Fake Dating Turns Real

Elsie Warren's home was exactly what I'd imagined August growing up in—warm, filled with books, and smelling of something delicious that made my stomach growl despite my nerves. I smoothed down my dress for the fifth time since arriving, wondering if our charade would fool someone who knew August as well as his mother did.

"You look beautiful," August whispered, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as he guided me through the entryway. The casual intimacy of his touch sent a flutter through my chest that felt dangerously un-fake.

"August, darling!" A woman with August's same warm eyes emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She stopped when she saw me, her face lighting up with recognition. "Maya Thomas! Oh my goodness, it's really you!"

I froze, confused by her enthusiasm. August hadn't mentioned telling his mother about our arrangement.

"You remember Maya?" August asked, his voice careful.

"Remember her? You talked about her constantly your senior year!" Elsie clasped my hands in hers. "The talented girl who sat next to you in AP Literature and could analyze Thoreau in ways that made your teacher speechless. The one who always had a camera around her neck."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. August had talked about me? To his mother? The revelation sent my heart into a strange, syncopated rhythm.

"Mom," August warned, but his mother waved him off.

"Oh hush, August. I've waited fifteen years to meet this girl." She squeezed my hands. "He kept that graduation photo of you two on his desk all through college."

August's ears turned red—a tell I remembered from high school whenever he was embarrassed. "Mom, the food?"

"Right, right." Elsie winked at me. "Come help me in the kitchen, Maya. I want to hear all about your photography while August sets the table."

In the kitchen, Elsie handed me a wooden spoon to stir the sauce while she checked on something in the oven. "He's different around you," she said casually. "More himself."

"We're just..." I started, but the lie felt wrong in this warm kitchen with this woman who clearly cared so deeply for her son.

"I know what you are," she said gently. "And what you might become. I've seen how he looks at you when you're not watching."

Before I could respond, August appeared in the doorway, his protective gaze moving between his mother and me. "Everything okay in here?"

"Perfect," Elsie said. "Maya was just telling me about her mountain photography."

Throughout dinner, I couldn't stop noticing things—the way August pulled out my chair, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the protective shift of his body whenever his mother asked anything too personal. None of it felt like an act. When his hand found mine under the table, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm, I wondered if I was the only one pretending anymore.

---

The gallery was my sanctuary—the one place where everything made sense, where light and shadow obeyed my commands and emotions could be captured and contained in a frame. Until Rylan shattered that too.

"Maya!" His voice cut through the quiet space where I'd been discussing print options with a client. "We need to talk."

My client—an art collector interested in my mountain series—looked startled as Rylan strode toward us, his expensive shoes (that I'd paid for) clicking aggressively against the hardwood floor.

"Sir, we're closed for a private consultation," Marcus, the gallery owner, stepped forward.

Rylan ignored him, his eyes fixed on me with a desperation I recognized—the look of someone about to lose their meal ticket. "You're not answering my calls. We have unfinished business."

"There's nothing unfinished between us," I said quietly, acutely aware of my client's discomfort. "Please leave."

"Is this how you treat three years together? Throwing me out like garbage?" His voice rose, echoing through the gallery. "After everything I've done for you?"

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Everything you've done for me? Or everything I've paid for?"

Marcus was already on his phone, calling security. Rylan stepped closer, his cologne—the expensive one I'd bought him last Christmas—overwhelming in the small space.

"Celia's demanding more money," he hissed. "This is your fault too."

"My fault that you got her pregnant?" I stepped back, bumping into my framed photograph of sunrise over the Rockies—the one August had as his phone wallpaper.

Security arrived before Rylan could respond, each taking one of his arms. As they escorted him out, he shouted over his shoulder, "This isn't over, Maya! We're not finished!"

I turned to my client, mortified. "I am so sorry about that."

To my surprise, he looked more intrigued than offended. "Your work captures raw emotion so beautifully," he said, gesturing to my photographs. "Now I see where it comes from."

---

"So let me get this straight," Quinn said, stirring her margarita with unnecessary vigor. "You're fake-dating your high school crush to avoid your parents' matchmaking, but his mother already loves you, and he's had your photo on his desk for years?"

We were sitting at our favorite corner table at Salsa's, the Mexican restaurant where Quinn and I had our weekly catch-ups. I'd just finished telling her about dinner with Elsie and the scene at the gallery.

"It's not like that," I protested weakly.

"Maya." Quinn set down her drink. "I've known you for ten years. I watched you with Rylan. You never smiled with him the way you smile when you talk about August."

"That's not—"

"When you mentioned August just now, your whole face lit up." She leaned forward. "I've never seen that before. Not once in three years with Rylan."

I stared into my drink, unable to meet her eyes. "It's complicated."

"No, it's not." Quinn reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "What's complicated is pretending you're not falling for someone when you clearly are. What's simple is admitting the truth—to yourself, if no one else."

The truth. I'd been a photographer long enough to know that sometimes the most powerful images were the ones that revealed uncomfortable truths. But was I brave enough to face this one?

"What if it's just... rebound feelings?" I whispered.

Quinn's expression softened. "Honey, I've seen you on the rebound. This isn't it. This is something real—maybe the first real thing you've felt in years."

As her words sank in, my phone lit up with a text from August: "Mom's already planning our next dinner. Apparently you're the daughter-in-law she's always wanted. Too much?"

The flutter in my chest returned, stronger than before. Maybe Quinn was right. Maybe this wasn't fake at all.