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“Yes, because that will be convincing,” I deadpan. “We need to at least flirt. I am very flirtable with, and good at flirting.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance. “Lila. I am not flirting with you.”

“Sure you are,” I say breezily. “You just don’t know it yet.” I throw in a wink because I know he’ll hate it.

“This is going to be a long week,” he groans. “This was your idea. Did you honestly think we’d just wing it?” His eyebrows scrunch above his pretty brown eyes, likely already picturing the impending disaster.

I flutter my eyelashes at him innocently. “I mean… yeah?” Mostly because I didn’t think you’d actually go along with this.

His shoulders rise slightly, then settle again, and I swear I can almost see the internal countdown running in his head, each second bringing him closer to the vein in his temple popping. “You’re actually insane, aren’t you?”

I place my hand on my chest, dramatically feigning hurt. “You wound me.”

He rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We do need a plan.”

I straighten, adopting my most professional inflection. “Alright, since you don’t want to fake flirt with me, here’s the plan: We act like we’re in the middle of a very rocky relationship. You can be distant, maybe a little cold. Throw in a few eye rolls when I talk, act like you’re so over it. I’ll be passive-aggressive, hinting that I don’t really care that much, but still somehow always in your space—we’ll need to stick together, of course. We’ll have random arguments, make everyone feel the tension radiating between us, but keep it just believable enough that they think we’re together. Maybe we’ll argue about something pointless at the worst possible moment, like, I don’t know, which dessert to get or how you never listen to me.”

I pause, making sure he’s following. “Then, just when we’ve got everyone convinced we’re on the brink, you can dump me for the pool boy. Super dramatic, a whole ‘I never loved you’ moment. It'll be a mess, and everyone will eat it up. They’ll gossip about it for weeks, and I’m sure they could use the distraction.”

I can feel his glare burning into the side of my face, and for a beat, I think he might actually be considering asking me to pull over so he can get out and throw himself into oncoming traffic, or at the very least step off the curb and let the universe take care of the rest.

“That is the single worst plan I’ve ever heard,” he finally says.

“You have a better one?” He grumbles something unintelligible, and I give him a pointed look. “Go ahead then, Buzzkillington, since my soap-opera-worthy script clearly doesn’t meet your high standards.”

He closes his eyes for a second like he’s gathering the strength to deal with me. “Fine. If I have a say in this, I have conditions.”

“Hit me.”

“No pet names.”

Fine by me. I don’t think I would survive hearing Theo Grayson call me pookie. “Got it.” I hum. “I’ll only call you daddy when absolutely necessary.”

“It won’t be necessary.” He glares at me. “No over-the-top PDA. Hand-holding if absolutely required, maybe the occasional arm around your shoulder, but that’s it.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Scared you’ll like it?”

“I hate you.”

I beam at him. “I know, I know.”

Theo exhales slowly, accepting his fate as the car rumbles up the long, winding driveway leading to the estate. The trees arch overhead, filtering the afternoon sunlight in golden patches across the road, but I barely notice. I’m too busy peeking out the corner of my eye at Theo bracing himself for the impact of our arrival with every inch we creep closer.

The roadside is slick with meltwater, puddles flashing silver in the light, and the last of the snow clings stubbornly to the shaded edges of stone walls. Fresh shoots of green and purple push through last year’s dead leaves, small but insistent, dusky petals cupped low to the ground as if guarding the warmth they’ve stolen from the soil.

The estate road winds higher, curving around old maples just beginning to bud, their bare branches scratching the sky. And then, in the distance, the house comes into view—massive and brick-red against the dark tree line, the house rises with too many gables and angles, all sharp lines and looming windows. It doesn’t look lived in so much as staged—somewhere between a museum and a murder board game.

“This is it,” I announce, unnecessarily.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I see them—an unholy mess of cameras, microphones, and eager reporters hanging around like vultures circling a fresh kill. Literally.

The scene is chaotic, like something out of a movie, except it’s real, and it’s happening to us. They’ve probably been camped out for hours, just waiting for the next morsel.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep my eyes on the road ahead. Maybe if I pretend I don’t see them, they won’t notice us.

“This is actually disgusting. Do you think they’ll be this bad the whole time?” I mutter, half to myself, half to Theo.

He glances over at the mess of cameras. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”