Pretend I love you

Chapter2

The first family member they encountered was her Aunt Claire — a pint-size woman with a thick Boston accent and a talent for pinching cheeks. “Emma!” she yelled, rushing over to them in the lobby as if she had just seen a celebrity. “And — oh my, who’s this tall drink of handsome?” Emma looked like she was about to say something, but Jake moved forward with that roguish grin and extended a hand.

“Jake Harper,” he stated without hesitation. “Emma’s … very lucky boyfriend.” Aunt Claire’s face lit up like she’d won a prize pig. “Boyfriend, huh? About time! “How long have you been with each other?” “Seven months,” Jake said without skipping a beat. “Eight, if you include the first two weeks of Emma pretending she wasn’t into me.” Emma gave him a look so cutting he could have lost a kidney, but Aunt Claire clutched her heart with delight. “Oh, you really are a charmer,” she said. “Just wait till you meet Uncle Dave. He’ll pepper you with questions about your job and your 401(k), but you smile like that and you’ll be all right.” Emma looked up at Jake as she waddled off to break the “news” to the rest of the relatives.

“Seven months?” He shrugged. “It had to sound real. Three weeks screams rebound. One month is a good time, it’s new. Six months is the sweet spot. Long enough to be serious, short enough to explain why they’ve never met me.” And she hated how true that was.

“You had better be this good with everything this weekend.” Jake leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice. “I’m really good at a lot of things.”

Emma turned before he could see her blush.

That evening, dinner was a “casual welcome” gathering in the inn’s dining hall. Emma knew better. To her family, casual meant linen napkins, assigned seating and at least one passive-aggressive toast. They entered as one, Jake’s hand settling, as if by instinct, in the small of her back, leading her with the kind of practice ease reserved for ballrooms or quarantine-mastered apartments. He didn’t stutter, didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask a question—and when her father met them, Jake killed the handshake. Pragmatic, authoritative, but with enough familiarity to seem real. “Sir,” Jake said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Likewise. What do you do?” Jake’s smile didn’t falter. “I have my own contracting business — residential renovations, mostly. Kitchens, bathrooms. I like taking something that's broken and making it new again.” There was a ripple in Emma’s chest.

Her father nodded slowly. “Sounds like real work. You got any photos?” Jake pulled his phone out of his pocket and displayed a before-and-after gallery of oiled countertops and modern tile backsplashes. Her father seemed genuinely impressed.

Well, hell.

As the night progressed, Emma found herself doing something odd: watching Jake. Watching him laugh with her younger cousins. How he had the shy flower girl laughing by pretending to juggle bread rolls. How he looked at her — not too intensely, not too many times, but like he knew her. Like this wasn’t a game. And worse, she found herself smiling back.

“Emma,” her mother swooping in mid-meal, “he’s perfect. Where has he been hiding?”

Emma scrambled for a polite lie, but Jake beat her to it again.

At first, work kept us both busy,” he said. “But then she took me to this little Ethiopian restaurant around where she lived. She dug into the injera like a starving woman, and I just knew right then she was the one.” Her mother laughed with delight. “He tells stories like your dad.

“The sad news is,” Emma whispered quietly. Jake squeezed her knee beneath the table. It was so fast, so casual, she almost imagined it.

Almost. ⸻

In the hotel room that night, Jake stripped off his tie and fell back onto the couch with a sigh of satisfaction. “I think your Aunt Janice wants me to put a deck on for her,” he said.

Emma took off her heels and massaged her temples. “She’s probably going to want you to marry me first.” Jake tilted his head. “Would not be the worst thing.”

Emma froze. “Don’t joke about that.” “I’m not. You’d be a scary but hot wife.”

She threw a pillow at him. Jake caught it, grinning. “Look, I mean what I said before. It doesn’t have to be about survival only. We could have fun with it.” She crossed her arms. “Define fun.”

He stood and ambled toward her, mischief sparkling on his face. “We mess with your family. Just a little. Say I saved you from a burning building. That we had met at a yoga retreat and couldn’t stop gazing at each other through downward dog. That we have matching tattoos.” Emma couldn’t stifle the laugh that escaped. “You’re ridiculous.”

Now Jake stood in front of her, near enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “But I am a ridiculously good fake boyfriend. Admit it.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing. “You’re decent.”

“Hmm.” He moved even closer, lowering his voice. “I can be more than decent. I’ve got layers, Collins.” The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t have to. There was a crackle between them. She stepped back. “This is pretend.”

Jake put both hands up in surrender, backing away with a half-smile. “Of course. Just rehearsing for tomorrow.” Emma didn’t reply. The bathroom door closed behind her, her heart raced, her chest warm in a way it had never been. Not even with someone real.

⸻ The following morning Emma woke to the smell of coffee again and the quiet sound of Jake humming to himself as he read a local newspaper, clad in boxer briefs and a t-shirt. She blinked. It felt oddly… domestic.

Safe. There’s a part of her mind that warned:

Dangerous.

Jake glanced over. “Morning. You have rehearsal brunch in forty-five. I ironed your blazer.” Emma sat up, dazed. “You what?”

He pointed toward the closet. “It was wrinkled. “I can’t let my girlfriend go out and look like she’s lost a battle with a suitcase.” Girlfriend.

It still sounded foreign. But not entirely wrong. She looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re either a sociopath or a saint,” she muttered. Jake smirked. “Plot twist—I’m both.”