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My mother finishes ringing up a customer, takes one look at the two of us together, and gives me that all-too-familiar private stare that lasts half a second too long. Something’s up.

She wipes her hands on the towel and gives Lila a big smile.

“Morning, honey. Come on back. There’s someone you should meet. You’ll be sharing the prep kitchen with her.” A knot of unease tightens in my gut.

Who is the “her”?

I cautiously follow Lila and Mom through the swinging door into the back kitchen, running through a variety of women and scenarios before I understand what Mom was trying to tell me. The curvy woman with dark hair peers up from her pastry board and narrows her focus on me. Shit. We didn’t date for long, but this isn’t good. A slow, knowing smile curves her mouth, and I feel the blood leaving my face.

“Lila, this is Nell Tate,” Mom says. “Nell, Lila Harlow. You two will be sharing the space for the contest.”

Nell’s gaze flicks to Lila and then comes right back to me as she sweetly says, “So nice to meet you.” She doesn’t leave it there. She says it while unpacking her own supplies, casual as weather. “I heard about your little incident in Chicago. Small world. Smaller town.”

Lila goes still in a way I recognize from last night when the Knotty Pines cancelled on her.

Nell digs her phone from her purse and finds a post from the Passion Pines community page. “Someone must’ve seen your name on the contestant list and looked into you.”

She turns the screen to show Lila. It’s the viral dessert-soup photo with a fresh caption: “This year’s ‘celebrity’ contestant. Hope she doesn’t melt the judges’ plates too.” She scrolls. The comments underneath are already ugly. “Outsider.” “Fraud.” “Don’t let Chicago turn our Palooza into a joke.”

“Damn.” Lila turns away from the cell. “I guess the town hates me already.”

“Small towns have long memories,” Nell says pleasantly, digging her nasty verbal knife into Lila deeper. “And Mrs. Helmsley? She doesn’t like outsiders. Or scandals.”

I need to nip this sharing arrangement in the bud. “Mom. Was this particular kitchen really the only option for Nell?” I ask tightly.

My mother’s expression turns serious. She glances at the door to the front, then back at the three of us. “We’ve got bigger problems than station assignments right now. Follow me.”

She leads us out of the kitchen, into the quiet lounge area with the velvet chairs, away from prying eyes near the pastry case and the register.

Mom waits until a customer’s laughter fades, then folds her arms and looks between Lila and me.

“Rumors are already swirling about Lila’s scandal,” she explains, tucking a strand of hair back into her bun. “People talk in a town this size, especially when a big-city baker shows up right before the Pie Palooza. And Gideon,” she gives me a pointed look, “we both know there’s still talk about that little reality-show crash of yours. “Mrs. Helmsley and the judges are going to take all those wild rumors into consideration. They might think you’re both only after attention, especially with so much media in town. That won’t help Lila one bit.”

My stomach drops. I start to say something, but Mom keeps going.

“The simplest way to control the narrative is to give them a different story. She glances at us. “A fake relationship should do the trick. You two look cozy enough after one night on the mountain. Hold hands in town, maybe have dinner out, let people see you together. The judges will think you’ve settled down, and it’ll quiet the gossip faster than anything else.”

Lila’s cheeks are bright pink. She’s clearly uncomfortable, but I can’t resist. I hate that I can’t, but I jump in anyway. “Great idea,” I say, before Lila responds. Her blue eyes flick to mine for half a second. “In fact, why stop at fake dating? We should pretend we’re engaged.”

Lila turns her head all the way to me. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? Dating is good enough.” She stares at me in disbelief, and I shrug.

“Just thinking out of the box, Curvy Spice. There’s a contest you need to win and a book contract on the line.” The words are barely out before my brain supplies the rest: she’ll be in my house, in my space, in my bed. The thought hits like a cheap shot. She needs the spotlight, that’s our deal, but I’m supposed to be protecting her from being used, not calculating how fast I can get her under me.

“But we already have an arrangement, and pretending we’re about to get married wasn’t part of it.” Lila starts, but my mother interrupts.

“I’ll let you two figure it out. I’ve got customers at the register.” She gives us a look I can’t quite decipher, then heads back to the front. When she’s out of sight, Lila comes right back to me in a quiet voice as a few customers pass us.

“I’m not convinced this is going to work, Mr. Reality Show Crasher.”

“Ow.” I clutch my heart in mock pain. “I prefer ‘Mountain Man,’ if you don’t mind.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” she says, but there’s no humor in her eyes. She bites her lip, the laughter she’d been holding back is completely gone.

Her shoulders slump, and the humor drains from her face. I almost reach for her.

“If this gets out … if anyone finds out we’re faking … it won’t just be the dessert-disaster photo,” she says, in barely a whisper. “It’ll be fraud. They’ll call me a cheater. I saw what viral lies did to my career. Now I’m building a new lie on top of the old one.”

The teasing comes to a hard stop. The fear in her eyes is real, and it hits me harder than I expected.