What have I gotten myself into?
I’m asking myself that the next morning while I aggressively wipe down the coffee table for the fourth time.
I shouldn’t be nervous, but apparently, I care what my fake boyfriend’s godmother thinks about the tidiness of our apartment.
Archie’s description of Elizabeth has me on edge. She’s English originally, from an aristocratic family, and moved to America in her twenties when she married some Wall Street type. Old money on both sides of the Atlantic.
So I plump pillows that don’t need plumping, straighten picture frames that were already straight, and consider whether the angle of the TV remote on the coffee table conveys “happy couple.”
As I fuss, I realize how much the apartment has changed in the last few weeks. It no longer gives off impersonal hotel-room vibes. There’s a half-completed jigsaw puzzle on the dining table, a collection of dog-walking leads hanging by the door, and a shared grocery list on the counter in both our handwriting. Archie’s glitter-stained party bag is next to my leather briefcase. My dog-walking shoes sit by the door next to his one functioning shoe.
Under all of my nervous puttering is a darker worry: Elizabeth has known the Mansleys for decades. When Vaughn and I worked together, Archie was just a teenager, but Elizabeth wasn’t. There’s a non-zero chance Vaughn might have mentioned me at some point, and she’s going to take one look at me, tilt her head, and say, “Leo Brennan, where do I know that name from?”
Archie is propped up on the couch with his cast elevated, watching me clean with the expression of a director observing an actor who isn’t quite hitting his marks. He’s also holding a clipboard.
Archie and a clipboard are never a good combination.
“Okay,” he says, clicking a pen. “Let’s start with the basics. How did we meet?”
“You know how we met.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Yes, but Elizabeth doesn’t. We need a cute story.” He taps the pen against his lips. “We can’t exactly tell her you assaulted me with maple syrup.”
“I didn’t assault you?—”
“Focus, Leo. Meet-cute. Go.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We met at a restaurant. I spilled something on you. I felt terrible. I insisted on helping you.”
“Boring. Where’s the romance?”
“There wasn’t any romance. I gave you a broken ankle.”
“Which is why we need to embellish.” He scribbles something in his notebook. “How about: we locked eyes across the restaurant. There was an instant connection. You were so flustered by how attractive I was that you accidentally knocked over your drink.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“It’s what we’re telling Elizabeth.” He looks up, eyes bright. “Now, we need a fake anniversary. How about…?” He considers. “Three months ago. That’s recent enough to still be in the honeymoon phase but long enough to have moved in together.”
“No one moves in together after three months.”
“We did. It was very romantic. You swept me off my feet.” He grins. “Well, technically, you swept me off my feet and onto a hospital floor, but we’re reframing that.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Now, physical affection. Come sit next to me.”
It’s such an innocent request, yet I approach the sofa like it’s rigged with explosives and sit near him.
Archie’s cast is propped up on the coffee table. He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s ridden up slightly at the hip. I try not to notice that. Instead, I focus on a point approximately six inches above his head.
“Closer,” Archie instructs. “Couples don’t leave a polite two-foot buffer between them.”
I move closer. Our thighs are almost touching now.
“Good. Now put your arm around me.”
“What?”
