Pretend I love you

Emma Collins was the one used for control. Deadlines and meetings, courtroom schedules, the daily chaos of working at one of Manhattan’s most cutthroat law firms? She even monitored her calorie consumption with military precision — though she indulged with lemon muffins on Thursdays. But one thing she could not control? Her mother. “Darling, everyone’s going to bring someone to the wedding,” her mother’s voice rang on speakerphone, bouncing off the gleaming kitchen tiles of Emma’s high-rise apartment. “Even that awful cousin Lindsey’s coming, and she’s bringing a dentist from Brooklyn.” Emma stirred her coffee slowly, jaws tight. “I thought a plus-one was required now.” “You don’t have to, Emma,” her mother cooed, which, of course, meant the opposite. “But people will talk.” “And when have I ever been given what?” There was Emma Collins, who was the one used for control. Deadlines and meetings, courtroom schedules, the daily chaos of working at one of Manhattan’s most cutthroat law firms? She even monitored her calorie consumption with military precision — though she indulged with lemon muffins on Thursdays. But one thing she could not control? Her mother. “Darling, everyone’s going to bring someone to the wedding,” her mother’s voice rang on speakerphone, bouncing off the gleaming kitchen tiles of Emma’s high-rise apartment. “Even that awful cousin Lindsey’s coming, and she’s bringing a dentist from Brooklyn.” Emma stirred her coffee slowly, jaws tight. “I thought a plus-one was required now.” “You don’t have to, Emma,” her mother cooed, which, of course, meant the opposite. “But people will talk.” “And when have I ever give as what?” There was a pause. Emma didn’t have to see her mother’s face to know that it was tight with suppressed exasperation. “This is your sister’s wedding. "Can’t you just… try?” Her voice dropped into a lower register. “For once?” Emma rubbed the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t heartless. Just… efficient. “You want me to pretend to be in a relationship for a weekend just so you and Aunt Debra are happy?” “Exactly!” her mother said cheerily, not quite pretending to conceal the truth. “Just someone presentable. Someone…tall.” Tall. Presentable. Male. Fake. She should say no. But she also didn’t want to be the only one at her sister Rachel’s opulent country club wedding who had to dodge sympathetic smiles and intrusive questions about her nonexistent love life. “Fine,” Emma muttered. “I’ll bring someone.” Her mother gasped. “Oh, thank God. "I’ll tell the wedding planner:“But I’m not making any serious promises,” she interrupted. “It’s one weekend." That’s it.” Well, “I don’t care if he’s gay and married to his job, darling. Just bring someone handsome.” The line clicked off. That night, Emma drank wine at a friend’s birthday party that she had no desire to attend, going through her client’s court case mentally, regretting each second. Her mood only got worse when she saw Jake Harper on the other side of the room — propped up against the bar as if he owned it, effortlessly regaling a cluster of friends with a story that had them laughing too loudly. Jake. a pause. Emma didn’t have to see her mother’s face to know that it was tight with suppressed exasperation. “This is your sister’s wedding. Can’t you just… try?” Her voice dropped into a lower register. “For once?” Emma rubbed the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t heartless. Just… efficient. “You want me to pretend to be in a relationship for a weekend just so you and Aunt Debra are happy?” “Exactly!” her mother said cheerily, not quite pretending to conceal the truth. “Just someone presentable. Someone…tall.” Tall. Presentable. Male. Fake. She should say no. But she also didn’t want to be the only one at her sister Rachel’s opulent country club wedding who had to dodge sympathetic smiles and intrusive questions about her nonexistent love life. “Fine,” Emma muttered. “I’ll bring someone.” Her mother gasped. “Oh, thank God. I’ll tell the wedding planner —” “But I’m not making any serious promises,” she interrupted . “It’s one weekend. That’s it.” Well, “I don’t care if he’s gay and married to his job, darling. Just bring someone handsome.” The line clicked off. That night, Emma drank wine at a friend’s birthday party that she had no desire to attend, going through her client’s court case mentally, regretting each second. Her mood only got worse when she saw Jake Harper on the other side of the room — propped up against the bar as if he owned it, effortlessly regaling a cluster of friends with a story that had them laughing too loudly. Jake. Tall. Presentable. Male. Fake. It was foolish, but the idea leapt to her mind so quickly it shocked her. Jake was a friend of her friend Dani’s. He was good-looking in a “knows it and uses it” sort of way — dark hair that curled just so to be annoying, a jawline that seemed chiseled for GQ and eyes the color of over-steeped tea. He’d never attempted to make a pass, which made him one of the last decent men in Manhattan. Also, he was a contractor. The sort who renovated luxury kitchens for folks who liked to spend too much time on Pinterest. Reliable income. Decent manners. Not likely to embarrass her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the room. “Jake.” He turned and grinned as he saw her. “Emma Collins. The woman who always appears to be mentally preparing closing arguments. What can I do for you?” She took a deep breath. “I need a favor.” ⸻ They were seated in a corner booth of the dim lounge as Emma described the plan: she needed a date to her sister’s wedding. Somebody credible, but not so convincing. Someone who could have a conversation with her mother, impress a couple of aunts, not look out of place in formalwear. Jake is quiet, one eyebrow c****d. “So… let me get this straight. You want me to be your pretend boyfriend for a whole weekend. At a family event. Where there will be photos. And champagne.” “Yes.” “Do I get paid?” “No.” “Will there be cake?” “Undoubtedly.” He sipped from his drink, watching her. “And what’s in it for me?” She hesitated. “You… get to show how mature and well-adjusted you are. You acquire a pretend girlfriend who won’t bother you to get married. And you get to crash a very pricey open bar.” Jake chuckled. “Tempting. But what’s in it for you?” “I get to skip a weekend of sympathetic looks and being set up.” He leaned back, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “So this fake boyfriend of yours—how good does he need to be? PDA? Hand-holding? “Whispers in the moonlight?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Just… be charming. No audition for The Notebook.” He drummed fingers on the table. “Alright. I’ll do it.” “You will?” She blinked, surprised. Jake gave a lazy smile. “You’ll owe me one. And let’s be real, Emma — faking being in love with you? I’ve had worse weekends.” She didn’t know if she should laugh or smack him. ⸻ Two weeks later, Emma was on a train to upstate New York with a suitcase, a fake boyfriend and a knot of anxiety in her stomach. Jake sat as relaxed as ever, in a crisp navy blazer and dark jeans, sipping coffee as if they weren’t about to lie to dozens of people. “This your nervous look?” he said, glancing at her face. “I don’t get nervous.” “You do. When you are trying not to scream, your right eyebrow twitches.” She glared at him but he merely grinned. When they arrived at the boutique inn where her family had reserved all of the wedding guests, Jake took her hand even before they reached the check-in desk. “Practice,” he whispered. “We have to make this look good.” Emma wasn’t ready for how right it felt — his fingers warm and solid over hers, the way his thumb stroked her skin as if they’d done this a hundred times. The front desk clerk didn’t so much as blink when they checked in together to their shared room — after all, her mother had assumed they were sharing a bed. Emma almost choked, but Jake simply smiled and thanked the woman for the key card. “We’ll figure it out,” he said in her ear as they strolled down the hall. “I don’t bite. Unless asked.” She elbowed him. Their room was lovely — light gray walls, fluffy bedding, windows that opened onto a garden. One bed. One. “Couch’s mine,” Jake said, throwing down his bag and loosening his tie. Emma sat on the side of the bed and let out a breath. “This is so crazy,” she said under her breath. “Maybe,” Jake said. “But I’m kind of having fun already.” She looked up at him — and for an instant, just an instant, the line between fake and real dissolved. He wasn’t acting. Not yet, anyway.