“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
“Drew.”
“Post me.”
“You are deranged.”
“Post me, and I’ll stop talking for five minutes.”
I pulled out my phone with a sigh dramatic enough to deserve applause. “Fine.”
He immediately threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side.
Too close.
Too warm.
Too good at this.
I opened the camera and aimed it at us. On screen, I looked annoyed, polished, and secretly alive. Drew looked smug enough to be prosecuted. His cheek was close to my hair. His hand hung over my shoulder, big and easy, fingers brushing my collarbone like he belonged there.
I took the picture.
He looked at it and nodded. “Good. Caption it—Obsessed.”
I typed:He’s obsesed.
He laughed.
A real one.
Then he bent and kissed my temple before I could prepare myself.
Quick. Casual. Public.
My heart did something stupid anyway.
The story went up.
Within thirty seconds, he reposted it with:
She misspelled obsessed.
I stared at my phone.
Then at him.
“You are going to ruin my life.”
“Nah.” He squeezed my hand. “I’m improving the brand.”
By late afternoon, I was exhausted from pretending not to enjoy my fake boyfriend.
PT did not help.
My hamstring was tight and mean, the kind of ache that made every movement feel like my body was reminding me who was actually in charge. Tiffany had me doing controlled work on the table while I stared at the ceiling and tried not to make faces.
