“It’s givingentrepreneur energy,” Ashton says, lifting his glass.
“I’m thinking I’ll start by selling brands I actually recommend—you know, the ones that are legit—while I finish developing my own line,” I explain, excitement bubbling up in my chest. “Once that’s ready, I’ll go exclusive with my stuff.”
“Yes, girl,” Payton says, already in planning mode. “We’ll sit down this week, put all the details on paper, and get you rolling ASAP.”
“You are amazing, Ashton. Seriously, thank you so much.”
“Babe,” he says, placing a hand over his heart dramatically, “that’s what best friends are for. We hype, we help, we handle business.”
Our talk gets interrupted when Esteban slides into the seat next to me. We all look at him while he just stares at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head. I blink at him, then glance at Payton and Ashton, who are very obviously watching us like we’re a soap opera episode.
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
After a few more seconds of intense staring, I finally break the silence. “Are you okay?”
Esteban blinks like he’s coming out of a trance. “Sure. I was just… admiring how grown up you look. It’s just… amazing.”
I raise a brow. “Okay. You look old too.”
“Mi amor, I am not old. What are you talking about?” he says, all mock offense and dramatic flair.
“I’m saying you look older. Just like I look older. That’s what happens when time passes. It’s called aging.”
Payton narrows her eyes at him. “Esteban, you are acting very weird. Should we worry?”
“No, no.” He clears his throat and straightens up like he’s putting on his business hat. “Actually, I came over because I need your number.”
“My number?” I squeak.
He nods, pulling out his phone. “Yeah. We should make a plan for this whole fake engagement thing. Set up a time to talk, lay out the details. You know, like a proper business arrangement.”
Ashton gasps and clutches his chest. “Esteban, are you asking her out on afake fiancée planning date? I’m blushing.”
Esteban shoots him a glare. “It’s not a date. It’s logistics.”
“Sure,” Ashton sings. “Logistics with lingering eye contact and subtle tension. Got it.”
Esteban turns to me, desperate now. “Can you please tell your bestie this is strictly business?”
I hold back a laugh and nod, playing it cool even thoughmy stomach is doing Olympic-level flips. “Strictly business. Definitely.”
Even though I say it with a straight face, I feel the warmth creep up my neck. My body is not on the same page as my brain. I’m supposed to be chill. In control. Not sitting here imagining what Esteban smells like up close or wondering if his beard feels as good as it looks. I swear I haven’t had this much internal chaos since my chem finals in college.
Handing me his phone, I type in my number, giving it back like we didn’t just enter the Twilight Zone of fake relationships and unresolved sexual tension.
“There. Shoot me a text,” I say as casually as I can manage.
“Will do,” he says, his fingers brush mine as he takes the phone back. Of course they do. Because the universe is rude.
Payton kicks me under the table, and I give her a death glare while she smirks knowingly.
Yep. I’m doomed.
Esteban pockets his phone, and for a second, his gaze lingers on mine. There’s something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to say something but decides against it. Then, with a nod that’s just a little too stiff, he gets up.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, addressing the whole group like we’re all in on this corporate merger.
“I won’t be late to our board meeting,” I say, keeping my voice playful, even though my insides are still doing backflips.
