Page 8 of The Fake Date Deal

Emma snorted. “Kind of?”

“Okay, he’s very hot. Isn’t he taken?”

“No, he’s a fuckboy.” Emma took back her phone. Gabriella reached over me to slap her arm.

“Don’t listen to her. He’s single, is all. It’s fine to have fun as long as you’re single. And Rafael hates him, so win-win, right?”

“You two are children.” I stood up. “Go on, get out of here. Tell Mother you tried.”

“She didn’t send us,” said Gabriella, making no move to go. “We’re worried about you, cooped up by yourself. You don’t have to smooch Marco if you really don’t want to, but we’re going out tonight and you’re coming with us. You need to get out there and live your life.”

Live my life — I almost laughed. What life? I’d been thinking a lot about that since Rafael fled our wedding. What was my life, even, outside of the press? I went out and got photographed. Attended events. Lent my face and my name to this cause and that, my parents’ charities, their projets du jour. I was your basic socialite, the Hansleys’ daughter. My wedding to Rafael should’ve been the peak of my fame — and I guessed it had been, for all the wrong reasons. But I’d never done anything. Never lived for myself. I’d never even tried to. Was I that boring?

“Please come,” said Emma. “It’s no fun without you.”

I thought it over a moment, then shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Why, you’ve got plans?” Gabriella whipped out her phone again and tapped on the screen. She turned it to face me and I choked back a shriek. There I was on her screen, or an AI version of me, cramming my face full of cookies and cakes. I was crying as well, salty tears flying. I batted the phone away.

“How is that not illegal? That’s my damn face.”

“So show them your real face. Show you’re not crying.”

I bit my lip. “Fine,” I said. “But I’m not meeting Marco. We’ll go dance our butts off and get barely tipsy, and be home by two with our dignity intact.”

Emma smirked but said nothing. Gabriella gave me a shove.

“You go get showered, then. We’ll find you something to wear.”

Two short hours later, we tottered out of my building, the cobbled sidewalk turning our heels. We piled into a limo and it pulled away, bearing us the short distance to the hottest new club. Marco was there already according to socials, but we weren’t going for him, or at least I wasn’t. I couldn’t speak for Emma, who was stalking his Insta.

“Check out the abs on him… Where’s that, Corfu?”

Gabriella snickered. “Who cares? No one looks at a shot like that and thinks ‘nice holiday.’”

“Nice something, all right.” Emma tilted her phone toward me. I turned away quickly, my cheeks going hot. I guessed now I knew who looked good in a Speedo — Marco did. Like a model. Like a Greek god.

“Total thirst trap,” groaned Emma. “What’d I say? Fuckboy.”

Next thing I knew, we were spilling out of the limo, Emma still gawking at Marco’s beach pics. A few cameras snapped us, but we swept by, not looking. We ignored the long queue and sailed straight past the bouncer, and the lights of the club drowned the camera flashes. Gabriella tilted her head back, taking it in.

“Is that a waterfall down the back wall?”

I squinted. It was. An indoor waterfall. Lights from behind lit it up like a rainbow, then pink and yellow, then UV purple. Colored smoke rose, then a spray of soap bubbles.

“If they douse us with glitter, I swear to God?—”

“They won’t,” said Emma, and pulled me in deeper. “I don’t see Marco. Don’t tell me he left.”

He hadn’t left. I was looking right at him. I didn’t know it at first, then he turned around. Some guys you barely recognize when you meet in real life, their pics are so filtered, so airbrushed to death. You come face-to-face with them and it’s like meeting Clark Kent — not Superman, but his nerd alter ego. Marco, by contrast, was hotter than his Insta. He had an edge to him, a rude caveman gruffness, his eyes bright with mirth as he laughed at some joke. I didn’t normally go for his type, shaggy, unshaven, jaw dark with stubble, but something about him made me want to touch him. Run my hand down his chest to check he was real.

“He’s so hot,” breathed Gabriella. I pretended not to hear her. Emma gave me a nudge, bumping me toward Marco. I should’ve resisted, starstruck as I was. Apt to do something stupid, caught in his spell. Instead, I kept going. Our eyes met. I smiled. Marco grinned, confident.

“Eve Hansley, right?”

My heart skipped a beat. He knew who I was? Panic swept through me: had he seen me go viral? I felt myself flushing, going stupidly red.

“Marco Barone,” I said, my voice nearly cracking. His smile widened like he was pleased I knew his name. He waved for the bartender.

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