My Worst Enemy Is My Plus One

Episode 4

Ryan closed the door behind Chloe and stood there for a long moment with his forehead against the cool metal, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the industrial stairs. The loft felt larger without her in it. Quieter. The faint trace of her perfume still hung in the air near the kitchen island, mixed with the open bottle of wine he no longer wanted.

He had done it.

She had actually shown up, laid down her careful list of rules, and agreed to let him stand beside her for a weekend. The knowledge sat in his chest like a live wire—sharp, electric, and potentially catastrophic.

Ryan pushed off the door and walked back to the counter. He picked up the wineglass, stared at the dark red liquid, then set it down again without drinking. His hands still remembered the exact shape of her waist under the thin fabric of her shirt. The way her breath had caught when he stepped closer. The way her palms had rested against his chest like she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him in. Five minutes, she had said. Neutral ground. Practice.

He had spent those five minutes cataloguing every micro-reaction—the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her pupils had dilated when his gaze dropped to her mouth, the stubborn set of her jaw that couldn’t quite hide the fact that her body was not on the same page as her rules. Chloe Bennett could negotiate like a corporate lawyer, but her pulse had given her away.

Ryan dragged both hands through his hair and let out a low breath.

He had been waiting for an opening like this for years. Not the fake-dating scheme specifically—he wasn’t that strategic—but something. Any excuse that would let him step across the careful line she had drawn between them since they were teenagers. Timing had always been wrong. She had been too young, then he had been too far away at college, then she had been with someone else, then the antagonism had calcified into something that felt safer than honesty. He had told himself he could live with the version of them that only existed in sharp comebacks and pointed silences.

He had been lying.

Tonight she had stood in his kitchen and told him no feelings, no confusion, limited kissing, and he had agreed to every term while already knowing he would test the edges of each one. Not because he wanted to trap her. Because the alternative—another year of watching her from across rooms, of letting her family treat her single status like a personal failure, of pretending the sight of her didn’t still rearrange something vital in his chest—had become unbearable.

Ryan pulled his phone from his back pocket and opened a new message thread. He stared at the blank screen for a full minute before typing.

*Rules received and acknowledged. I’ll be a model fake boyfriend.*

He hit send before he could overthink the tone. The reply came faster than he expected.

**Chloe:** *You better be. I meant every word of them.*

**Ryan:** *I know. You’re very stern when you’re laying down the law. It’s cute.*

**Chloe:** *Don’t call me cute.*

**Ryan:** *Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re terrifying. Much better.*

He could almost see her rolling her eyes. The next message took longer.

**Chloe:** *We need a story. How we got together. Timeline. Details your sister will have to back up if anyone asks her.*

**Ryan:** *I’ll handle Madison. She’s already invested in the chaos. As for the story—keep it simple. We ran into each other at a work thing three months ago. One drink turned into three. We’ve been seeing each other quietly since then because you didn’t want the family circus starting early.*

**Chloe:** *That’s... actually decent.*

**Ryan:** *I have moments of competence. Don’t look so shocked.*

**Chloe:** *I’m texting. You can’t see my face.*

**Ryan:** *I can imagine it. You’ve got that little line between your eyebrows right now. The one that shows up when you’re trying not to admit I’m right.*

There was a longer pause. He pictured her in her apartment, phone in hand, debating whether to keep engaging or shut the conversation down. The fact that she was still typing felt like a small victory.

**Chloe:** *The line is for when you’re being insufferable. Which is most of the time.*

**Ryan:** *And yet here we are. Partners in crime for the next six weeks.*

**Chloe:** *Performance partners. Temporary. With rules.*

**Ryan:** *All of which I heard clearly. Including the limited-kissing clause. I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.*

**Chloe:** *You were never a Scout.*

**Ryan:** *Details.*

He set the phone down and walked to the large windows that overlooked the street. Night had fully settled. A few cars passed below, headlights cutting brief arcs across the brick. He thought about the wedding timeline Madison had already started complaining about—venue two hours upstate, rehearsal dinner on Friday, ceremony Saturday evening, brunch on Sunday for the people who hadn’t fled yet. Four days of concentrated family exposure. Four days of Chloe beside him, wearing whatever carefully chosen dress made her feel armored, trying not to react every time he touched her for the sake of the audience.

He was going to have to be careful.

Not careful in the way she wanted—careful with the rules, careful with the boundaries. Careful with himself. Because the moment his hand had settled on her waist tonight, the old, familiar wanting had roared up so fast it left him briefly lightheaded. He had stepped back before he did something irreversible, but the restraint had cost him. If he wasn’t disciplined, he would push too far too fast and watch her retreat behind the walls she had spent years building.

Ryan picked the phone up again.

**Ryan:** *Logistics. The wedding is at that place upstate—Cedar Hill, right? I’ll drive. No point in taking two cars when we’re supposed to be arriving as a unit.*

**Chloe:** *I can drive myself.*

**Ryan:** *You can. But couples usually share the car. It’s more convincing. I’ll pick you up Friday morning. We can use the drive to run through the story one more time and practice not looking like we want to kill each other.*

**Chloe:** *You’re very committed to the bit.*

**Ryan:** *I told you. I don’t do anything halfway where you’re concerned.*

He almost deleted the last sentence. It was too close to the truth. He left it. The reply took nearly five minutes.

**Chloe:** *Friday morning works. 8 a.m. Don’t be late.*

**Ryan:** *Wouldn’t dream of it. Sleep well, Bennett. Try not to rewrite the rules seventeen times before morning.*

**Chloe:** *Goodnight, Cole.*

He smiled at the screen. The formality of the last message was pure Chloe—retreat disguised as politeness. He locked the phone and set it facedown on the counter.

For a while he just stood in the quiet loft, replaying the evening in pieces. The way she had looked standing in his doorway, chin high, already braced for a fight. The precise list of conditions delivered like she was reading from a contract. The moment his hand had found her waist and her breath had stuttered. The almost-kiss that hadn’t happened, hanging in the air between them like a held note. He had agreed to no feelings. He had been in love with her since before he had language for it.

The two facts sat side by side in his mind, irreconcilable and equally true. He would honor the letter of her rules. He would also use every day of the next six weeks to show her what it felt like to be chosen without conditions, without family pressure, without the old script of antagonism. If she still walked away at the end of the wedding weekend, at least he would have stopped waiting.

Ryan poured the remaining wine down the sink, rinsed the glass, and headed for the shower. The water ran hot. He braced both hands against the tile and let it beat against the back of his neck while he forced his thoughts into something resembling a plan.

Story locked down. Madison briefed. Driving arrangements made. Physical boundaries established and already tested. Next step: the slow, deliberate work of making the performance feel less like a performance.

He dried off, pulled on sleep pants, and checked his phone one last time. No new messages. He opened the thread anyway and typed a final line he didn’t send.

*I’ve been waiting years for you to need something only I could give you. I’m not going to waste it.*

He deleted the words, set the phone on the nightstand, and lay back against the pillows with one arm folded behind his head. Sleep felt distant. His body still carried the imprint of her—warmth against his palm, the faint pressure of her hands on his chest, the way she had looked up at him like she was daring him to break the very rules she had just finished writing.

Ryan closed his eyes and allowed himself one unguarded thought before the discipline snapped back into place.

Six weeks. He could work with six weeks. By the time the wedding weekend ended, Chloe Bennett was going to know exactly how real the whole thing had always been for him. Whether she did anything about it was still her choice. But he was done standing on the sidelines. He was finally, deliberately, in the game.