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“No.” He shook his head.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your real girlfriend.”

“I’m not lying,” he maintained.

It startled me how much I wanted to trust him. I’d built an entire shell around myself, layer after layer of caution and contingency, but somehow, in this moment, I believed him. Maybe it was his tone, or the way he’d stopped joking, or the fact that for once in my life I actually needed someone on my side.

He cupped my face and leaned forward. I closed my eyes thinking he was going to kiss me, but instead he whispered against my ear. “We have an audience,”

I felt my body stiffen, and out of my periphery, I could see some of my family members looking in our direction.

He must have felt it because I felt him chuckle as his lips brushed the cusp of my ear. “Just breathe, we got this. Ready?”

Before I could answer, he dropped a quick, undramatic kiss to my forehead. It should have been cheesy, but instead it felt like a secret handshake—a signal passed between conspirators. My heart tripped over itself, but I tried not to show it.

The pop of a champagne cork somewhere nearly made me jump out of my skin, but Damon’s hand at the small of my back kept me tethered as we entered the swirling carnival of family, colleagues, and friends.

The vineyard patio had been transformed into a kaleidoscope of flickering fairy lights, white linen-draped cocktail tables, and tastefully arranged seasonal flowers.

We’d barely made it five paces in before we were intercepted by my Auntie Bev, who could sniff out a romantic development from a quarter-mile away and had a talent for inserting herself into unfolding drama with military precision. She patted my arm, then sized up Damon with the kind of professional scrutiny that came from decades of reading people for sport.

“And who is this?” she demanded, eyebrows arched, lips pursed in a smile that suggested she already knew the answer.

“This is Damon Lockhart,” I made the introduction. “Damon this is⁠—”

“Aunt Beverly,” Damon finished as he extended his hand for Auntie Bev’s. “It’s an honor to meet Mikayla’s favorite aunt, I’ve heard so much about you,” he said, his tone so warm and earnest that I almost believed it myself.

Auntie Bev, who normally approached outsiders with a skepticism that bordered on predatory, melted a little. “Oh, he’s a charmer,” she said, glancing at me as if I should be taking notes. “You better keep an eye on this one, Kayla. The good ones never last long in this family.” She let loose a raspy cackle, then disappeared into the crowd, already on to her next victim.

Damon leaned down and whispered against my ear, “One down, fifty more to go.”

Despite him nailing that interaction, I was a total bundle of nerves as I walked into the gathering on Damon’s arm. I made introductions to my family. To my aunts, uncles, and my cousins. He, of course, charmed them all.

Damon and I did a slow circuit, weaving through clusters of relatives. Each time we were stopped, Damon had a tailored anecdote or clever joke ready, and every time it happened, the eyes of our audience softened or widened in appreciation.

My cousin Simone, who was always the first to spot a red flag in a man, looked positively smitten by the time Damon finished a story about rescuing a shih tzu from a burning shed.

Uncle Dale clapped Damon on the back and invited him to his annual chili cookoff.

For someone who claimed to have never had a serious relationship, Damon navigated the familial social minefield like he’d written the field manual.

Every answer he gave sounded so natural and real. He oozed charm and charisma. It was almost grotesque how seamless the act was.

Every time I thought he was about to slip, Damon anticipated the trap and redirected the conversation.

When Grandma Ruth, who’d once told my college boyfriend that he looked like a car thief, asked Damon if he “intended to make an honest woman out of me,” he parried with a wink and a sheepish grin, saying, “I’ve been trying, but she’s a tough negotiator.” She howled, thumped her cane, told me he had my number, and called him a “good egg.”

I tried to keep my own nerves in check, but the way Damon guided me from group to group, always at my side, made it bizarrely easy to relax. I could almost pretend this was real, that I was introducing my boyfriend to my family because I wanted to, not because I needed a plausible solution to a public relations nightmare.

Of course, nothing in my life ever stayed simple for long.

I’d just snagged a glass of sparkling rosé off a passing server’s tray, the stemware trembling slightly in my fingers, when I noticed the subtle shift in the air. Across the patio, Kenny was making a beeline for us, angling through the crowd with that peculiar gait he’d picked up from years of playing linebacker in high school and then college and never quite lost. I felt my entire body brace, like a diver prepping for cold water.

“Showtime,” I muttered under my breath.

Damon flexed his hand possessively on my lower back, the pressure of his fingertips was quick and reassuring. He pulled me against him.

I had to admit, it was nice feeling like I belonged to someone. Not just someone. Him.