But my brain won't shut up. What if I ruined everything? What if the scouts see something different in him now? What if he blames me if this falls apart?
I need coffee. And pants. And possibly a time machine.
I pull on leggings and a hoodie, then head to the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgles to life while I lean against the counter and try to remember how to be a functioning human. My laptop sits on the kitchen table, closed and waiting. I have content to create. Brand partnerships to nurture. An entire online presence that doesn't care if I just slept with someone I wasn't supposed to sleep with.
My phone lights up on the counter. Seventeen notifications. Instagram, TikTok, email—all of them demanding attention.
The photo from yesterday—the one of Ryder and me at The Ashwood Café, the one where he held my hand and looked at me like I hung the moon—has exploded. 147,000 likes on Instagram. Someone reposted it to TikTok and that version has 128,000 views. The comments are flooded with heart emojis and demands to know where they can find a man who looks at them like that.
If they only knew he was contractually obligated to look at me like that.
Another notification pops up. An email from a skincare brand. Then another from an outdoor gear company. Both want to discuss partnership opportunities. Both mention my "authentic relationship content."
I set the phone down before I throw it.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup that's probably strong enough to strip paint. I should be thrilled. This is working. The fake relationship is generating exactly the kind of engagement I need to rebuild my brand. Companies are noticing. My analytics are through the roof.
And I complicated everything by sleeping with him.
I carry my coffee to the table and open my laptop. The screen glows to life, showing my content calendar. Three videos due this week. Two blog posts. A partnership announcement that needs to go out tomorrow. I stare at the blinking cursor.
Nothing happens.
How am I supposed to create content about my "relationship" when I don't even know what my relationship is anymore?
I scroll through my analytics instead. The numbers are ridiculous. Yesterday's photo gained another 50,000 likes overnight. My follower count jumped by 12,000. The engagement rate is higher than it's been since before Chad and that hotel room in Cancún.
Three months ago, I would have killed for these numbers. Now they just mean I have to keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep acting like the woman who's falling for Ryder Lockwood when the real Ryder Lockwood can't get away from me fast enough.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping stupidly that it's Ryder, that he's texting to say something that makes this less confusing.
It's Patrice.
Patrice: How are you, honey?
I blink at the screen. How does she know? Did someone see Ryder leave my cabin this morning? Does the entire town of Ashwood Falls somehow know we had sex?
Me: I'm fine. Why?
The three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.
Patrice: Just checking in. You two seemed very cozy at the café yesterday.
Oh. Right. The café. The photo that broke the internet. Not the sex that nobody knows about except me and the man currently avoiding me from twenty feet away.
Me: We're good. Just working today.
Patrice: Good! Make sure he's eating enough. Hockey players never eat enough during season. And don't let him lift anything heavy before tomorrow's game.
I stare at her text. She wants me to make sure Ryder's eating and not lifting heavy things. Like I'm his girlfriend. Like I have any say in what he does with his body. Like said body wasn't tangled with mine six hours ago doing things that definitely qualified as strenuous activity.
Me: Will do.
I type back, because what else am I supposed to say?
My phone buzzes again before I can set it down.
Patrice: You're good for him, you know. Haven't seen him this happy.
