Look, fake dates are supposed to be easy. You show up, smile like a toothpaste commercial, laugh at mildly amusing things, and maybe split a dessert you'll regret at 2 a.m. But what I did not plan for—what I couldn't have planned for—was Leo.
Leo, in all his glory, had somehow transformed into The Perfect Date. Hair swept back, dark sweater snug enough to make half the restaurant swoon, and this annoying ability to actually listen.
"So," he said, swirling his wine like he knew what it meant, "your boss thinks we're dating. How did we get here?"
"I may have panicked and said I had a boyfriend to get out of a mandatory 'team synergy' retreat involving tents and no Wi-Fi."
He raised an eyebrow. "And I was the first name that popped into your head? I'm flattered. Confused, but flattered."
"You were literally right there. Breathing. It was convenient."
He grinned. "Ah yes. Nothing screams romance like convenience."
We ordered food—well, I ordered like I wasn't on a budget and would totally not Venmo Leo later. He didn't even blink when I added fries and truffle aioli. Bold move, considering I once saw him eat raw kale voluntarily.
The waiter dropped off our drinks, and Leo leaned in. "Alright, tell me something real. Something only your real fake boyfriend should know."
I tilted my head. "You want emotional blackmail ammo already? We just got here."
"I want to impress your boss if she drops by. Know thy fake girlfriend, you know?"
Ugh. Fine. Two can play.
"I cried during a dog food commercial once. Happy tears. They reunited. It was a lot."
He blinked. "...Wow."
"Your turn. Make it good."
He sipped his wine like a man preparing to reveal a dark past. "I know every single lyric to Mamma Mia! Including the harmonies."
I almost snorted water through my nose. "Every lyric?"
"Every. Single. One. Try me."
Of course, that's when my boss appeared. Because the universe has terrible timing and a dark sense of humor.
"Isabelle! And... Leo, right?" Miranda's voice could slice glass. She eyed our table like she was scanning for evidence. Of what? Real feelings? Fake truffle fries?
Leo stood. Shook her hand. Full eye contact. Damn him.
"It's a pleasure to meet the woman responsible for Izzy's caffeine addiction."
I smiled like I wasn't internally screaming. "Just grabbing dinner after work. Nothing fancy."
"Well, don't let me interrupt. I just popped in for a takeout. Enjoy your evening."
She walked away, but I swear she looked back. Twice.
I exhaled. "You're disgustingly good at this."
"I was in the drama club for one semester in high school. They cast me as a tree. But I learned a lot."
The food arrived. We dug in. And, okay, maybe it wasn't just about selling the lie anymore. Leo was funny. Relaxed. Nothing like the walking spreadsheet I assumed he was.
"So," he said between bites of risotto, "what happens if we actually pull this off? Boss believes it, everyone's happy, no awkward retreat with bug spray... then what?"
I shrugged. "Then we slowly 'drift apart.' Classic breakup. You'll be devastated, of course."
He nodded solemnly. "I'll start journaling now to prepare."
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just... charged.
And then he did it. He reached across the table and stole a fry.
"Hey!"
"Relationship tax. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
Before I could launch into a full fake-girlfriend rant, my phone buzzed. A message from my roommate, Tasha:
"Miranda just posted a story. You two are in it. Caption: 'Love is real after all.' You're going viral, baby."
Oh. No.
"What's up?" Leo asked.
I turned the phone so he could see. He stared. Blinked. Then grinned.
"Well, I hope you're ready to commit, because I think we just got internet-married."
I groaned. Loudly. "We are so screwed."
And that's how our night ended—Leo laughing at my misery, me plotting a fake relationship exit strategy, and our love story officially entering the digital age.
Next up? A very awkward Monday at the office.
But hey, at least the fries were good.