“Beck!” I grab a throw pillow and chuck it at him. He dodges easily, laughing that adorable laugh he does.
“Come on. You can’t drop the biker bomb without giving me details. I’ve been in the car for six hours, thinking you were hanging out with some random Uber driver. This issignificantlymore interesting.”
Before I can respond, there’s another knock at the door. My pulse kicks up immediately because I know, without even checking, that it’s Nitro.
“That’s probably him,” I say, and even I can hear the way my voice softens.
Beck’s eyes narrow with interest. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” He grins widely, clapping his hands together just once for emphasis.
I shoot him a warning look before opening the door, and there he is… Nitro, in all his six-foot-four, tattooed, devastatingly attractive glory. He’s wearing dark jeans that hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal, a gray T-shirt that stretches across his chest, and a leather cut over the top. His dusty blond hair, shot through with silver, is slightly messy as if he’s been running his hands through it. The beard is perfectly trimmed. His green eyes lock on mine, and that smile, the one that’s just for me, spreads across his face.
“Hey, Small Town.” His voice is warm honey and gravel. “Brought Italian from—” He stops mid-sentence because Beck has appeared at my shoulder, making absolutely zero attempt to be subtle.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Beck’s whisper is loud enough to be heard in the next building. “Sis, where have you been hiding this man?”
Nitro’s eyebrows lift, amusement flickering across his features as he looks from me to Beck and back again. “Friend of yours?”
“Brother,” I correct, stepping back to let him in. “Beck, this is Nitro. Nitro, this is my brother, Beck, who apparently has no filter and no sense of appropriate boundaries.”
“None whatsoever,” Beck confirms cheerfully, extending his hand. “Beckett Wren. Photographer, occasional meddler, and currently questioning why my sister didn’t lead with‘Hey Beck, I’m fake dating a literal Greek god.’”
Nitro shakes his hand, his lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter. “Nice to meet you. Marley’s told me a lot about you.”
“Funny, she mentioned you in passing like you were just some random.” Beck circles Nitro slowly, and I want to die of embarrassment. “But you’re not just some random, are you? You’re a whole situation. The beard alone is a situation.”
“Beck!” I hiss, but Nitro laughs, a real, full laugh that makes something warm bloom in my chest.
“I like him,” Nitro says, setting the food down on the kitchen counter. “He’s honest.”
“He’s annoying,” I counter, but I can’t help but smile.
Beck ignores us both, already moving toward his camera bag. “Okay, so here’s what’s happening. You two are fake dating to make your ex jealous at some work thing, right, Marls?”
“The gala,” I confirm. “Next Saturday.”
“Perfect.” Beck pulls out his camera, a professional-grade Nikon that probably costs more than my car. “You’re going to need proof. Photos for social media. Candid shots that sell the relationship. Lucky for you, I happen to be anextraordinaryphotographer and an even better wingman.”
Nitro crosses his arms, leaning against the counter in a way that flexes his biceps. “You’re gonna follow us around with a camera?”
“Correction… I’m going to document your completely fake relationship that doesn’t involve anyrealfeelings whatsoever.” Beck’s tone is dripping with sarcasm. “Starting now. Act natural.”
He raises the camera, and I immediately feel self-conscious. “Beck, I’m covered in paint. I look terrible.”
“You look as if you’ve been working hard on something you care about,” Nitro says quietly, and the way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch. “You look beautiful.”
The camera shutter clicks rapidly.
“Perfect,” Beck murmurs behind the lens. “That’s exactly the energy we need. Nitro, keep looking at her like you adore her. Marley, keep looking at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s real.”
“I’m not—” I start to protest, but Nitro has moved closer, reaching out to brush something off my cheek.
“You had paint,” he says softly, his thumb lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
Click. Click. Click.
“You two are terrible at this fake-dating thing,” Beck says cheerfully. “Like, alarmingly bad. Which is great for me because these photos are‘chef’s kiss,’”he chimes, kissing the tips of his fingers dramatically.
I step back, needing space because Nitro’s proximity is making it hard to think. “Did you actually bring food, or was that just an excuse to torture me?”
