I kiss you?”

The question was so plain, so unlike the men who had taken your silence for permission, that something inside you loosened.

“Yes,” you said.

John leaned in slowly.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost cautious, his hand still holding yours between you. You had expected him to kiss like he talked, all nerve and confidence, but he kissed you like he was listening for every breath. Like he did not want to miss the moment you changed your mind, if you did.

You didn’t.

You stepped closer, your free hand catching lightly at the front of his coat, and John made a quiet sound in his throat before his other hand rose to your waist. Not pulling. Just settling there, warm and sure.

When he drew back, he did not go far.

His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath brushing your cheek.

“Still think you’re easy to disappoint?” he asked.

You looked at him, at the careful hope in his face, at the way his thumb still moved over your knuckles.

“I think I’ve been disappointed enough to expect it.”

John nodded once, as if he understood that difference and did not mean to argue it away.

“Then let me be the first man to prove you wrong.”

Your chest ached at that.

Inside the shop, someone knocked sharply against the window.

You both turned.

Arthur stood there with his hands raised in exaggerated triumph, grinning like a fool. Ada was beside him, laughing behind her cigarette. Even Tommy had appeared in the office doorway, looking faintly amused. Polly, standing closest to the glass, gave you one approving nod before turning away as though she had not been watching the whole time.

You hid your face against John’s shoulder with a groan.

John laughed, low and pleased, his arm coming around you properly now. “Told you my face was well liked around here.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

You lifted your head. “Will I?”

His smile softened.

“If you want to.”

There it was again. The choice.

You looked at the man in front of you, at the trouble in him and the gentleness he tried so hard to pretend he did not have. You thought of every old disappointment, every empty promise, every night you had walked home alone feeling foolish for hoping.

Then you thought of John standing beside you in the shop, not touching you until you let him, telling a man from your past to walk out because you were finished with him.

You squeezed his hand.

“I want to.”

John’s grin came back, bright and boyish for half a second before he leaned down and kissed you again, less careful this time but no less sweet.

Behind the glass, Arthur shouted something neither of you could hear.

John ignored him.

Jake huffed a laugh even as he obeyed, hands lifted in mock surrender. “Bossy pants really is your final form.”

“You’re lucky I let you talk at all,” you muttered, already reaching for his shirt. “Now lift.”

He did — with zero hesitation, smirking the whole time — and as the fabric peeled away, your hands froze halfway up his stomach.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“What?” His grin widened.

“Do you live at the gym?”

Jake arched a brow and flexed, just to be a menace. “Gotta look good when my fake girlfriend demands performance excellence.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving the shirt over his head — and he chuckled until you shoved him backward, straddling his hips in one smooth movement.

Jake exhaled hard through his nose, smirk faltering just slightly when you leaned down and kissed a slow, confident line from his throat to his collarbone.

“You’re going to let me take my time,” you said into his skin, “and you’re going to keep that mouth shut unless you’re begging.”

He swallowed. “This is some lawyer dominance fantasy, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” you said, kissing just under his jaw. “But you’re not complaining.”

Jake’s breath hitched. “Not even a little.”

You undressed slowly, methodically, taking pleasure in the way his gaze darkened with every inch of skin revealed. And when you reached for him — still in command, still fully in control — he hissed softly, hips stuttering beneath you.

“I said still,” you reminded him, voice just above a whisper. “We do this my way.”

Jake groaned low in his throat. “God, you’re going to ruin me.”

“That’s the plan.”

You leaned down again and kissed him hard, grinding your hips into his until he broke, one hand gripping the sheets like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He let you take your time — let you guide his hands, his mouth, his body — until the teasing tension that had simmered between you for weeks snapped like a live wire.

And still, you kept control.

Even when his hands clutched at your hips and his mouth fell open against your shoulder. Even when his voice finally broke, a pleading groan tumbling out of him: “Please. Please. Tell me what you want.”

You smiled — slow, smug, triumphant.

“I want your mouth,” you whispered, voice low and warm. “And I want you to keep your eyes on me while you do it.”

Jake was a pilot — trained under pressure, calm under fire — but when he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged you forward with careful, reverent hands, he looked anything but composed.

And when his mouth met your skin, your hands tangled in his hair, and your voice spilled out louder than you meant it to — he groaned again, holding your thighs tight as you moved against him, deeper into every flick of his tongue, every slow draw of his mouth.

“You’re—God, you’re—” you gasped, losing the thread of thought as heat licked through you like wildfire.

“Say it,” he murmured between strokes. “Tell me I’m good.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “You’re fine. Adequate.”

Jake growled — low and dangerous — and suddenly, he was devouring you with a hunger that had your head spinning and your knees locking around his shoulders. You tried to maintain control, tried to hold on to the power you’d claimed — but it splintered, deliciously, until all you could do was whisper his name like a prayer.

And when you collapsed back against the pillows, breathless and shaking, he crawled up beside you, lips slick and eyes alight with pride.

“You’re impossible,” you managed.

“I live to serve.”

You stared at the ceiling, still catching your breath.

Then, very quietly: “That was… the first time anyone’s ever…”

Jake stilled.

His head turned slowly toward you, surprise flickering behind his expression.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Guys my age don’t usually care about—”

Jake was already sliding down the bed again.

You blinked, startled. “Jake.”

He looked up from where he’d nestled between your thighs again, eyes very serious now.

“We’re doing that again.”

“Jake—”

“I’m making up for lost time.”

“Jake—”

His mouth cut off your protest.

And after that, all you could do was say his name.

Again.

And again.

-

The room was dark now, save for the moonlight slipping through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the wall. The sounds of crickets outside had replaced the quiet chaos that had filled the room earlier. Jake lay on his back, breathing steady, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped securely around you.

You were curled against his side, warm and soft, your cheek resting against his chest as if it had always belonged there. Your legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, and you hadn’t moved since you collapsed beside him — flushed and breathless and laughing quietly into his shoulder.

You traced light, absentminded shapes on his stomach with your fingers, drawing lazy lines over the ridges of muscle like you weren’t utterly aware of the effect it was having on him.

“Say something,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.

Jake looked down at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” you said, face still hidden against his chest. “Something to distract me from the fact that I might have just rocked your world.”

He laughed — a quiet, genuine sound that rumbled under your ear. “You’re so modest.”

You tilted your head up to glance at him, your brows raised. “Am I wrong?”

He stared at you for a beat, then shook his head slowly. “Not even a little.”

There was a flicker of smugness in your smile, but it softened just as quickly as it came, and Jake saw it. Saw the way your bravado ebbed into something gentler, quieter. Not gone — just… muted.

He’d never seen you like this. Still sharp-tongued, still smart as hell, but not putting on a show. Just you. Hair messy, cheek pressed to his bare chest, your fingers still tracing faint circles along his ribs like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Jake swallowed hard.

He was in trouble.

Because you were funny, and brilliant, and a little terrifying in a courtroom — but this? This softer side of you, peeking out just for him?

It gutted him.

“You’re staring,” you muttered without looking up.

“I’m thinking,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

You gave him a sideways glance, playful. “Dangerous.”

Jake didn’t smile this time. Not fully. “I just realized I don’t really know when it stopped feeling fake.”

Your eyes flickered to his face, some quip clearly forming — but you didn’t say it. Not yet. Not when his hand moved gently over your hip, his thumb brushing along your skin.

He was still looking at you like you were something to be studied. Admired. Wanted.

You cleared your throat and shifted slightly, your hand landing on his chest again. “Careful, Lieutenant. If you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’re in love with me.”

Jake gave a short, quiet laugh — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He was.

He was in love with you, and it scared the hell out of him.

Instead of saying it, he pulled you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. You let him. Even curled a little tighter against his chest, your body fitting against his like you were carved for this exact moment.

You didn’t say anything for a while.

Just lay there, his heartbeat under your ear, the soft warmth of his hand on your back.

Then—

“Don’t get used to this,” you said casually, voice muffled against his chest. “I’m still sleeping on the opposite side of the bed tomorrow night.”

Jake grinned into your hair. “Right. Strictly business.”

“Very strict.”

“And we definitely didn’t just break half a dozen fake-relationship clauses.”

“Clause 9 said no oral fixation,” you added, deadpan. “That one’s out the window.”

Jake snorted.

You looked up again, resting your chin on his chest now. “What time’s the wedding tomorrow?”

He exhaled, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “Mid-afternoon. My mom already cried twice today thinking about it.”

You smiled softly, then went quiet again.

Jake studied you — this you, without the armor, without the sarcasm to shield every vulnerable thought — and he wanted to kiss you again. Not because of lust this time, not even because of the thrill of sneaking around.

But because he didn’t want to stop kissing you. Ever.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let you fall asleep first, tucked warm and safe against him, your breathing slow and even. And when your hand twitched in your sleep — the same way it always did when you were overwhelmed — Jake didn’t let go.

He just held you tighter.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, that little voice returned.

This isn’t fake anymore.

He was in love with you.

And tomorrow, he’d have to watch you walk beside him into a wedding that wasn’t yours — smile like it didn’t hurt, pretend like it didn’t mean more than it was supposed to.

He kissed your forehead softly, barely a whisper of a touch.

“Don’t get used to it,” he murmured.

But he already had.

-

The Seresin house was buzzing with the quiet hum of a slow Sunday morning, all sun-drenched windows and the distant sound of birdsong. Outside, the Texas heat was already licking at the horizon, but inside, the air was cool, calm, and touched with something expectant.

Jake was ready.

Showered, shaved, and tailored within an inch of his life in a crisp dark suit. His tie was already knotted, shoes polished, cufflinks in place. He rarely dressed like this anymore — the Navy didn’t exactly demand black tie on the tarmac — but he wore it well, the sharp lines of the suit emphasizing his broad frame and golden skin.

He stood in the living room with his mother, who was adjusting the final touches on her pearl earrings, when he glanced toward the stairs.

You still weren’t down.

He checked his watch.

Not because he was in a hurry. He wasn’t. In fact, he could’ve waited all day if it meant seeing you walk down those stairs.

He didn’t know what dress you’d chosen. He didn’t even know if you’d let him zip it up like you did with your cocktail dress a few nights ago. But he knew—knew—you’d look like sin wrapped in silk.

“Where is that girl of yours?” his mother mused, slipping on her heels. “I’m about to go upstairs and drag her down myself.”

Jake opened his mouth to respond—

But then the soft click of the bedroom door opened above them.

He turned toward the stairs.

And the world? It stopped.

You descended slowly, one hand lightly trailing along the polished banister, your other gathering the skirt of your dress just slightly so it wouldn’t trip under your heels. The fabric shimmered like liquid obsidian with every movement — that kind of black that held hints of silver where the sun hit it. It clung to you like it had been painted on, hugging every dip, every curve, strapless and daring, the hem brushing just at your ankles.

But it wasn’t just the dress.

It was you.

Hair swept up loosely, a few curls framing your face. Eyes lined with something smoky and magnetic. Lips a soft rose. Poised. Elegant. Devastating.

Jake’s breath caught in his throat.

You smiled when you caught his gaze — and not just a regular smile. It was cheeky, the kind of smile that hinted you knew exactly what you were doing to him. You paused on the second-to-last step, pivoted just enough to give them a view of the plunging back of your gown — a graceful scoop that dipped scandalously low, exposing the smooth plane of your back down to the small of it.

“Too much?” you asked innocently, looking over your shoulder.

Jake blinked, then cleared his throat.

His mother let out a delighted gasp. “Oh, sweetheart,” she gushed, hand over her heart. “You look stunning. Doesn’t she, Jake?”

Jake nodded slowly, still staring. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Yeah, she does.”

You turned fully then, descending the last few steps, and Jake stepped forward instinctively to offer you his hand — like it was second nature. You took it, steadying yourself, letting your fingers linger in his a little longer than necessary.

“Guess I clean up well,” you said softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach the cocky heights it usually did. It was quieter. More reverent. “You don’t look like you belong at a wedding,” he said, leaning just slightly closer.

“Oh?”

“You look like you’re about to ruin one.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Maybe I am.”

Jake’s mother laughed as she grabbed her clutch. “Alright, lovebirds. Enough ogling. Let’s go pretend we’re not about to sit through the longest ceremony Texas has ever seen.”

You and Jake followed her out the front door, the morning sun now high and bright. As he opened the passenger side door for you, you looked back at him, the barest smile still curving your lips.

“You’re staring again,” you said lightly.

Jake leaned in as you slid into your seat. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, then winked. “My girlfriend’s hot.”

And before you could come up with a snappy reply, he closed the door with a grin and walked around to the driver’s side — smug, flustered, and already dreading how much harder today just became.

Because if anyone thought he’d been acting before?

He was in real trouble now.

-

The church was filled with soft music and the rustle of lace and linen. Floral arrangements spilled from every pew in cascading whites and greens, and sunlight poured in through stained glass windows, casting jewel-toned shadows across the aisle. It was beautiful. Timeless. Perfect.

And Jake Seresin hadn’t heard a single word of the ceremony.

He sat rigid in the wooden pew, his hand resting on yours, his thumb stroking idle circles against your skin — not like it was part of a show, not for appearances. Just because. Because he couldn’t seem to stop touching you.

You didn’t pull away.

You hadn’t in a while.

Your other hand sat gently on his knee, fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of his suit. Your dress shimmered when you shifted, drawing his eye like it always did — like it had when you came down the stairs this morning and knocked the air straight out of his lungs.

And when you glanced at him, your eyes soft and lit with something he couldn’t name, it hit him all over again.

You were supposed to be fake.

But there was nothing false about the way he felt right now. Nothing fabricated in the way his pulse stuttered when you leaned into him during the vows, your shoulder brushing his. No script in the way your fingers sought his when Lila walked down the aisle, radiant and smiling and already someone else’s.

He looked at her only once.

And then, almost involuntarily, he turned back to you.

You didn’t say anything. Just gave him the smallest of glances, your lips quirking softly, like you knew. Like you'd known all along that this — whatever this was — had long since stopped being pretend.

He didn’t say anything either. But his hand slid from yours and cupped your thigh instead, fingers spreading over the silk fabric, a quiet claim. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t glance around to see who was watching. You just leaned your head against his shoulder — bold and sure and entirely yours.

Jake tilted his head just enough to brush his lips against your hair.

The world kept moving around you. The vows were exchanged, the kiss was sealed, the audience clapped politely.

Jake barely noticed.

He was too focused on the way your hand had wandered to the inside of his arm, how your nails lightly traced the seam of his jacket. The way your perfume had soaked into his shirt from leaning on him, leaving a scent that he was beginning to crave.

There was no line anymore. No point where the act had ended and the real feelings had begun.

He didn’t even know when it happened — maybe somewhere between that first fake kiss in front of the neighbors or the time you fell asleep on his shoulder during the drive back from town. Maybe when you teased him about mowing the lawn shirtless. Or when he kissed you just to shut you up by the stables — and then didn’t stop.

Maybe it was now.

Now, when you turned to face him during the reception, your heels kicked off beneath the table, your chin resting in your hand as you looked at him like there was no one else in the room. Like you meant it.

He didn’t kiss you then. Not yet.

But he took your hand again, raised it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles like it was a secret just for you.

Your lips parted slightly, surprised.

He didn’t say a word.

And neither did you.

Because you both knew now.

-

The reception was winding down in a haze of soft lights and clinking glasses. Out on the lawn, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, the murmur of conversation fading beneath the gentle chords of a slow country song floating from the speakers. Twinkle lights hung like constellations between the trees, flickering above the dance floor.

And you were in Jake’s arms.

He held you close, one hand resting firmly against the small of your back — your bare back, where the silk of your dress gave way to warm skin. His other hand curled around yours, fingers laced together like it was second nature now. Your palm pressed to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath it.

You danced in slow circles beneath the stars. The world had gone quiet, the chaos of the day falling away until there was only this — the warmth of his touch, the weight of his gaze, the hush of his breath so close to yours.

He hadn’t looked away. Not once.

Tilting your head, you caught the way his eyes drank you in like you were the only thing worth seeing. It wasn’t lust. Not entirely. It was something heavier. Warmer. Familiar.

“What?” you asked softly, voice barely carrying over the music. “You’re staring.”

Jake didn’t smile. Not right away.

He just looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment. Like he already had.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low, rough. “I am.”

You huffed a soft breath, lips curling, trying for lightness. “We’re not in character right now, you know. No one’s watching.”

“I know.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his chest.

And something passed between you — a crackling, quiet understanding. A shift so subtle it didn’t need to be spoken. Because somewhere between the pretending and the playing house, the little lies and practiced kisses, you had both fallen out of step with the story you’d been telling.

This wasn’t part of the plan anymore.

And still — neither of you let go.

Jake leaned in, his forehead brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm night air. “You drool when you fall asleep on planes,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“And you organize your closet by color, but your suitcase is a goddamn war zone.”

You stared, caught off guard by the teasing glint in his eye, the softness under it.

“Jake…”

“I like how you always try to act unimpressed when I say something nice, but your ears go a little pink every time.” His thumb brushed slow circles against your back, grounding you. “Drives me insane, darlin’. In the best way.”

Heat rose in your chest, threatening to spill over. “Why are you saying all this?”

His eyes darkened, serious now. “Because if I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

The ache in your ribs sharpened. “You don’t mean that—”

“I do.” His grip tightened like he was afraid you might slip away. “You know what I meant when I said you don’t belong at weddings?”

You arched a brow, trying for levity even as your pulse thundered. “Charming.”

Jake shook his head, gaze locked to yours. “You belong wrecking them. You walk in, and everything changes. Every time. You changed everything for me.”

Silence stretched, weighted and fragile.

Your voice cracked when you whispered, “You know what scares me the most? That none of this was ever fake.”

Jake exhaled, shaky, like he’d been holding it in for weeks. “I don’t think it ever was.”

The words rooted in you, took hold, bloomed.

And you knew you couldn’t hide anymore.

“You drive me insane most of the time, you know that?” Jake finally said, voice low, the words half-laugh, half-confession. “You’re bossy as hell, stubborn to a fault, and you wouldn’t survive more than twenty-four hours out here in Texas without someone killing the spiders for you.”

Your mouth dropped open, offended, but before you could snap back he leaned closer, cutting off the space between you.

“And I love you for it,” Jake added, softer now, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I love the way you roll your eyes at me. I love that you try to tell me what to do even though I never listen. I love that you hate country music but you still danced with me at the cookout, even when you stepped on my boots a dozen times. I love that you make me laugh when I don’t want to, and I love that you’re here—right now—with me.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, gentle. “I love you, even when you’re annoying as fuck. Especially then, actually.”

You blinked, your throat tight, your chest pulling in that aching, hopeful way that made everything else in the world fall away.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, almost breathless.

The smile that spread across Jake’s face in that moment was the kind of thing people wrote love songs about.

Relief to finally say it crashed through you like a tide, mingling with laughter that trembled out of your chest, half-sob, half-joy.

Jake lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles, lingering, reverent. No audience this time. No lie to sell.

Just him. Just you.

And then, slowly, like gravity itself had shifted, he dipped his head and kissed you. His hand tightened on your back, pulling you in as your fingers curled into the lapel of his suit. Your mouths met again and again, gentle and then not, smiling into it like two people who had finally stopped running.

When you broke apart, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, both of you breathless, both of you grinning like fools.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“I love you.”

He smiled — that rare, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. “Good. Because I’m not letting you take it back.”

And beneath the twinkle lights, wrapped in his arms, you knew you never would.

-

You didn’t just stick out — you looked like you’d wandered in from an entirely different movie.

Jake’s mom, on the other hand, was in her element. She was already halfway across the store, beckoning you excitedly toward a display. “These just came in, sweetheart! Let’s start here!”

You followed dutifully, trying not to wobble in your loafers. “Do they come in… black patent leather?”

Jake snorted. “No, but maybe if you ask nicely, they’ll bedazzle a pair for you.”

You shot him a look, grabbed a boot with rhinestones and threatened him with it.

“Careful,” he grinned. “That’s a weapon in the wrong hands.”

“This is the wrong hands,” you deadpanned.

Jake leaned against a nearby shelf, arms crossed, watching you with unconcealed amusement. “You gonna survive this, city mouse?”

“I’ve done worse,” you said, managing to tug one boot onto your foot. “I survived bar prep.”

“Sure,” he said. “But did bar prep require decorative stitching and steel toes?”

You wobbled slightly as you stood, adjusting the boot. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look…” Jake trailed off as he took you in, one hand casually sliding into his pocket, head tilted. “...like you just got cast in a reboot of Bonanza.”

You flipped him off behind his mother’s back. He laughed like you’d complimented him.

“Try this pair too,” his mom said, handing you another set of boots. You tried those. And then another. You were half-wearing one when she suddenly appeared with a wide-brimmed straw hat and dropped it right onto your head.

“Oh, God,” you muttered. “It’s happening. I’m being converted.”

Jake turned around from another aisle just in time to see you standing in front of the mirror: boots on, jeans tucked in, wide-brim hat sitting low over your eyes.

He froze for a second. Just one.

Then he smiled — and it was soft. Real.

“You actually…” he said, stepping closer, “look kind of adorable.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Adorable?”

“Adorably lost,” he amended, smirking again. “Like if you wandered onto a ranch, someone would probably take pity and feed you.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “What a glowing review.”

Jake stepped beside you in the mirror, leaned down a little, and pressed a kiss to the side of your head — feather-light, familiar, way too natural for what was supposed to be a charade.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror. For a heartbeat, it was quiet between you. His hand brushed your lower back. Your mouth felt dry.

“Alright,” you said finally, clearing your throat and turning away. “Boots acquired. I now possess one percent cowboy energy.”

Jake grinned. “I’m proud of you, Boston.”

And then—

“Oh my God, Jake?”

You both turned in unison.

A woman stood at the edge of the aisle, her blonde hair catching the light, eyes bright and familiar in a way that immediately made your stomach knot. She was exactly what you would’ve pictured if someone had asked you to draw “Jake’s type”: the kind of girl every Southern boy wrote love songs about — sweet and sun-kissed, a sundress skimming her frame like she’d just stepped out of a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

Jake went still beside you. His shoulders tensed, his jaw ticked. “Lila.”

So this was her.

The ex. The reason you were even standing here in a borrowed pair of boots.

You caught it instantly — the flash of discomfort he didn’t quite hide, the subtle way his stance shifted like he’d braced for impact. She, of course, looked completely unbothered, as if running into him was the most casual thing in the world.

“It’s been forever,” she said with a soft laugh, closing the space between them. Her voice was light, teasing, just a touch too warm. “Wow. Look at you.”

Jake’s charm flickered back on like muscle memory, his drawl sliding into place. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

Her eyes drifted, curious, polite — and then landed on you. That’s when your pulse jumped.

Showtime.

Sliding an arm around Jake’s waist, you pressed yourself flush against his side, tilting your chin just enough to meet her gaze with your most flawless, practiced smile.

“Hi,” you said smoothly, following with your name. Then, with a playful little shrug, you added, “Although I don’t know if my name really fits my new cowgirl personality.”

Jake blinked, caught off guard. For one half-second, you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — admiration, maybe amusement — before he recovered, his arm curling over your shoulders, tugging you in closer. His thumb began brushing slow, lazy circles on your upper arm, and you almost flinched at how convincing it felt.

“Mom’s converting her,” he said lightly. “One boot at a time.”

Lila’s smile brightened, though you didn’t miss the faint flicker in her eyes as she studied you both. “That’s so great. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lila.”

You extended your hand with a saccharine smile that screamed I win. “Pleasure. I’m Jake’s girlfriend.”

Jake didn’t correct you, didn’t even hesitate. Just smiled that easy Seresin smile — and pressed his thumb into your shoulder in a slow, appreciative circle that nearly gave you away.

Lila glanced between the two of you — evaluating, weighing, maybe even doubting — but her expression never cracked from pleasant perfection.

“Well,” she said finally, with a little wave. “I’ll see you both at the wedding.”

“Can’t wait,” you said sweetly.

Only when she was gone did you realize how tightly you were still holding onto Jake.

You waited until she was truly gone before pulling away from Jake, crossing your arms. “Well. That was fun.”

Jake exhaled, still smiling faintly. “You’re scary when you commit.”

You turned to him. “You hesitated.”

Jake blinked. “I—what?”

“You hesitated before you introduced me.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did. There was a pause.”

Jake squinted at you. “Are we seriously debriefing this like it’s a courtroom cross?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re welcome, by the way. I sold the hell out of that.”

Jake smiled again, and this time, it was something different — softer, edged with something warm and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said. “You really did.”

-

The next few days played out like a highlight reel from a romantic comedy — the kind with the perfectly curated soundtrack and golden-hour lighting, where no one talked about their feelings but every glance said too much.

It started innocently enough.

Jake had the audacity to look comfortable in every situation — whether he was helping his mom haul firewood like a walking Levi’s ad, or teasing you mercilessly when you stepped outside in your city sneakers again and promptly sank into the mud.

“You’re not even trying to blend in,” he laughed, steadying you by the elbow as you flailed.

“This place is trying to kill me,” you hissed, gripping his arm for balance. “It smells like hay and lies.”

So, naturally, he offered to teach you to ride a horse.

It went about as well as anyone could’ve predicted.

The sun was low and golden over his mom’s pasture, cicadas buzzing lazily in the heat. Jake stood in the middle of the fenced paddock like he’d been born there, reins in hand, ball cap tipped back, grinning at you like this was his life’s true purpose.

You, on the other hand, were perched stiffly on top of a patient old mare named Clementine, clinging to the saddle horn as if it were your only lifeline.

“Relax,” Jake called, giving Clementine’s flank a light pat. “She can sense fear.”

“She should,” you snapped, knuckles white on the leather. “I’m broadcasting it loud and clear.”

His grin widened, dimples flashing. “She’s the sweetest horse on the ranch. My cousins learned to ride on her. She’s practically a saint.”

“Then maybe she can also perform miracles,” you muttered, shifting like the saddle itself was plotting against you. “Because I’m going to die.”

Jake leaned against the fence, looking infuriatingly at ease. “City girl like you? Dying in boots? That’s a Texas tragedy.”

“Keep laughing,” you warned, “but if I fall off and break my neck, I’m haunting you.”

“Wouldn’t mind,” he said smoothly, eyes raking over you in a way that made your stomach flip. “Might even enjoy the company.”

Your retort was lost the second Clementine shifted under you. You yelped, clutching at the saddle horn with all the dignity of a kid on a carnival ride. Jake bit down on a laugh, which only made it worse.

“Don’t you dare—”

“Relax,” he repeated, moving closer. “Loosen up your knees, stop gripping like you’re in a rollercoaster harness. Horses aren’t machines, darlin’. You gotta work with her.”

“I am working with her,” you hissed. “I’m negotiating the terms of my survival.”

It took all of thirty seconds for your stubborn determination to collapse. You slid gracelessly off the horse, landing on shaky legs. Clementine gave a bored snort as if to say amateur.

Jake was there in an instant, catching you as you stumbled. Strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could faceplant into the dirt. His face was suddenly far too close, breath warm against your cheek, eyes gleaming with that insufferable mix of amusement and something heavier.

“City girl’s got soft bones,” he drawled softly, voice pitched just for you.

You shoved at his chest, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Not even close. Jake just laughed, that wide, easy sound that carried all the way across the field. His hand lingered at your waist longer than necessary, thumb brushing your side before he finally stepped back.

“Don’t worry,” he said, cocky as ever. “We’ll toughen you up before the wedding’s over.”

You glared, brushing dirt off your jeans. “Pretty sure the only thing getting tougher is my patience.”

“Patience?” His grin turned slow, knowing. “Sweetheart, you’ve got more grit than you think. And don’t worry—” he tipped his hat at you like some insufferable cowboy out of a movie, “—I’ll be right here to catch you every time you fall.”

You hated that your heart skipped at that. You hated even more that he noticed.

And he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

Later that evening, he found you wrapped in a blanket in front of the stone fireplace, eyes narrowed as you patted the spot beside you on the rug.

“It’s for the fantasy,” you told him primly.

Jake raised a brow. “Cuddling by the fire?”

“It’s romantic,” you argued. “We’re in love, remember?”

Jake had chuckled low in his throat — but he’d joined you anyway, settling behind you, arms wrapping around your waist like it was muscle memory.

And, okay — you hadn’t expected it to feel that nice. His chest was warm against your back. His chin fit perfectly over your shoulder. He smelled like firewood and pine and something deep and comforting that you refused to label.

The flames popped in the hearth. He played with your fingers. Neither of you spoke.

-

Breakfast on the porch, his mother watching you both from the kitchen with a pleased little smile while Jake slid your coffee mug closer and you offered him a bite of your toast.

You trying on an old denim jacket of his from high school — a bet you lost after attempting to learn line dancing at a neighborhood event his mom roped you into. Jake clutched his stomach from laughing too hard, claiming you looked like a “five-foot-tall ranch hand with no spatial awareness.”

You threw a boot at him.

And then one evening, she pulled you aside. Hands soft, warm, steady against your arm. Her voice quiet in the way that made it feel like a secret.

“I haven’t seen him like this in years,” she said, eyes crinkling with something tender. “Not since before his daddy passed. You’ve brought him back to life, sweetheart.”

Your mouth went dry. “I… I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is.” She smiled, slow and certain. “He used to laugh like this all the time. Teasing, showing off, always with that big grin plastered on his face. After we lost his daddy, it just… disappeared. For a long time. But this week?” She squeezed your arm gently. “That boy has light in him again. And I can see it plain as day — you’re the reason.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out uneven. “Maybe it’s just being home.”

“No, darling.” Her voice was kind, but it left no room for doubt. “It’s you. He looks at you the way his daddy used to look at me. Like the sun came back up after the longest night.”

You didn’t know what to say.

You couldn’t find words. Not when guilt pressed heavy in your chest. Because it wasn’t real. None of it was real.

She studied your silence for a moment, then her hand softened into a gentle pat. “Just… promise me something, will you?”

Your throat tightened. “What’s that?”

“Don’t break his heart,” she whispered, almost pleading. “He gives it away too easily, even if he pretends otherwise. And you… well, you’re the first girl in a long time I’ve seen him let close.”

It felt like a knife twisting. You managed a nod, your smile too tight, too rehearsed. “I won’t.”

But the words burned as soon as they left your mouth.

Because you weren’t sure you could keep them.

-

The house was too loud.

Too warm. Too kind.

Jake’s mom had spent the entire evening practically glued to your side — refilling your glass, showing you old photos of Jake in Little League, asking questions about your job and your favorite foods and your family with so much genuine maternal interest that your skin itched from the weight of it.

She was just... sweet. Honest. She looked at you like she already knew you and loved you anyway.

You couldn’t take it.

The night air was cool and still, the kind of quiet that wrapped around your shoulders like a wool blanket. You wandered without really thinking, ending up near the stables, where the fence creaked in the breeze and the scent of hay clung to everything.

It was so different from anything you’d ever known.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared out into the dark pasture, the grass silvered under the moonlight, and let your thoughts get too loud.

You were lying to a woman who had done nothing but be kind to you.

You were pretending to love a man who was — infuriatingly — starting to feel less like a prop in this charade and more like a crack in the wall you’d spent years reinforcing.

And worst of all?

You liked this. All of it. The chaos. The sweetness. The quiet. The way Jake looked at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You didn’t belong in this life. But God, you wanted to taste it anyway.

“Thought I might find you out here,” came his voice, low and steady behind you.

You didn’t turn around. “I needed some air.”

Jake stepped closer, boots crunching the gravel, his silhouette tall against the barn lights. “You disappeared.”

You shrugged. “You were busy. Your mom’s got stories for days.”

Jake let a silence settle between you. Then:

“She really likes you, you know.”

You exhaled, something bitter catching in your throat. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

You finally turned, facing him, the porch light cutting a soft glow across his face. He looked concerned. Not annoyed. Just — confused. Like he didn’t get what the big deal was.

You hated that it made your chest ache.

“She’s great, Jake,” you said, voice tight. “Your mom is... everything a mother should be. And we’re just—” You waved a hand, heat blooming in your face. “We’re lying to her.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “It’s just for the week.”

“Yeah, and then what? We leave, and she keeps thinking you’re in love and that I’m her future daughter-in-law and—”

He cut in. “We agreed to this.”

“I know we did,” you snapped, voice cracking. “But I didn’t expect her to be so—so kind. So interested. And now it feels like I’m just spitting in her face every time she looks at me like I’m someone worth—”

You stopped yourself, but it was too late.

Jake was staring.

His voice softened. “Is this about your mom?”

You froze.

Jake took a step forward. “Back at the apartment... you said she wasn’t really affectionate. That she wasn’t—”

“I didn’t say anything,” you said quickly. “You assumed.”

Jake tilted his head. “I’ve met enough people to recognize when someone doesn’t know how to accept love.”

The words hit too close. Too sharp. You blinked hard.

“She would never—” Your voice shook. “My mom would never do any of this. She wouldn’t throw a cookout. Or hang up baby pictures. She didn’t even hug me growing up, Jake.”

You were unraveling now. Words slipping out faster than you could stop them.

“She told me crying was manipulative. She said affection made you weak. And your mom—she just...” You shook your head, throat burning. “She asks if I slept okay and makes breakfast and tells me she’s proud of me and—and it makes me want to scream because it’s not real. None of this is real.”

Jake was silent.

You looked up at him, heart racing. “And you just go along with it like it’s nothing. Like this doesn’t matter. Like we’re not just—lying to this woman who would probably adopt me if you asked.”

Jake’s gaze was unreadable.

You breathed hard, hands curling into fists at your sides.

“I didn’t sign up to feel guilty about this,” you whispered. "I think we should—"

And then, without warning—

Jake stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

It was not gentle. It was not polite. It was not fake.

You made a startled noise against his mouth, but he didn’t stop. One hand slid into your hair, the other stayed cradling your jaw, and he kissed you like it was the only way he could shut you up. Like if he didn’t, he’d explode.

And God help you — you kissed him back.

You curled your fingers in the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, let yourself melt against him like it was natural, like it was inevitable. The night air pressed cool against your skin, but Jake’s mouth was fire, and everything tilted sideways the longer it went on.

Finally, finally, he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.

“You talk too damn much,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Because something had just shifted — deep and final and terrifying.

And you weren’t sure pretending could save you anymore.

-

Jake frowned too, head tilted. “Did she—?”

The front door slammed open.

“Jacob Seresin, don’t you dare sit in that car another second and leave me waitin’!”

A woman in cropped jeans, a floral blouse, and pristine white sneakers was barreling down the porch steps, arms spread wide, her smile bright and unstoppable. Jake’s mother.

You barely had time to open the passenger door before she was there, wrapping Jake in a tight, no-nonsense Southern hug that made his six-foot frame look like a child’s.

“Hi, Mama,” he said, laughing into her shoulder.

“I told you I’d make peach cobbler and look at you, all late,” she scolded, squeezing him one more time before turning toward you.

And then—target acquired.

You barely had time to blink.

“Oh, you must be his sweetheart,” she beamed, and suddenly you were in her arms, her perfume (vanilla and something vaguely citrusy) enveloping you as she hugged like someone who had never once in her life done it halfway.

You tensed instinctively — not used to warmth so immediate, so unfiltered — but after a beat, your arms returned the gesture. Awkward. Soft. But real.

“I’m—hi,” you managed.

“You are darling, look at you,” she said, stepping back just enough to cradle your face in her hands like you were a lost puppy. “Jake’s been holding out on us.”

Jake coughed. “Mama.”

“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me, I had to hear about her through the phone!”

“Technically—” Jake tried.

But she was already waving him off and turning back toward the porch. “Now come on. Everyone’s waitin’. Don’t keep your cousins in suspense.”

You blinked. “Everyone?”

And then you heard it — more voices. Laughter. A child shrieking somewhere in the distance. Was that… lawn chairs clinking?

Jake winced, leaned close. “I think my mom threw a cookout.”

You turned to him, wide-eyed. “Like, a welcome party?”

He gave you a look that could only be described as deep, exhausted son energy. “She texted me last night and said something about ‘just the family stopping by.’ Which, for the record, means aunts, uncles, cousins, half the neighborhood, and probably the high school gym teacher who coached my JV football team.”

Your jaw dropped.

He tried to smile. “You can back out. I’ll say you got sick. Or jetlag. Or—”

You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, and said through gritted teeth, “You owe me so much wine.”

Jake blinked.

Then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

You lost count of how many people hugged you within the first ten minutes. Some of them kissed your cheek. One woman brought deviled eggs and referred to you exclusively as “that pretty girl Jake’s been hiding in California.” Another cornered you by the sweet tea station and showed you Jake’s baby pictures. Naked baby pictures.

You were hot, slightly sunburned, and fully overwhelmed. But you were also, miraculously, holding your own.

Your lawyer instincts kicked in — charm, nod, mirror, distract — and you leaned on the backstory like a crutch, filling in blanks with little lies that sounded like truth. You laughed when Jake made jokes, slid your hand into his when someone looked too closely. You let his arm rest casually along your waist as people asked where you met and how long you’d been dating and when you were planning on giving his mama grandbabies.

Jake, for his part, was surprisingly… easy. Steady. Every time he touched you, it was warm but never forceful. And every time you stumbled — a name you couldn’t remember, a question you didn’t expect — he was right there to redirect, to draw attention back to himself like he was built for it.

You were trying to stay focused, to keep the walls up, but Jake… Jake was looking at you differently.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible — the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer when you pushed your sunglasses up your nose. The way his brow furrowed when you tugged at the hem of your blouse — that nervous twitch of your fingers he must’ve clocked somewhere in the last hour. The way his lips quirked every time your nose scrunched in confusion.

He was noticing things.

Little things.

And suddenly, so were you.

Like the way he lowered his voice when he spoke directly to you, just enough that it felt private, like a secret. Or the way he subtly stood closer when someone asked a personal question, like he was buffering you from too much scrutiny.

You cleared your throat and stepped away to refill your lemonade.

Jake watched you go, eyes narrowing — not with suspicion, but with something heavier. Something thoughtful.

“Boy,” his mother’s voice floated beside him. “You got a look on your face.”

Jake turned, startled. “Huh?”

She smiled, slipping a serving spoon into the coleslaw. “Just saying. You always get that squinty little forehead crease when you’re figuring something out.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s hot out.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, not looking up. “You're in love.”

He made a face. “You’ve known each other five minutes.”

His mother laughed. “Jake, I’ve watched you go twenty years without bringin’ home so much as a girl you kissed under the bleachers. This one’s different. I can tell.”

Jake opened his mouth to deflect — something witty, something smooth — but nothing came out.

His mother patted his shoulder and walked off, humming.

Across the yard, you were laughing with one of his younger cousins, crouched in the grass in your red-bottom loafers like it wasn’t completely impractical. You had grass on your trousers, lemonade in your hand, and your smile — genuine and rare — was breaking across your face like sunlight.

Jake blinked.

Yeah.

This was a problem.

At some point between your third glass of sweet tea and the sixth person asking if Jake had finally proposed yet, the crowd began to thin. Or at least, they stopped swarming you like you were the newest baby goat at a petting zoo.

You took a breath. A real one.

Jake was on the patio now, talking to someone in a sheriff’s department polo who, if you heard correctly, used to be his high school wrestling partner. You watched him from your perch near the porch railing, the sun dipping low enough to cast everything in that warm, peach-colored glow.

You finished your drink, set it down, and plastered on the softest smile you could manage. Time to turn this into a performance again.

You sauntered over to where Jake stood, touched his arm lightly, and pitched your voice just loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear.

“Honey,” you purred, lacing the word with the kind of sweetness that could send someone into a diabetic coma, “would you mind bringing my luggage inside? I want to change out of these city clothes and into something a little more… barbecue-appropriate.”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You smiled. He smiled.

And in the exact same breath, under your teeth, you hissed, “You’re lucky I don’t stab you with one of your mom’s kebab skewers.”

Jake, ever unfazed, leaned in just slightly, that shit-eating smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “You’d miss. You’ve got no upper body strength.”

You smiled wider, waved at a passing aunt, and said through clenched teeth, “That’s rich coming from the man who almost cried carrying my carry-on.”

“Almost,” he said smugly, turning toward the driveway. “Didn’t. Key word.”

You followed him across the grass and pretended not to hear the very audible chorus of “Awwww” from the lawn chairs as Jake opened the back of the rental SUV.

Your luggage spilled out like an overstuffed clown car.

Jake stopped and blinked at the lineup. “I still think this is a war crime.”

You crossed your arms. “I told you, some of us like to be prepared.”

“For what? The apocalypse? Did you pack a wetsuit? Is there a flamethrower in here?”

“Texas weather is unpredictable.”

Jake grunted, heaving the first suitcase out. “You’re unpredictable.”

You leaned casually against the SUV. “You know you love it.”

He hauled another bag out, muttering something about airline weight limits and chiropractors, and started rolling them toward the house. The wheels snagged on the gravel twice, and you pretended not to hear the quiet stream of curses under his breath.

Behind you, someone actually whistled.

Jake glanced over his shoulder.

Half the party — cousins, neighbors, some guy named Dale in cowboy boots — was watching the two of you with open grins, eyes tracking every movement like it was a Hallmark Channel live taping.

You leaned closer to Jake and whispered, “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Put your hand on my back. Make it look romantic.”

You pressed your hand to the small of his back and smiled sweetly at the crowd. “How’s that?”

Jake grunted under the weight of your last suitcase. “Perfect. Nothing says romance like minor spinal injury.”

You giggled, which startled you a little — the sound felt genuine, too real for something that was supposed to be pretend.

By the time you reached the porch steps, Jake had a sheen of sweat on his forehead and was muttering something about “city girls and their beauty products” as he lugged the last bag inside.

You stepped in behind him, the cool air of the house washing over your skin, and murmured, “You know, I do appreciate this.”

He turned, wiping a hand down his face. “What, me playing bellhop?”

You gave him a faux-innocent look. “You carrying all my emotional baggage too.”

Jake stared at you for a beat, then snorted. “Nah. That’s clearly a whole other checked bag.”

You grinned, brushing past him into the hallway, calling over your shoulder, “I’m changing into something cute. Tell your mom to save me a slice of that peach cobbler.”

Jake called back, “You better wear something comfortable, because she also made you a plate of ribs the size of your torso.”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, turned back with a perfectly smug smile, and said, “Can’t wait to eat it… sweetheart.”

Jake groaned dramatically, turned toward the kitchen, and muttered, “Lord help me, this woman’s gonna be the death of me.”

From outside, through the still-cracked screen door, a voice called out from the lawn:

“Y’ALL ARE ADORABLE!”

Jake’s face went red.

You laughed all the way upstairs.

While you were upstairs navigating the jungle of your wardrobe options (and, let’s be honest, googling “what to wear to a Texas cookout without looking like a caricature”), Jake was in the kitchen, getting a drink and trying to remember which of his cousins had made that spicy jalapeño dip that nearly melted his esophagus.

His mom stood at the stove, humming along to a country song playing softly from a little Bluetooth speaker, her pink apron dusted with flour and barbecue sauce, like a battle-worn flag from a culinary war.

“Go on and bring your bags in too, Jacob,” she said casually, flipping something in the skillet.

Jake glanced up, mid-sip. “To where?”

She turned, eyebrows raised like it was the dumbest question she’d heard all week. “To the room.”

Jake blinked. “The room. As in… the other guest room?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “No, sweetheart. The room. The one y’all’ll be sharing.”

He lowered his water bottle slowly. “You want us to share a room?”

“You’re grown adults in a committed relationship,” she said, turning back to stir. “Ain’t no reason to pretend you’re sleeping in different beds.”

Jake made a vaguely strangled noise. “You have two guest rooms.”

“Yes. And I turned the other one into my yoga space, thank you very much.” She shot him a look over her shoulder, and then — without mercy — added, “Besides, let’s not act like y’all don’t sleep in the same bed every night already. You’ve been together for what, six months? Your words, not mine.”

Jake coughed. “Technically.”

She smiled sweetly. “Exactly.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she cut him off with a warning glance, the kind only mothers — Southern mothers especially — could deliver with a wooden spoon in hand.

“Oh, and Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

She turned fully now, arms crossed over her apron. “I’m really proud of you for bringing her.”

Jake stilled. “You are?”

She nodded, something softer sneaking into her voice now. “You’ve been stuck for a long time, honey. We all saw it. Ever since Lila… well. I just want you to be happy. And she makes you smile.”

Jake’s jaw tightened just slightly at the name — Lila — the echo of an old chapter he thought he’d buried deeper. He shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans and forced a crooked grin.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “She’s something.”

His mom patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re not foolin’ me, Jacob. That girl’s the real thing.”

Jake swallowed thickly and turned toward the hallway, lifting his keys off the counter with a clink. “I’ll go get my bag.”

As he walked out, his mother called after him, “Be sweet to her, Jacob — I want grandbabies before I’m fifty-five.”

“You’re sixty-two,” he called back over his shoulder.

“And yet my uterus still aches for them!”

Jake groaned so loud the front door rattled as he stepped out.

Upstairs, you had just finished reapplying lip gloss and pulling on a breezy button-down dress when you heard his heavy boots on the stairs. A moment later, his voice filtered in through your cracked door.

“You decent?”

“Define decent,” you replied, smoothing the front of your dress. “Do I look like someone who’s not dying inside?”

Jake pushed the door open, suitcase in hand, and paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Honestly? You look hot.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

“Temperature-wise,” he added quickly, face deadpan. “Obviously. It's brutal out there.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside so he could drag his bag inside. He parked it beside the dresser — your dresser, apparently — and straightened up with a long sigh.

“Bad news,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “More bad news?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

You stared.

He gestured vaguely. “Apparently, your side of the bed is the one closest to the fan. You’re welcome.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wait. Hold on. What do you mean we’re sharing a room?”

“I mean there is one room. Singular. Uno. Mama Seresin said, and I quote, ‘Let’s not pretend y’all don’t sleep in the same bed already.’”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She’s crafty.”

You turned away, pacing to the far end of the room like you were in a courtroom summation. “This is bad. This is so bad. I need a diagram of how bad this is.”

“She also wants grandkids,” Jake added.

You stopped pacing and turned to him, scandalized. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

You groaned and sat on the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going to have a stress-induced aneurysm.”

Jake walked over, crouched beside you with all the faux-seriousness of a man ready to be annoying on purpose. “I promise not to hog the covers.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you snore?”

“Like a lumberjack.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jake smirked. “You say that now, but give it one night and you’ll be curled up against me like a koala.”

You stared at him.

He winked.

You tossed a throw pillow directly at his face.

Jake caught it one-handed. “See? This is exactly the kind of couple energy your firm would love.”

You groaned again and flopped back onto the bed, arms outstretched like you were ready to be taken by the Lord.

Jake laughed — actually laughed — and it wasn’t smug this time. Just light. Easy. It made your chest tighten for a reason you didn’t feel like examining yet.

Outside the window, laughter drifted up from the backyard. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting everything in honey-colored light.

Jake stood and offered you his hand. “Come on, koala. If we’re stuck sharing a bed, might as well get through dinner without anyone catching on.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate you.”

He pulled you up anyway, grinning. “Nah. You tolerate me. Aggressively.”

The sun had long since dipped below the hills, the cicadas now buzzing in sleepy rhythms while porch lights flickered on like fireflies across the neighborhood. The grill had gone cold, the paper plates stacked in the recycling, and at last — finally — the last aunt had waved her final goodbye with her arms wrapped around your shoulders and a wink that made you mildly uncomfortable.

Jake’s mom stood in the doorway, a dish towel over one shoulder, watching the dust trail of the last truck disappear down the drive.

“Well,” she sighed, satisfied. “That was lovely.”

You and Jake were elbow-deep in soapy water at the sink, handing off rinsed dishes like a well-oiled, overly attractive domestic machine. You were still trying to wrap your head around how many side dishes a single backyard barbecue required when she turned to you, grinning.

“Darlin’, you’ve been such a trooper. City girl, bless your heart.”

You smiled politely, managing not to flinch when she pressed another kiss to your cheek.

“But go on now,” she added, waving the towel. “Shoo. I’ve got the rest. You two lovebirds go get some rest before someone needs to wheel you both out of here.”

You opened your mouth to protest — maybe offer to dry something — but Jake’s hand was already on the small of your back, guiding you toward the hallway like he’d just been handed the keys to a prison gate.

“Wouldn’t wanna disrespect the head of the house,” he said smoothly, barely hiding the grin in his voice. “Thanks for everything, Mama.”

“Oh!” she called after you both as you reached the stairs. “And no funny business under my roof, y’hear?”

You froze.

Jake didn’t.

Without missing a beat, he raised his voice and called back, “Define funny!”

“I mean it, Jacob Seresin!” she replied, laughing.

You covered your burning face with one hand. “I’m going to die here.”

Jake just smirked. “Not before we establish bed boundaries.”

By the time you reached the room, your shoes were off, your back ached, and your face hurt from fake smiling. Jake kicked the door shut behind you, tossing a hoodie onto the corner chair and stretching like a cat with too many muscles.

“Well,” he said, glancing around. “Home sweet nightmare.”

You turned toward him with a hand raised like a traffic cop. “Turn around.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I need to change.”

He scoffed, already walking to the other side of the room. “Please. It’s nothing I haven’t seen in a dream sequence.”

“Jacob.”

He snorted, but turned around, raising both hands like a hostage. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or on the entire bed, apparently.”

You changed quickly — opting for your favorite oversized sleep tee and shorts — and when you cleared your throat, Jake glanced back, clearly fighting a smile.

“Cute,” he said, eyeing the cartoon on your shirt. “Real intimidating.”

“Your turn,” you said, plopping onto the mattress and immediately stacking pillows around yourself like a moody princess in a rom-com bunker.

Jake pulled off his t-shirt with a stretch that was frankly illegal, then yanked on an old Navy Academy tank and gym shorts. He flopped down dramatically — not on the bed, but on the floor — and used his backpack as a pillow.

You frowned. “You’re seriously sleeping on the floor?”

He stared up at the ceiling. “Yes.”

“…Why?”

Jake turned his head slightly toward you, eyebrow raised. “Because your honor, the defendant has clearly stated that any attempt to share the bed would result in litigation.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like I’ll sue you. I’ll just smother you with a pillow.”

“Comforting.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“You can sleep on the bed,” you muttered.

Jake grinned at the ceiling. “Nah. I’m good. This floor’s got great character.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “One day, when I throw out my back and can no longer fly, I hope you think of this moment. This betrayal.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cozy little room.

Jake shifted slightly, settling in. “You know, for a fake girlfriend, you’re doing pretty well.”

You rested your head on your arm, facing him. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a professional headache.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

There was something comfortable about it — the teasing, the banter, the rhythm you’d fallen into like you hadn’t spent the last year arguing about everything from coffee orders to parking spots.

You watched him for a moment, just long enough to wonder if you were in over your head. If the fake was starting to blur. If Texas heat could get under your skin in more ways than one.

But instead, you said, “If you steal my blanket in the middle of the night, I will kick you.”

Jake smirked from the floor. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You tossed a pillow at his face. He caught it — again — and grinned, eyes glinting in the low light. “Goodnight, City Mouse.”

“Goodnight, Luggage Mule.”

Outside, the crickets chirped.

Inside, Jake lay on the floor with a stupid little smile on his face.

And you — well, you pretended you weren’t smiling into your pillow, too.

-

You didn’t wake up to an alarm. Or to a rooster, thank God. You woke up to the loud, masculine drone of a mower outside your window.

At first, you thought you were dreaming — some vaguely unsettling suburban nightmare where your exes mowed lawns shirtless in slow motion. But as your eyes adjusted and you peeled your cheek off the pillow, the hum continued.

And then you made the mistake of getting up to look.

The old farmhouse window framed the morning like a movie. Warm, golden light spilled across the lawn, and there — glistening with sweat, biceps flexing, baseball cap backwards — was Jake.

Shirtless.

Like, gloriously shirtless.

His back muscles moved with each push of the mower. His shorts hung just low enough on his hips to make you feel mildly unwell. He wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of a rag hanging from his pocket, and when he stretched to dump the bag of clippings, you nearly fainted.

“Has he always been this—” you whispered, then cut yourself off and darted back like a guilty Victorian widow caught staring at a stable boy.

Jake Seresin had no business looking like a GQ cover shoot before 9 a.m. on a Thursday.

You changed in record time — tugging on your most casual button-down shirt and a pair of fitted jeans. They were a little tight, but flattering, and fine, you’d admit it: you wanted to look good. You even tried to wear loafers, which turned out to be a rookie mistake.

Hair up. Gloss on. Not thinking about Jake’s abs. Not thinking about—

Okay, now you were just lying to yourself.

When you made it downstairs, the kitchen smelled like heaven. Bacon, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you like a cozy Southern hug.

Jake’s mom was already at the stove in a floral apron, flipping something golden in a cast-iron skillet. A full spread was laid out on the table — biscuits, jam, eggs, fruit, the works.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” she beamed when she spotted you. “You sleep alright? You need coffee?”

You nodded, offering a sheepish smile as you slid into a seat. “I’d sell my soul for coffee, actually.”

She chuckled and poured you a mug.

“So,” she said, sitting across from you with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “what’s your story, sweetheart? Where’d you grow up?”

You smiled, relaxing slightly. “I’m from Boston originally. Born and raised.”

“Lord, no wonder you look like you’re allergic to humidity,” she teased. “What do you do in California?”

“I’m a lawyer,” you said, and at her impressed noise, you added, “Criminal defense.”

Her eyes sparkled with something between admiration and mischief. “A woman who knows her way around an argument. I like that.”

“I’ll try not to cross-examine you at breakfast.”

She laughed again, warm and genuine. “College?”

“NYU. I lived in the city for a while. I only moved to California a couple of years ago. Too many rats in New York.”

“I’ve always said rats should pay rent,” she nodded solemnly.

You laughed. “Exactly.”

The kitchen door creaked open just then, and in walked Jake — still sweaty, still shirtless, a towel slung around his neck like a war medal. You tried very hard not to stare.

He made a beeline for the fridge, snagging a water bottle, and offered a lazy grin. “Mornin’.”

His mom glanced over her shoulder. “Boy, don’t drip all over my clean floors.”

Jake just smirked at you. “Did she tell you yet?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tell me what?”

Jake’s mom straightened up, pointing a spatula at your feet. “Those,” she said. “Are not shoes.”

You looked down at your—admittedly polished—loafers. “These are Ferragamo.”

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “Texas doesn’t care what they cost. They’re city shoes. You’ll break an ankle trying to cross a dirt road.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “It’s true. You’ll be the first casualty of fashion this side of the Mississippi.”

You glared. “Thank you, Vogue and GQ.”

His mom clapped her hands. “Which is why we’re all going into town later.”

You blinked. “We are?”

Jake looked amused. “We are?”

She turned toward him. “Yes, we are. My son is not dragging his girlfriend across the entire state of Texas without proper footwear. We’re getting this girl some real boots.”

Jake's eyes glinted with mischief. “Can I pick them?”

“No,” you and his mother said at the same time.

She winked at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll find you a pair that says ‘I fight for justice and look damn good doing it.’”

You smiled, suddenly charmed and overwhelmed all at once.

Jake finally pushed off the counter, tossing his towel in the laundry bin. “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower so I don’t scandalize the boot shop with my manly physique.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. They’ll think you’re doing a calendar shoot.”

He paused in the doorway, flexed dramatically, and shot you a wink.

You snorted into your coffee. “Someone needs to humble you.”

Jake pointed at you as he backed away. “And someone needs boots that won’t get them killed by a gopher hole.”

You leaned back in your chair, hiding a smile behind your mug.

Across the table, his mother just watched the two of you with an expression that could only be described as smug.

The drive into town was all blue skies and golden fields — postcard-perfect and offensively charming, like Texas itself had decided to play up the clichés just to mess with you.

You sat in the passenger seat of Jake’s dusty truck, the leather warm under your thighs despite the air conditioning on full blast. His mother rode in the backseat, humming something country and cheerful, her arm resting out the open window like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Jake, naturally, looked like he belonged in a commercial. Aviators. Henley rolled at the sleeves. That smug little half-smile that said he was very aware of how good he looked behind the wheel.

You hated how well he pulled off this whole aesthetic.

Worse, you hated that he was currently pulling off affectionate boyfriend like it was second nature.

His hand rested casually on your thigh — not too high, not too low, but perfectly placed — his thumb brushing slow circles against the seam of your jeans as he drove. He hadn’t asked. He’d just done it. You, flustered and dumb, hadn’t had the spine to move it.

And maybe you didn’t want to move it.

You cleared your throat, shifting a little. “You know you don’t actually have to touch me for the entire drive, right?”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m selling the fantasy, plus you know I can't keep my hands off you, honey.”

“Oh, is this the deluxe package?” you said, deadpan. “Does it come with thigh groping and excessive cologne?”

“That’s just my natural musk, sweetheart,” Jake said without missing a beat, turning to flash you the most infuriating smile known to man. “Be honest, you like it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his mother leaned forward from the backseat.

“I think it’s sweet,” she said, positively beaming. “I love how playful y’all are. So many couples forget how to have fun together.”

Your jaw snapped shut.

Jake squeezed your thigh like a punctuation mark. “We have tons of fun, don’t we, baby?”

You turned to him slowly, smile tight. “Oh, it’s a nonstop joyride. Just last week we fought over what color the living room throw pillows should be.”

Jake’s grin deepened. “And I was right, wasn’t I? The burnt orange really brought out your fiery temperament.”

You blinked at him. “You are so lucky your mom is in this truck.”

“Oh, I know.”

From the backseat, she laughed. “Honestly, I’ve never seen Jake like this. He’s practically glowing. You bring something out of him, sweetheart.”

You turned to the window to hide your blush. Jake just kept smiling — relaxed, easy, like he hadn’t just broken the Geneva Convention by flirting with you like that.

And then — to really commit to the role — he pulled into a spot on Main Street, killed the engine, and got out of the truck with an exaggerated stretch. You reached for the door handle, but he was already rounding the hood to open it for you like some cowboy Casanova.

You gave him a look as you stepped out. “You’re really leaning into this, huh?”

Jake leaned down, voice low. “You said I’d make a terrible actor. I’m just proving you wrong.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He closed the door behind you with a wink. “Too late.”

“Y’all are just precious,” his mother said from behind you, fanning herself slightly in the summer heat. “I swear, you should be in one of those Hallmark movies.”

Jake looked smug. You looked vaguely nauseous.

“Come on,” she added brightly. “Boots first, coffee later.”

Jake fell into step beside you, hand settling again on your lower back. You stiffened instinctively — not because you didn’t like it, but because you did.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered as the three of you walked down the street.

“Of course I am,” he said, brushing his fingers up your spine like a casual threat. “You’re letting me touch you in public and not slapping me for it. It’s the best day of my life.”

You glared at him. “Keep talking and I’ll ‘accidentally’ push you into a display of belt buckles.”

Jake leaned in, lips just near your ear. “Kinky.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Jesus.”

He laughed — genuine, loud, and a little too warm — and you hated that it made your stomach twist.

Back home, things were clean-cut, logical. Contracts, courtrooms, control. Here? In this sun-drenched, rodeo-hatted nightmare? Everything felt messy. You weren’t supposed to be flustered. You weren’t supposed to like the way Jake looked at you like he actually wanted to keep touching you.

You were supposed to be faking.

But from the way his mom sighed and smiled like her son had finally fallen in love — and from the way Jake squeezed your hand gently as you crossed the street — you couldn’t help but wonder:

Who exactly were you trying to fool?

-

"This could’ve been an email,” you muttered, fishing a rogue scallion from your noodles.

Jake leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “And miss out on this quality time? No chance.”

You scoffed. “Pretty sure I already spend more time with you than God intended.”

“And yet,” he said, with that maddening grin, “here you are. In my living room. Stealing my dumplings.”

“They were communal.”

“Not the pork ones.”

You didn’t even look up as you popped the last one in your mouth. “Whoops.”

Jake huffed a soft laugh, sipping his beer. For a few quiet seconds, the only sounds were rustling containers and the distant hum of a ceiling fan.

Then—

“I just realized I don’t actually know anything about you.”

You raised an eyebrow without lifting your head. “Is that you trying to flirt? Because the last time you asked a woman that, I’m pretty sure you were nineteen and on spring break.”

He smirked. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

Jake nudged a carton with his foot. “I’m serious. If we’re gonna pull this off, I need to know the basics. The essentials. Favorite color. Childhood trauma. Weird hobbies. The usual.”

You gave him a flat look. “Why?”

“In case my mom asks.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back on one hand, chopsticks dangling from the other. “Fine. I like navy blue. I don’t do hobbies. And I once gave myself a stick-and-poke tattoo in high school after watching one Vice documentary.”

He sat up. “Wait, really?”

“No,” you said dryly. “But see? That should tell you everything you need to know.”

Jake chuckled under his breath. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Likewise.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Seriously, though. You don’t talk about yourself much.”

“That’s because I’m not interesting.”

“Bullshit.”

You looked away, fixing your gaze on a plastic soy sauce packet. “Can we just stick to the story?”

Jake hesitated. Then leaned back again, nodding once. “Alright. Let’s say we met six months ago.”

You nodded slowly. “At a bar. Mutual friends.”

“Easy. Phoenix introduced us.”

“She hates both of us equally. Checks out.”

Jake grinned. “First date?”

You considered. “Bowling.”

He blinked. “Really?”

You shrugged. “It’s neutral territory. Public. Low pressure. Plus, I’m alarmingly good at it. Would’ve boosted your ego to beat me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, if we ever went bowling, I would’ve crushed you.”

“You’d have pulled something and limped for a week.”

“Okay. Second date?” Jake asked, leaning forward like this was some kind of game show.

You tilted your head. “You want to keep going with this?”

He gestured around the room. “We’re already elbows-deep in spring rolls and fake commitment. Might as well go all the way.”

“That’s what she said,” you deadpanned.

Jake blinked, then barked a laugh. “Did you just—?”

You pointed your chopsticks at him. “Don’t make it weird. Just answer the question.”

He grinned. “Alright. Our second date was… tacos.”

“Tacos?” you repeated.

“In my truck. Late night. You were wearing those ridiculous high heels you swear are comfortable but make you limp after five minutes—”

“Excuse me,” you cut in, “I would never agree to food that requires napkins and a lap while wearing couture. I’m not an animal.”

Jake raised a brow. “Couture?”

“Shut up. This is my fantasy too.”

He chuckled, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. “Fine. Fancy rooftop wine bar?”

You shook your head. “Too obvious.”

“Bowling alley?”

“We already used bowling.”

“Okay, smartass.” He smirked. “Where do you take your fake boyfriends on their fake second date?”

You pretended to consider it. “Art museum.”

Jake blinked. “That’s the opposite of tacos in a truck.”

“Exactly. You hated it. Complained about all the abstract pieces and asked why everything looked like genitals.”

Jake’s smile widened. “That sounds like me.”

“And I was this close to leaving you there,” you added, holding up your fingers.

“But I won you back by buying overpriced gift shop merch,” he said proudly.

You nodded. “A tote bag that said ‘Modern Art Makes Me Sad.’”

Jake laughed. “I’d absolutely carry that around.”

“You did. I made you.”

He shook his head, clearly amused. “You know, for people who allegedly can’t stand each other, we’re disturbingly good at this.”

You didn’t look up from your noodles. “That’s because we both have control issues.”

“And probably too much free time.”

“And deep-rooted emotional avoidance patterns.”

Jake raised his beer in a mock-toast. “To us.”

You clinked your chopsticks against it. “A match made in neurosis.”

He grinned, eyes dancing as he watched you across the room. “So how did I win you over? What moment made you realize I was the love of your life?”

You snorted. “You’re assuming I’m the one who fell first?”

“Oh absolutely,” he said confidently. “I probably annoyed you into submission.”

“Please. You couldn’t annoy me into making you a sandwich.”

Jake grinned wider. “C’mon. There had to be a moment. A fake, heart-melting, perfect-for-a-wedding-speech moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t quite bite back the smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. You fixed my radiator.”

Jake blinked. “That’s it?”

“It was January. I was freezing. You came over with your toolbox and those stupid biceps and made it work again. I was vulnerable. Don’t get cocky.”

Jake looked mock-offended. “You fell for me because I played handyman?”

“Temporarily. Then you mansplained how a thermostat works and I came to my senses.”

He shook his head. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

He watched you for a second, something playful flickering behind his eyes. “So we’re good? This is our story?”

You nodded. “Yep.”

“Perfect,” Jake said. “Now all we have to do is sell it to my mother.”

You set your empty takeout container aside. “Easy. I’ve convinced juries to let literal criminals walk. Faking a relationship with a mildly tolerable flyboy can’t be harder than that.”

Jake leaned back, smirking. “You just admitted I’m tolerable.”

“I said mildly. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

-

The tickets were booked. The time off from work was somehow authorized after three reschedules, one favor called in, and a suspiciously vague email about “a personal family emergency.” You were officially committed.

All that was left?

The suitcase. The trip. The lie.

And Jake Seresin, knocking on your front door like he owned the place.

You opened it barefoot, still in bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt that read Case Closed. There was half a granola bar in your hand and a distinctly haunted look in your eyes.

“Tell me you’ve been robbed,” Jake said by way of greeting.

You glared at him, stepping aside. “Come in, Cowboy.”

He walked through the threshold, taking in the pristine living room — modern, sharp, color-coordinated down to the throw pillows — and then the hallway lined with framed legal diplomas, pristine white walls, and abstract art.

“This place is very…you.”

You shut the door. “Thanks. That sounded almost like an insult.”

He grinned. “It was. Now where’s the fire?”

You gestured down the hallway, and the moment he stepped inside your bedroom, he actually whistled.

“Jesus Christ.”

He wasn’t looking at your bed or your decor. No. He was staring into the yawning chasm of your closet, which looked like it had been ransacked by a particularly indecisive tornado. Clothes were everywhere — on the bench, on the floor, hanging out of drawers like they’d tried to escape mid-crisis.

“This isn’t a closet,” Jake said, arms crossed. “This is a cry for help.”

You tossed your granola wrapper at him.

“I don’t know what to pack!” you snapped, already elbow-deep in a pile of blouses. “What does one wear in Texas? Do I need denim? A Stetson? Is fringe ironic again?”

Jake took a slow lap around the disaster zone, eyeing a particularly sparkly dress hanging from a doorknob. “What exactly do you think happens in Texas? Line dancing and cattle wrangling at the airport?”

You shot him a look. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t born in a cornfield like you. I’ve never set foot in a town with a population under one million.”

Jake snorted. “That’s not a town, sweetheart. That’s a city-state.”

You dramatically flopped onto your bed. “This is my nightmare.”

Jake pulled a pair of heels out of the mix — suede, open-toe, aggressively New York — and held them up like a dead rat. “Planning to wear these to Sunday dinner with my grandma?”

You covered your face. “I have no context. I don’t know if we’re doing brunch or barrel racing.”

Jake’s voice was all mock-sympathy. “Poor little Boston girl. No idea what to wear in the wild.”

“Say ‘Boston’ in that tone again and I’ll call the airline and cancel your ticket.”

He grinned, dropping the shoes onto a nearby chair. “Relax. You don’t need to look like a country song to survive the week.”

“Says the man who owns boots.”

“I own functional footwear. Unlike you and these—” he picked up a pair of red-bottom stilettos “—weapons of mass destruction.”

“They’re Louboutins,” you said defensively.

“They’re death traps,” he replied, casually sitting on the edge of your bed like he wasn’t witnessing a full-scale mental collapse. “Alright, listen. Pack one dress for the wedding, one for dinner with my family, and then just casual stuff. Jeans, tees, something you can breathe in. You do own jeans, right?”

You shot him a death glare. “I own very expensive jeans that have never been within fifty miles of dirt.”

Jake snickered. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You’re going to thrill the town, actually,” he added, smug. “They’ve never seen someone wear Chanel to a backyard BBQ.”

You groaned and reached for a pair of oversized sunglasses. “I already regret agreeing to this.”

“Too late, Counselor,” he said, stretching out and folding his arms behind his head. “You’re my fake girlfriend now. Ride or die.”

You looked at him, then at the war zone that used to be your closet. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m having the time of my life.”

“Sadist.”

“City mouse.”

You threw a folded shirt at his head.

He caught it one-handed, smirking. “That’s not going to match your hat.”

You paused. “What hat?”

Jake leaned forward, eyes glinting with pure menace. “Oh. Did I forget to mention? My mom has a whole collection. She's gonna insist.”

You dropped your head into your hands.

He clapped a hand on your shoulder, mock-gentle. “Yeehaw, baby.”

-

“You know,” you said, slipping your sunglasses down your nose as you strolled through the terminal like it was your own personal runway, “this is the most unhinged thing I’ve agreed to do since I let my roommate give me curtain bangs during a wine tasting.”

Jake, walking beside you in a t-shirt tight enough to be a war crime and dragging a carry-on with absurd ease, gave you a sidelong look. “And yet, here you are. Ready to fake-date me in the Lone Star State.”

You grinned. “I’m choosing to see this as performance art.”

“Sure. As long as your method acting includes pretending to like me.”

“I’d sooner chew glass.”

“God, I missed this energy,” Jake muttered, shouldering past a group of vacation dads in cargo shorts.

By the time you reached your gate, the boarding area was buzzing — honeymooners, tech bros, some teenagers in cowboy boots who looked like they were on their way to audition for The Voice. You scanned the crowd, checking the time on your phone.

Jake stretched, arms overhead, and you didn’t mean to look at the way his shirt lifted, but… gravity was undefeated. So were his abs.

Unfortunately.

"Stop checking me out," he said without looking at you.

“I was admiring your poor posture,” you lied, turning your attention to your designer tote. “You’re going to need a chiropractor by thirty-five.”

Jake smirked. “Good thing I’m thirty-eight and still thriving.”

“Thriving,” you echoed. “Is that what we’re calling male delusion now?”

Before he could respond, the gate agent called for first-class boarding.

Jake turned to you with a dramatic little bow. “After you, darlin’.”

You gave him a look. “Say that again and I’ll commit homicide in a Delta boarding tunnel.”

He grinned and followed you down the jet bridge.

Once seated, you kicked off your heels and stretched luxuriously, feeling very much like you were in a Nancy Meyers movie where you were just divorced and about to fall in love with a man who made bread from scratch.

“God, this is so weird,” you said, accepting a glass of champagne from the flight attendant. “It feels like I’m Hannah Montana going back to her ranch after performing at the Staples Center.”

Jake blinked. “Who?”

You stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Hannah who?”

You turned to face him fully. “Hannah Montana. The Disney Channel icon. The woman who taught a generation that you can, in fact, have the best of both worlds?”

Jake just looked at you like you’d started speaking Dutch.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sipping your drink. “You really are old.”

“That reference meant nothing to me,” he said, bemused. “Is that like High School Musical?”

You gasped. “You don’t know?!”

“I was defending the country when you were learning synchronized dances from Zac Efron.”

“Excuse you,” you said, one hand to your chest. “That movie changed lives. Lives.”

Jake snorted into his glass. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m a cultural scholar.”

“Of bubblegum pop and teen angst.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

Just then, a soft voice floated across the aisle.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” said a woman in her sixties, holding a well-worn book in her lap and smiling warmly, “but you two are just the cutest couple. I’ve been watching you since the terminal — the way you tease each other? So sweet.”

You froze with your champagne mid-air.

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Aw, thank you, ma’am. We try.”

You turned slowly to him, eyes wide. He just smiled, pure Southern charm in denim and sin.

The woman beamed. “I can always tell when it’s real love. Enjoy your trip!”

“She thinks we’re in love,” you hissed the moment she turned back to her book.

Jake leaned closer, his smirk criminal. “Well, sweetheart, fake it till you make it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

You refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, you adjusted your seat, crossed your legs, and muttered, “If I get stuck next to you for three hours, I’m upgrading myself to witness protection.”

Jake just laughed. “Welcome to the best of both worlds, city girl.”

Somewhere between your third glass of first-class champagne and Jake muttering something snide about your Spotify playlists, you’d drifted off — head tilted against the window, seat reclined just enough, arms crossed defensively like even in unconsciousness you were keeping your guard up.

Jake had, of course, noticed.

He also noticed the small, unflattering drool mark collecting at the corner of your mouth.

“Hey,” he said when the wheels hit the tarmac with a bump, his voice pitched low next to your ear, “Sleeping Beauty. You drool.”

Your eyes snapped open, your brain still foggy with sleep and recycled cabin air. “What—?”

He nodded toward your chin, totally unrepentant. “Little waterfall situation happening.”

You wiped your mouth instantly, glaring. “I hate you.”

“I’m touched.”

You shoved his arm as you sat up, blinking at the sunshine flooding through the window. “Are we here?”

Jake nodded. “Welcome to Texas.”

You squinted at the landscape. Flat, golden, stretching for miles. Your heels were already regretting this decision.

By the time you were off the plane and standing at baggage claim, reality was fully setting in. This was Texas. You were surrounded by more cowboy hats than cell towers, the humidity hit like a wet towel to the face, and the airport smelled vaguely like hay and BBQ.

You, naturally, were dressed in designer travel wear — linen trousers, loafers, oversized sunglasses, and an absurdly expensive tote you refused to check. Beside you stood Jake, perfectly at home in jeans and a t-shirt, backpack slung effortlessly over one shoulder.

And then came the luggage.

Your luggage.

Three suitcases, a carry-on, the tote, and a hanging garment bag with your wedding dress inside — all color-coordinated, all wheeled with difficulty.

Jake stood still as the final piece slid onto the conveyor.

“…Is this all yours?” he asked, voice suspiciously calm.

You didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you pack for a destination wedding or the fall of civilization?”

“Some of us like to prepare.”

Jake exhaled deeply. “You realize we’re staying at my mother’s house, not a fashion week penthouse.”

“I need options,” you replied breezily, already loading up the rolling handles and looping your bag across your chest. “Some of us weren’t born with a pair of jeans and a toolkit in our crib.”

Jake muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “city girls gonna be the death of me” and grabbed two suitcases without further complaint.

You handed him the third.

And your carry-on.

And your garment bag.

He stared at you. “Seriously?”

You smiled sweetly. “I’m delicate.”

He groaned, dragging what looked like half of a Louis Vuitton showroom behind him.

Outside, the heat was even worse — that dry, sunbaked kind of warmth that hit you in the lungs and made you wish for ice water and mercy. You immediately regretted wearing long pants.

Jake loaded your mountain of luggage into the back of the rental SUV (a navy Chevy Tahoe that looked like it had been specifically designed for football dads and small-town sheriffs) while you hovered nearby, like the helpless urbanite you were.

“My mom offered to pick us up, by the way,” he said, slamming the trunk shut and walking around to the driver’s side. “I told her no.”

“Why not?” you asked, sliding into the passenger seat and adjusting the air vents toward your face with great urgency.

“She’s sixty-two and insists on driving that old Buick of hers like it’s the goddamn Batmobile. I didn’t want her on the highway alone for two hours.”

You blinked. “Wait, it’s two hours to her house?”

Jake snorted. “Did you think we were staying in the airport?”

You slumped in your seat, dramatic as ever. “I should’ve just faked a family emergency and stayed home.”

Jake pulled out of the parking lot, the air conditioning slowly coming to life. “Too late now, sweetheart. You’re committed. Fake girlfriend contract is binding.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“You are your lawyer.”

“Tragic.”

Jake grinned, merging onto the open stretch of highway. “Buckle up, city mouse. Welcome to the country.”

Fifteen minutes into the drive and Jake had already called you high-maintenance, tone-deaf, and “so painfully city it makes his teeth hurt.” You’d countered with cowboy cosplay, toxic masculinity, and a jab at his Spotify library after he played a Brooks & Dunn song unironically.

But now the SUV had settled into a calm rhythm — road humming under the tires, warm wind filtering through half-cracked windows, the heat lazy and golden.

You kicked off your shoes, curling your feet up onto the seat, and twisted your body toward him.

“Alright, we need to get our story straight.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What story?”

You gave him a flat look. “The one where I’m your loving, adoring, totally smitten girlfriend who for some reason agreed to spend a week pretending you’re tolerable.”

He smirked. “So basically sci-fi.”

“So,” you said, lazily turning your head toward him. “We’ve got the meet-cute, the timeline, and the first few dates down.”

"All Rom-Com worthy if you ask me."

You rolled your eyes. “Delusional, but sure. Now we just need to cover the weird little stuff. Things couples know.”

Jake glanced at you. “Like what? Favorite color? How you take your coffee?”

“Exactly. Little domestic things. If your mom asks me what side of the bed you sleep on and I freeze like a malfunctioning Alexa, the whole thing falls apart.”

He chuckled. “Easy. Right side. Always.”

You hummed. “Good. I’m a lefty.”

Jake gave a sideways smirk. “We’d be compatible if this were a sleepover and not a romantic fraud.”

You flipped him off, elbow still propped on the window.

He grinned. “Okay, what’s my coffee order?”

“You don’t drink coffee. You drink jet fuel in a mug.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Black, no sugar. Like my soul.”

You snorted. “Jesus.”

“How do you take yours?”

“Like someone who needs therapy. Triple shot oat milk latte with two pumps of vanilla and a crippling caffeine dependency.”

Jake gave a low whistle. “That sounds like a cry for help.”

You raised your brows. “You’re the one lying to your mother about being in love. I’d say we’re both circling the drain.”

“Fair.”

You reached into your tote and pulled out a small notebook. Jake raised a brow.

“You’re taking notes?”

“Obviously. I have a legal pad full of court prep in my bag, you think I’m going to half-ass our cover story? Please.”

He leaned back in his seat, watching you jot down bullet points. “God, you’re so type A it physically hurts.”

“And you’re going to benefit from it, so don’t whine,” you said, clicking your pen. “Okay, next — pet names.”

Jake groaned. “We’re still doing this?”

You turned to him fully. “Yes. If I call you ‘Jake’ every time I speak to you, it’ll sound formal. We need variety.”

He gave it a beat, then said, totally deadpan: “Pumpkin tits.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Keep talking and I’ll stab you with this pen.”

He laughed so hard he nearly swerved again.

“Okay,” he wheezed, wiping at his eyes. “Okay. For real. I’ll call you ‘darlin’ — it’s natural, I already say it sometimes.”

“Sure, as long as you don’t say it like I’m your horse.”

Jake shrugged. “Fine. You can call me—”

“I’m not calling you daddy,” you interrupted.

He choked.

“I WASN’T GOING TO SAY THAT,” he said, face halfway between scandalized and hysterical.

You smirked, satisfied. “Good. Just making sure we set clear boundaries.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Moving on. Physical affection. PDA. Where do we stand?”

Jake cleared his throat, composing himself. “Hand on your lower back. Kiss hello, kiss goodbye. Knee touches under the table.”

You nodded. “We cuddle?”

Jake smirked. “Depends. Are you a little spoon or a big spoon?”

“I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

You scribbled a few more notes. “What else. Oh — allergies?”

“I’m allergic to cats. Mild. I get sniffly.”

You blinked. “I would not have expected that.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You looked down at your notes. “Okay. Favorite meals?”

“Yours is something absurd and gluten-free.”

“It’s actually Thai food. Pad see ew.”

He raised a brow. “Impressive. And mine?”

“Steak. Medium-rare. Baked potato. Budweiser.”

He pointed at you. “Nailed it.”

You leaned back again, squinting out the windshield as the landscape began to shift — the fields more familiar, the signs more weathered. The road was growing narrower, the GPS chiming softly with each passing mile.

“You nervous?” Jake asked after a beat.

You shrugged. “About lying to your entire family? No, I do this kind of thing in front of judges all the time.”

He huffed a laugh. “You’re something else.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Jake smiled at the echo, but didn’t respond. Instead, he reached over and turned down the music, letting the silence settle between you. Comfortable. Almost… companionable.

The lie had gotten shockingly easy to wear.

“Hey,” he said, just before the final turnoff.

You looked over.

He gave you a half-smile, quieter than his usual teasing grin. “Thanks for doing this. I know you didn’t have to.”

You tilted your head. “Just so we’re clear: you still owe me a date night with my firm and a performance worthy of an Oscar.”

“Obviously,” he said. “I’ll even wear a tie.”

You paused. “Clip-on?”

Jake looked offended. “Absolutely not.”

You grinned and faced forward again as the car bumped onto a long dirt driveway, lined with crepe myrtles and an old white fence.

You exhaled. “Alright, cowboy. Let’s go meet your mama.”

-

The return address said Austin, but he knew better. That script, those colors — they weren’t just Texan. They were hers.

He slid a finger under the flap and carefully tore it open.

Inside: a glossy cardstock invitation, elegantly printed, soft pink flowers curling around cursive lettering that read:

Cordially invited to the wedding of Lila James and Dr. Thomas Grant...

Jake stopped reading.

Lila James. Lila James was getting married.

His Lila. Or, well, used to be.

The only girl he’d ever called his girlfriend out loud. The only one who ever knew him before the Navy, before the medals, before “Hangman.” Back when he was just Jake, tan and wide-eyed and reckless, sneaking kisses behind the bleachers and whispering forever like he meant it — because back then, he did.

They’d tried. Really tried. All through flight school and her undergrad, into his first real station and her first real heartbreak. It wasn’t anger or betrayal that ended it. It was just time. Distance. The quiet weight of lives growing apart.

Still, he hadn’t expected this.

He ran a hand through his hair, dropping the card onto his desk like it had burned him. The edges fluttered slightly under the A/C vent. He sat back, staring at the ceiling, and exhaled a long, low breath through his nose.

Five seconds later, his phone buzzed.

MOM.

He blinked, then groaned. “Of course.”

He swiped to answer and leaned forward again, already bracing himself.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Oh, honey, you got it, didn’t you?” His mother’s voice, all bright Southern syrup, filled the line like she’d been waiting by the phone. “I just talked to Denise, she said the invites went out last week!”

Jake closed his eyes. “Yeah. I got it.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be so beautiful. The James girls don’t do anything halfway, you know that. Lila’s always had such good taste — well, except that boy from Tennessee she dated for a while after you, but we don’t talk about him.” She laughed. “But now she’s marrying a doctor! You believe that? A real one, not just a Ph.D.”

Jake said nothing.

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “I’m fine. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His mom hummed softly. “You know, I always thought the two of you would find your way back to each other. You were just so good together. I mean, I still have those photos from senior prom framed in the hallway.”

Jake winced. “Maybe you should take those down.”

“Why? You looked so handsome in that tux. And she was just glowing — she always did around you.”

He rubbed his temple with two fingers. “Ma.”

“I’m just saying, if there’s anything unresolved between you two—”

“There isn’t.”

“—this might be your last chance to say something.”

Jake sat in silence, his throat working. What was there to say? Congratulations? I’m glad you found someone else? I used to think I’d marry you too?

His mom sighed. “I just want you to be happy, honey. You’ve been alone for a long time. I know the Navy’s demanding, but you deserve a partner. Someone to love you. Someone to ground you.”

Jake looked down at the invitation again, still gleaming on the edge of his desk.

“Well,” he said suddenly, the words coming from some rogue part of his brain that didn’t check with the rest of him first, “I’m actually seeing someone.”

Silence.

Then: “You’re what?”

Jake cleared his throat. “I’m dating someone. Serious, actually. It’s… new. But real.”

His mom gasped. “Jacob Austin Seresin, you’ve been holding out on me!”

“I wasn’t—”

“Oh, my God! What’s her name? When do I get to meet her? Oh, this is perfect. You’ll bring her to the wedding, of course! I’ve got the guest room all made up, and I’ll finally get to show someone your baby pictures—”

“Wait, Ma—”

“You’ll fly in next Thursday, yes? I’ll tell Denise right away, she’ll be thrilled. Lord, I have to go shopping. I haven’t hosted in forever—”

“Ma,” Jake said again, louder this time. “Can we slow down a second?”

“Oh, don’t you even think about backing out now,” she warned playfully. “You’ve never brought anyone home. I’ve been begging you for years and now that you are? I’m throwing a party. This girl—what’s her name again?”

Jake stared at the empty doorway of his office, his voice stuck somewhere between regret and resignation.

“I’ll tell you soon,” he muttered. “She’s… something.”

“She must be,” his mom said warmly. “I’m so happy for you, honey. Truly.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, hanging up a minute later. “Me too.”

He dropped the phone facedown on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

Then he groaned, long and low.

“I am so, so screwed.”

-

Jake slammed his empty beer glass down on the bar with a grunt, his jaw tight as the sound of laughter echoed around him.

Phoenix was doubled over. Rooster had tears in his eyes. Bob was trying, and failing, not to smile.

"Y’all are the worst," Jake muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You told your mother you had a serious girlfriend?” Rooster wheezed. “And now you have to show up to your ex’s wedding with a mystery woman or she’ll know you lied? Hangman, I—” He lost it again, pounding the table. “You deserve a medal.”

“I deserve a bottle of whiskey and a parachute,” Jake grumbled. “I should fake a deployment. Get reassigned to Guam. Take up carpentry and disappear.”

Phoenix snorted. “You know what’s wild? This is your own fault. You could’ve just said no. Or sent a polite regret. But no, Mr. I-Always-Have-A-Plan had to make up a whole girlfriend.”

“My mom cornered me,” Jake snapped. “You try saying no to a Southern woman who thinks she’s finally about to get grandkids. She was already planning the wedding before I hung up.”

Coyote clapped him on the back. “Damn, man. That’s rough.”

“It’s doomed, is what it is,” Jake muttered. “I have no one. Absolutely no—”

The door opened.

Jake looked up.

And in you walked.

You stepped into the bar like a storm cloud in stilettos — all sharp lines and cool elegance, your tailored black trousers hugging your hips like they were stitched just for you, the silk blouse tucked neatly into the waistband, a soft cream that made your skin glow under the Hard Deck’s dim lights. The click of your red-bottomed heels against the worn wooden floor was almost too loud for the room, slicing through the laughter and noise like a courtroom gavel.

Jake straightened automatically.

Not that he was staring.

Or noticing how good your legs looked when you walked. Or how your lipstick was still intact — probably from a full day of chewing through opposing counsel. Or how your hair was pulled back in that effortlessly intimidating way that said I’m too busy winning to care what you think.

Definitely not noticing.

You reached the bar and dropped your purse beside Phoenix, sliding onto the stool with a tired sigh.

“Hell of a day,” you muttered. “I just spent four hours in front of a judge who thinks Title IX is a suggestion. I need a drink.”

Phoenix raised her eyebrows. “Rough?”

You nodded, rolling your shoulders. “Rough. My client almost cried. I did cry. But only after I got back to my office.”

Jake cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you were joining us.”

“Didn’t know it was your birthday,” you shot back without missing a beat. “Oh wait — it’s not. So I’m allowed to be here.”

Rooster choked on his drink. Coyote bit back a laugh. Phoenix just smirked.

You always had that tone when you spoke to Jake — smooth, crisp, dry as a martini with an extra twist of disdain. It wasn’t mean, not really. You didn’t seem to hate him. You just couldn’t be bothered to pretend you liked him.

Which, naturally, meant Jake spent most of his time trying to get under your skin.

You turned to Nat, already tugging the pins from your hair. “What did I miss?”

Phoenix grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just that Jake’s in a desperate situation.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Jake groaned. “No.”

Rooster leaned forward, grinning. “He told his mom he has a girlfriend—”

“I panicked,” Jake muttered.

“—so now he has to take her to his ex’s wedding next week. You know. The one serious relationship he’s ever had.”

“Because his mom thinks he’s emotionally stunted,” Phoenix added sweetly.

“I am right here,” Jake snapped, waving a hand.

You looked unimpressed. “So what’s the plan? Hire someone off Craigslist? Or go stag and fake a tragic breakup in front of the shrimp cocktail?”

Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Scowled.

And Phoenix — your beautiful, treacherous friend — tilted her head and said, “Actually, I have a better idea.” Jake’s stomach dropped.

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t like that look.”

Nat smiled wider. “You should go with him.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” she said, elbowing you lightly. “It’s perfect. You’re single. He’s desperate. You’re already great at pretending not to want to murder each other. That’s basically halfway to marriage.”

Jake stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “What?!”

“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, spinning your stool to face the bar.

“Why not?” Phoenix pushed.

“Because I’d rather throw myself into the ocean.”

Jake held up both hands. “For once, I agree with her.”

You spun back to him. “Oh, don’t act offended. You’re the one lying to your mother.”

“At least I didn’t come straight from a courtroom with blood in my eyes.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Don’t tempt me, Hangman.”

“Okay, okay,” Coyote laughed. “Let’s not burn the Hard Deck down.”

Phoenix held up a hand. “I’m just saying — if, hypothetically, you did need to pretend to be in a relationship for one single week, wouldn’t it be better to do it with someone who already knows your bullshit?”

You and Jake locked eyes. And hated that it made sense.

-

The Hard Deck buzzed around them — pool balls cracking, music playing low from the jukebox, someone whistling near the back patio. You’d long since turned your body toward Coyote, laughing at something he was saying about Rooster’s latest attempt at growing out his hair, your wine glass nearly empty. Whatever ridiculous idea Nat’s tossed out earlier had been dismissed and buried.

At least, it looked like it had.

But Jake Seresin had barely spoken since.

He stood by the bar now, arms crossed, a half-full beer warming in his hand. His eyes kept straying — unintentionally, of course — to where you sat, golden under the flickering light, a lock of hair curling behind your ear, the top two buttons of your blouse undone like an afterthought. The heels were off, tucked under the barstool, but the rest of you still looked like you belonged in a courtroom, delivering a closing statement that could dismantle a man’s entire existence.

Jake had seen you cut someone down with three words and a look. You were lethal. And now, you might also be his last chance.

He muttered a curse under his breath.

“Grow a pair,” Phoenix said behind him, taking a sip of her drink without looking.

Jake blinked. “What?”

She didn’t even turn her head. “Go ask her. Nicely. Or don’t. But stop staring like a Victorian maiden with a crush.”

He frowned. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m thriving,” she said, and walked away.

Jake scrubbed a hand through his hair, exhaled slowly, and set his drink down.

You’d just stepped outside, heels in one hand, cell phone in the other, scrolling through a few emails you’d ignored all day. The ocean breeze was cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to the bar’s wooden beams and sun-warmed deck. You leaned against the railing, typing one last line into your reply before hitting send.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

The silence that followed his arrival was weighted, taut — a held breath between opposing forces. You waited for him to speak. He didn’t. So you broke the silence first.

“If you’re here to ask me again, save your breath.”

Jake stopped a few feet away. “Come on, Counselor. I haven’t even said anything yet.”

You turned, giving him a pointed look. “Yet.”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “You know, I always assumed you hated me because I’m annoyingly good-looking and smarter than I look. But now I’m starting to think you just enjoy saying no.”

“Or,” you said, “I just enjoy peace and quiet. Which tends to evaporate around you.”

He moved closer, the boards creaking under his boots. “Look, I get it. You think I’m a walking ego trip with a pilot’s license.”

“I know you are.”

“Fine. But desperate times…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. But this isn’t just about the wedding. It’s about my mom. She’s… she’s excited. Like, really excited. She’s already baking pies and digging out photo albums.”

You raised a brow. “So lie to her again. Tell her your fake girlfriend bailed.”

Jake shook his head. “She’ll never believe that. And the minute I walk in alone, she’ll be looking at me like I kicked a puppy and let it die in the rain.”

You stared at him for a moment, arms crossed.

He sighed. “She’s just… lonely. Since my dad passed. This is the first time she’s had people over in months. And I think she was holding out hope — not for me and Lila, exactly, but for me at all.”

Your brow softened slightly. Not much, but enough.

Jake noticed.

He took a step closer. “And yeah, okay, maybe I made it worse by lying. But I was trying to give her something to look forward to. Something to smile about.”

The breeze picked up, brushing a strand of hair across your face. You pushed it back absently, still watching him.

“You rehearsed that speech?”

Jake tilted his head. “Would it help if I said yes?”

“No.”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Alright. What if we made a deal?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“You come with me. Play the part. Just for a week. Be charming, hold my hand, maybe let me kiss you once in front of my grandma—”

“Absolutely not.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. We’ll negotiate. But in exchange… I’ll owe you one.”

You looked unimpressed. “You already owe me several.”

“Okay,” he said, licking his lips. “Then name it.”

You paused.

And Jake saw it — the flicker of something behind your eyes. Calculating. Weighing.

Then, slowly, you said, “I have a work dinner coming up. One of those old boys’ club nights where the firm pretends not to care about your personal life while absolutely caring about your personal life.”

He nodded cautiously. “Okay…”

“I’ve been shortlisted for a partner-track promotion,” you said, looking out toward the water. “But the firm’s obsessed with ‘well-roundedness.’ Family. Stability. Being seen as the kind of person they can build the brand around.”

Jake blinked. “You want to bring me as your date to your law firm’s fancy dinner?”

You turned back to him. “You said you’d do anything.”

“I thought you meant, like… carry groceries. Wash your car. Not wear a suit and be judged by ten Harvard grads and a managing partner named Gregory.”

“Well,” you said dryly, “welcome to my world.”

Jake studied you for a long moment. “So we fake date. For each other’s benefit.”

“One week in Texas. One night in a downtown ballroom.”

You held out your hand.

Jake looked down at it, then back at you.

“God help us both,” he muttered, and shook it.

-