“I hate him,” I muttered, fully lying to myself.
“No, you don’t. You’re just in denial because his jawline could cut glass and he makes your stomach do weird little gymnastics flips.”
“He’s my fake boyfriend,” I reminded her, trying to ground myself in reality as she rifled through my clothes. “This is PR. This is damage control.”
Nora pulled out a hanger and held it up like she was presenting a sacred relic. “This is a backless bodysuit that says, ‘PR who?’”
I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your wardrobe,” she said, tossing it at me along with a pair of high-waisted trousers and ankle boots. “Now go shower. Moisturize. Pretend you don’t have unresolved feelings about your fake boyfriend looking at you like you personally resurrected the concept of hope.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Not about the feelings. And definitely not about the way Kieren had looked at me after that kiss.
God help me. I was in trouble.
I showed up to the shoot in black jeans, ankle boots, and a tucked-in long-sleeved shirt under my fitted winter jacket—simple, streamlined, confident. Or at least, that was what I repeated in my head on loop like a manifestation chant while I walked into Studio 6B like I wasn’t about to fake-flirt for content with the one man who’d been haunting my thoughts since that dive bar, that dance, that kiss.
The second I stepped inside, I spotted him.
Kieren Walker. Mid-shoot. Clad in full Storm-branded gear. Muscles tense, jaw clenched in that annoyingly photogenic way that made every camera drool. His hair was just messy enough to look deliberate, and he was doing that thing—that thing—where he looked slightly away from the camera like he was brooding over the weight of his legacy or some tragic love lost.
It was giving leading man in a moody indie film. It was also giving me heart palpitations.
I was still trying to gather the scattered shards of my dignity when Cam appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my elbow, steering me toward a corner like we were about to exchange state secrets.
“This is working,” he whispered, eyes gleaming with PR bloodlust. “The kiss bought us two days of good press. Walker’s numbers are up. Fan sentiment has shifted. We’re getting fewer rage comments and more thirst traps. I’ve even seen a few ‘maybe he was just misunderstood’ edits. That’s a damn miracle, Sommers.”
“That’s great,” I said, unsure where this was going but deeply suspicious of the way his grin widened.
“So let’s keep the momentum,” he said brightly. “We’ve got a couple’s content segment planned—behind-the-scenes footage, soft moments, maybe even a mic’d-up video. You don’t have to fake anything. Just be… yourselves. But hotter.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. Hotter?”
“Yes,” Cam said, like this was a totally reasonable instruction. “Just… turn it up a little. The chemistry’s there, you just need to lean into it.”
Lean into it? Was I supposed to mount him in front of the Philip F. Anschutz Trophy?
“Cam,” I said slowly, “what exactly is the line between effective couple branding and sexual harassment?”
He patted my arm. “If you figure it out, let me know.”
Then he vanished, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts and the sound of Kieren laughing with the photographer.
I looked over and caught him watching me. Not glancing. Watching. Like I was the next drill he had to master.
And damn it, that stupid smirk was already forming.
“Nice jacket,” he said when I walked over. “But it’s not doing much to lower the temperature.”
I folded my arms. “Maybe try unclenching your jaw. You look like you’re in pain.”
He stepped closer. “Can’t help it when you’re around.”
My brain short-circuited for a full second.
