My Worst Enemy Is My Plus One

Episode 3

Chloe lasted exactly thirty-six hours before the decision stopped feeling theoretical. She spent Saturday night staring at her bedroom ceiling, replaying the conversation in the driveway until the words lost their shape. She spent Sunday morning cleaning her apartment with aggressive thoroughness, as if organized drawers could organize the sudden chaos in her head. By Sunday afternoon she had rewritten the same three work emails six times and still couldn’t remember what any of them said.

The problem wasn’t the idea itself. The idea was practical. Brutal, maybe, but practical. Six weeks of focused family interference versus one carefully managed performance. On paper it made sense. The problem was Ryan Cole.

She could still see the way he had looked at her in the dark—steady, almost careful, like he was offering her a loaded gun and trusting her not to notice. She could still hear the low, unhurried way he had said *we make it look real*. The words had settled under her skin and refused to leave.

By Sunday evening she was done pretending she hadn’t already decided.

She texted Madison first, because some lines of loyalty still mattered.

*I need Ryan’s address. And don’t ask why yet.*

Madison replied in under a minute.

*You’re going to do the stupid thing, aren’t you.*

*Address, Mads.*

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

*I’m sending it. But when this explodes I’m saying I told you both so.*

The address came through. Chloe stared at it for a long time, then grabbed her keys before she could talk herself out of it.

---

Ryan lived in a converted warehouse loft on the edge of the arts district—high ceilings, exposed brick, the kind of place that looked effortless and probably cost more than her entire yearly rent. She had been here exactly twice before: once to drop off a drunk Madison after a birthday disaster, and once when Madison had forced a group dinner that Chloe had spent mostly glaring at Ryan across the table. She climbed the industrial stairs, heart beating too fast for a simple conversation, and knocked harder than necessary.

He opened the door in dark jeans and a faded gray T-shirt, barefoot, hair slightly damp like he had recently showered. The easy, amused expression he usually wore slipped for half a second when he saw her—surprise, then something warmer, then the familiar smirk sliding back into place.

“Bennett. To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this a home invasion?”

“We need to talk.”

“Come in, then.” He stepped aside. “Try not to look like you’re casing the place.”

The loft was exactly as she remembered—open, clean, a little too stylish for someone who claimed not to care about aesthetics. A half-finished bottle of wine sat on the kitchen island. Soft music played from somewhere she couldn’t see. The whole space smelled like him: clean soap and that expensive cologne that had always irritated her by being pleasant.

Chloe stayed near the door.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said.

Ryan closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it, arms crossed. “And?”

“I’ll do it. The fake dating. For the wedding.”

Something flickered across his face—satisfaction, maybe, or relief—before the smirk returned full force. “Just like that?”

“Not just like that.” She lifted her chin. “There are rules.”

“Of course there are.” He pushed off the door and walked toward the kitchen. “Wine? Water? Something stronger for the negotiations?”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” He poured himself a glass of red anyway and turned to face her, hip against the counter. “All right. Lay down the law, Bennett. I’m listening.”

Chloe crossed her arms, mirroring his earlier posture without meaning to. The loft suddenly felt smaller. She could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

“One weekend,” she said. “The wedding weekend. That’s it. We show up together, we play the part, we leave. No extending it. No ‘just one more family dinner’ afterward.”

“Reasonable.”

“It’s a performance. Purely. No feelings. No confusion. We both know exactly what this is.”

Ryan took a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving hers. “Understood.”

“And no kissing.”

That made him pause. The corner of his mouth lifted. “No kissing.”

“None. Not even for show. We can do hand-holding, arm around the waist, whatever else sells it. But mouths stay out of it.”

He set the glass down with deliberate care. “That’s going to make the ‘selling it’ part harder.”

“Those are the terms.”

Ryan studied her for a long moment. The silence stretched. Somewhere in the loft a piece of ice shifted in a freezer. Chloe forced herself not to look away first.

Finally he spoke, voice quieter than before.

“Counteroffer.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Everything with us is a negotiation.” He stepped away from the counter and closed some of the distance between them. Not enough to touch, but enough that she had to tip her head back slightly to keep eye contact. “I’ll agree to the weekend timeline. I’ll agree that it’s a performance. I’ll even agree to the no-feelings clause, though we both know feelings are messy and don’t always listen to rules.”

“Ryan—”

“But the kissing ban.” He tilted his head. “That’s a problem. If we’re going to convince your entire extended family that we’re actually together, they’re going to expect a certain level of... familiarity. A hand on your back only gets us so far. Aunt Debra has eyes like a hawk and the suspicion of a Cold War spy. If we look like two people who’ve never been closer than a polite handshake, the whole thing falls apart by the rehearsal dinner.”

Chloe’s pulse had started doing something complicated in her throat. “So what are you suggesting?”

“We make it look real. Convincingly real. That means if the moment calls for a kiss—someone’s watching, a toast, a convenient opportunity—we don’t freeze up like teenagers at a school dance. We sell it.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He took another step closer. She could smell the wine on his breath now, dark and expensive. “Or we walk into that wedding looking like a charity project and your mother spends the entire weekend trying to set you up with the caterer’s second cousin. Your choice.”

Chloe felt the old irritation rising, hot and familiar, tangled now with something sharper. He was too close. The loft was too quiet. She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the exact shade of blue-gray in his eyes when he was being serious instead of mocking.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“A little.” The admission was honest enough to disarm her. “I’ve spent years watching you pretend everything rolls off your back. Watching you actually ask for help—even if it’s disguised as a business arrangement—is new. I like new.”

“This isn’t help. This is mutual benefit. You get to play hero for a weekend and I get my family off my back.”

“If that’s the story you need to tell yourself.”

She glared at him. He only looked more amused.

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Limited kissing. Only when absolutely necessary for the performance. And we discuss it first. No ambushing me in front of relatives.”

Ryan’s smile was slow and dangerous. “I’ll take it.”

“And we don’t tell anyone except Madison. She already knows too much.”

“Agreed.”

“And if at any point either of us wants out, we end it cleanly. No drama. No lingering.”

“Cleanly,” he repeated, as if testing the word. “I’ll do my best.”

Chloe exhaled. The rules were on the table. The deal was almost real. She should have felt relief. Instead she felt like she had just stepped onto a surface that might not hold her weight.

Ryan was still standing too close. She could see the pulse at the base of his throat. When he spoke again his voice had dropped into that lower register that always made the air feel thicker.

“One more condition,” he said. “From my side.”

“You already got the kissing amendment.”

“This one’s non-negotiable.” He held her gaze. “We practice.”

Chloe blinked. “Practice.”

“Looking like a couple. Touching. Standing in each other’s space without you looking like you’re about to file a restraining order. If the first time I put my arm around you is in front of your mother, she’s going to know something’s off. We need to get the physical part looking natural before we walk into that venue.”

Heat crawled up her neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thorough.” He lifted one shoulder. “We can do it here. Neutral ground. A few minutes. You set the boundaries. I stay inside them. Then we both sleep better knowing we won’t blow the cover on day one.”

Chloe opened her mouth to refuse. The refusal didn’t come. Because he was right, damn him. The thought of freezing up the first time he touched her in public was almost worse than the thought of letting him touch her at all.

“Five minutes,” she said. “That’s all.”

“Generous.”

He didn’t move immediately. He just watched her, giving her time to change her mind. When she didn’t, he closed the last of the distance with deliberate care.

His hand settled on her waist first—light, testing, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of her shirt. Chloe’s breath caught before she could stop it. She felt the exact moment his fingers flexed, adjusting, learning the shape of her.

“Okay?” he asked, quiet.

She nodded once, not trusting her voice.

His other hand came up, fingers brushing the side of her neck as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was casual. Intimate. Entirely too practiced for a man who claimed this was just strategy. Chloe’s skin lit up wherever he touched, traitorous and immediate.

“You’re stiff,” he murmured.

“You’re in my personal space.”

“That’s the point.” His thumb traced a small, absent arc against her waist. “Breathe, Bennett. You look like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

“I feel like I’m being held at gunpoint.”

A low huff of laughter escaped him. The sound vibrated through the small space between their bodies. He shifted closer still, until the front of his shirt nearly brushed hers, and the hand on her waist slid around to rest against the small of her back. The new angle pulled her in without force. Chloe’s hands came up automatically, settling against his chest to keep some kind of boundary. His heart beat steady under her palms.

“Better,” he said.

It wasn’t better. It was worse. She could feel every point of contact like a brand—the solid heat of him, the faint scent of wine and soap, the way his breath stirred the hair at her temple when he spoke. Her body, the absolute traitor, wanted to lean in. Her mind scrambled for the rules she had just finished listing.

Ryan’s hand flexed once against her back. “This is the part where you look at me like you don’t hate the idea of me.”

“I do hate the idea of you.”

“Then fake it.” His voice was almost gentle. “Just for five minutes.”

Chloe forced her shoulders to drop. She tipped her face up and met his eyes. Up close the blue-gray was darker, the usual mockery banked down into something more focused. She watched his gaze drop, briefly, to her mouth, and felt her own lips part without permission.

The air between them went tight.

For one suspended second she thought he was going to break the kissing rule right there in his kitchen, rules and counters and careful negotiations be damned. Her pulse slammed against her throat. She didn’t pull away.

Then Ryan exhaled, slow, and stepped back. The loss of contact left her oddly cold. He ran a hand through his hair, the first crack in his composure she had seen all night. “That should do for a first round.”

Chloe’s voice came out rougher than she wanted. “We’re done?”

“For tonight.” He reached for his wineglass again, but didn’t drink. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We should get our stories straight—how we got together, how long it’s been, the usual. Your mother will ask. Aunt Debra will cross-examine.”

“Right.” She smoothed her shirt with hands that weren’t entirely steady. “Stories.”

“And Chloe.”

She looked up.

The smirk was back, but softer around the edges. “You set the rules. I’ll follow them. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it all the way. No half measures. I don’t do anything halfway where you’re concerned.”

The words landed with more weight than they should have. Chloe swallowed, nodded once, and reached for the door before the moment could stretch any further.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

She stepped into the hallway and didn’t look back. The industrial stairs felt longer on the way down. By the time she reached her car her hands were still tingling with the memory of his chest under her palms, and the careful list of rules she had delivered felt already fragile.

One weekend. Pure performance. No feelings. Limited kissing. She started the engine and told herself she could keep every single one of them. She almost believed it.