Page 2 of The Fake Boyfriend Fiasco

“Rubbish,” he said. “You’re just thinking about it too hard. You’re not even drunk, are you?”

Stone cold sober—all the better to protect herself from her own desires. “Whatever,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “You know, since I’m the maid of honour, I should be sleeping with the best man.”

Keynes grinned, full lips parting to display American-white teeth. Honestly, the man had no right to look the way he did. If they were actors in a teen movie, he’d be the bad guy. He was too beautiful to be anything else. “Oh, love,” he said. “If I were so inclined…”

“Blah, blah, blah. Stop trying to charm me. I’m not even close to your type.” Gender aside, Aria knew for a fact that Keynes preferred his partners… clean-cut.

Aria was as far from clean-cut as a country singer’s mullet.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re moping, and we both know it. But look at all this.” He swept a hand through the air, indicating the beauty around them—and the figures of Jenny and Theo, intertwined on the dance floor, swaying to every song as if it were a waltz. “Frankly, that slapped-arse expression is bringing down the mood. Want to take a break?”

The tip of Aria’s tongue worried the silver ring bisecting her lower lip. “A break?”

“Yeah. Let’s wander off. Go on an adventure. It’ll be very Enid Blyton.”

“Only Greek,” she added, pushing off of the wall.

“Only Greek,” he agreed, already leading the way.

“You know where you’re going?”

“I know that you’re following.”

Well, she thought. Fair enough.

* * *

Nikolas Christou had a problem.

He wasn’t really used to problems—which might be why he was handling this one so poorly. That was the downside to a charmed life, he reflected, as he jogged through his family’s flagship hotel: a chronic inability to handle one’s own shit.

Eventually, he’d have to learn. Maturity yawned out ahead of him, tapping its metaphorical foot, reminding him that his glory days were officially over. He’d have to grow up, now, wouldn’t he?

But Christ, not tonight.

Nik had just retired—prematurely, to some, but not to his bank account—from pro football. The beautiful game had done something to his left knee that was, unfortunately, rather ugly. He’d come home to annoy his mother, harass his little sister, and decide what to do with the rest of his life, since he had no useful skills. He had not expected to bump into Melissa fucking Bright while licking his wounds.

Although, bump into seemed too generous a phrase. It was more accurate to say she’d hunted him down like a gazelle.

He could hear her voice now, echoing off the marble walls behind him. “Nik! Where are you? Did you see him, Perrie?” There was a pause, and then she practically shrieked, “NIK!”

His name on her lips had sounded so much better in bed. Strange, really.

He took a sharp right and hurried along the corridor. He certainly wasn’t going to run—he did have some pride—but he couldn’t be fucking bothered with this woman. Honestly, of all the questionable people he’d ever made the mistake of sleeping with, she was the absolute worst. Bloody exhausting, bless her. Though really, a part of him admired her tenacity.

But dealing with that tenacity usually gave him a migraine and made her, after she was done screaming, burst into tears. Nik hated to make a lady cry, even if that lady was a grasping, manipulative dingbat who couldn’t take no for an answer. The thought of upsetting a woman made him imagine his tutting mother and scowling sister saying God, Nik, you’re so insensitive! Now look what you’ve done!

He took a left, then a right, then another right, until he was tied up in knots. It was horrifying to realise how little he remembered of the hotel he’d grown up visiting; clearly, he’d been living and playing in England for too long. Melissa’s voice chased him no matter which way he turned, growing closer and closer until she might as well be on top of him.

By the time he came across the deep, shadowed alcove bracketed by classical statuary, he was practically frantic. And by the time he noticed the two people standing in that alcove, staring at him as if he were a headless chicken, he was literally desperate.

He almost fell over in shock when he realised that one of the people was Keynes. Or rather, Olumide Olusegun-Keynes, man of the world, mystery, and excellent practical jokes.

Keynes’s lips twitched as he took in Nik’s panicked expression. “You alright, mate?”

“No,” Nik said. He had never been one to prevaricate. “I am being ruthlessly corralled by a trio of lionesses.”

Keynes gave in and allowed himself a full-blown smirk. At any other time, Nik might pause to admire the lips involved in that smirk.

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