Page 13 of Faking the Rules

I push these questions away as I climb the stairs to my room. Whatever complicated emotions are stirring, I need to remember the truth: this relationship has an expiration date. Three weeks. That's all.

I refuse to be hurt when the buzzer sounds and this game ends.

"You know what this room needs?" Mia asks, sprawled across my bed Friday afternoon as I frantically search my closet for something appropriate to wear to dinner with the Wolfes. "Alcohol. Lots of alcohol."

"It's three in the afternoon," I point out, holding up a navy dress, then discarding it with a frustrated sigh.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," she counters, rolling onto her stomach to better observe my sartorial crisis. "And anyway, we're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"The fact that you've somehow landed the hottest guy on campus, fake or not." She grins wickedly. "Half the female population wants to murder you in your sleep."

"That's not funny." But it's not entirely untrue either. The past week has seen a distinct shift in how people treat me on campus—envious glares from girls who used to ignore my existence, sudden friendliness from people who've never spoken to me before, even a professor asking after "your young man" in a tone that suggested I'd somehow elevated my status by associating with Declan. It’s good to know misogyny is still alive and well.

"Anyway," Mia continues, pulling me from my thoughts, "we need to pre-game before your big dinner with the Wolfe dynasty. Take the edge off."

"I need my wits about me," I protest, though the idea of liquid courage holds some appeal. "Besides, I have reading to do after."

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically. "All work and no play makes Ellie a dull fake girlfriend."

"Fine," I concede, knowing she won't let this go. "One drink. After I figure out what to wear."

"Wear the green wrap dress." She points to the garment I'd dismissed earlier. "It's classy but not trying too hard. Brings out your eyes. Makes your boobs look great."

"I'm not trying to show off my boobs to Declan's parents!"

"Not for them," she says with exaggerated patience. "For him. Your fake boyfriend who looks at you like he wants to devour you whole."

Heat floods my cheeks at her blunt assessment. "He does not."

"Please." She sits up, suddenly serious. "That boy can barely keep his hands off you in public. I've seen how he touches you—the little gestures, the way his eyes follow you. Either he's an Oscar-worthy actor, or there's nothing fake about how he feels."

Her words stir something dangerous in my chest—hope, maybe, or the reckless desire to believe that some part of this charade has become real for him too.

"It's an act," I insist, as much to convince myself as her. "He's just good at it."

"If you say so." She slides off the bed, moving to my minifridge to retrieve a bottle of cheap wine we've been saving for emergencies. This apparently qualifies. "But from where I'm standing, you're both in serious danger of forgetting this isn't real."

I don't have a response to that uncomfortably perceptive observation. So instead, I take the green dress from its hanger and hold it up against me. "You really think this works?"

"Trust me," she says, twisting the corkscrew into the bottle. "He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

Two hours later, I'm staring at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The green dress does indeed bring out my eyes and flatter my figure without being inappropriate for a family dinner. Mia has convinced me to leave my hair down and apply more makeup than my usual minimal amount—not dramatic, but enough to emphasize my features.

"See?" Mia says, admiring her handiwork. "Sophisticated but sexy. Perfect for meeting the parents of your fake boyfriend who's totally into you for real."

"You're insufferable," I tell her, but there's no heat in it. The one glass of wine has mellowed me slightly, taking the sharpest edge off my anxiety.

My phone buzzes with a text from Declan:Outside when you're ready.

He’d wanted to come to my door, but I’d convinced him to stay in the car – the last thing I need is for Mia to grill him or make her remarks about how he wants to “devour me.”

"Your chariot awaits," Mia says, reading over my shoulder. "Go knock 'em dead, Gardner."

I gather my coat and purse, nerves fluttering in my stomach despite the wine. "If I don't text by midnight, assume Richard Wolfe has had me eliminated for being an unsuitable match for his son."

"Drama queen," she calls after me as I head for the door. "But seriously, text me updates!"

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