If I'd been hoping Liam Wolfe would pick a discreet place for our "business dinner," I was wrong.

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, ultra-modern spots where every glass cost more than my electricity bill and the waiters looked like they'd stepped off a runway. The kind of place where half the patrons were investors, and the other half were there to be seen by investors.

I spotted him instantly sitting at a corner table like he owned it, suit perfectly cut, dark hair just tousled enough to look accidental. He was scrolling through his phone, a half-smile on his lips, as if even his texts were winning.

"You're late," he said when I approached.

"You picked a place with valet parking and a three-story waitlist. You're lucky I made it at all."

His smile widened slightly. "Still making excuses, Cross?"

I ignored him and sat down. "Let's just get this over with."

The waiter appeared as if summoned by our mutual disdain. Wine was poured, menus presented, and then Liam leaned back in his chair like a man settling into a negotiation he knew he'd win.

"So," he said, "tell me why I should pretend to be the man of your dreams."

I folded my arms. "It's not about dreams. It's about survival. My family reunion is this weekend. If I show up single, my mother will set me up with her dentist's nephew, and I'll spend the rest of the year dodging calls about double dates."

Liam's eyes glinted with amusement. "Tragic."

"And you," I continued, "are up for the biggest deal of your career. The board loves a stable, family-oriented image. You showing up with me on your arm says: here's a man who's settled, trustworthy, grounded."

He studied me for a moment, then set down his wine. "Okay. But you're leaving something out."

I raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Why me?" His voice dropped just enough to make the question dangerous. "You could've found an actor. A friend. Someone you actually like."

The truth? Because Liam was the only person I knew who could match me move for move in a room full of sharks and because deep down, some part of me wanted to see if we could survive a weekend without killing each other.

"Because," I said finally, "I need someone convincing. And you're infuriatingly convincing."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Cross."

We hammered out the terms over overpriced pasta. No real intimacy outside of what was necessary to keep up appearances. No personal questions that strayed too far into private territory. A strict end date: Sunday night.

"And in exchange," he said, swirling his wine, "you'll play the doting wife at the investor dinner Friday. Smile when I need you to, laugh at my jokes, make me look like a man who's worth trusting with their money."

"Done."

When the check came, he didn't even glance at it before sliding his card across the table. "I'll pick you up Friday afternoon."

"Fine." I stood.

But as we stepped out into the cool night air, he stopped me with a hand on my arm. His touch was light, but it sent a jolt straight through me.

"One more thing," he said, voice low. "If we're doing this, we do it well. That means you look at me like I'm the only man in the room. You hold my hand like you don't want to let go. You kiss me like it's real."

I swallowed. "And you?"

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "I'll make you believe it's real."

By the time Friday rolled around, I'd convinced myself that I was ready. I had rehearsed our story, picked out the perfect "effortlessly in love" outfit, and reminded myself that this was just business.

Then Liam pulled up in a black Mercedes, stepped out in a dark suit that looked like it had been stitched by angels, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Wolfe," he said with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

The drive to my family's lake house was two hours of pointed small talk. We ran through our backstory met at a tech conference, bonded over our shared hatred for terrible coffee, started dating six months ago. He'd "proposed" last month over dinner.

"And why exactly did I propose?" Liam asked, glancing at me.

"Because you couldn't imagine your life without me," I said sweetly.

His mouth curved into a grin. "Good answer."

When we finally turned into the long gravel driveway, I could already see the crowd gathered on the porch. My mother was waving like a ship spotting land. My father was polishing his glasses his tell when he was preparing to evaluate someone.

"This is going to be fun," Liam murmured, and I wasn't sure if he meant for me or for him.

The moment we stepped out of the car, Mom rushed over and hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. Then she turned to Liam, eyes sparkling. "So this is the man who's stolen our Mia's heart."

Liam turned on the charm like flipping a switch. "It's an honor, Mrs. Cross. I've heard so much about you." He took her hand and kissed it.

Her cheeks flushed. My mother. Flushed.

Dad shook his hand firmly, sizing him up. "What do you do, son?"

"I run WolfeTech," Liam said with the perfect mix of humility and confidence. "But more importantly, I try to make Mia laugh at least once a day."

I almost choked. Where had that come from?

Inside, the interrogation began. Aunt Carol wanted to know when the wedding was. My cousin Julia asked if Liam had any single friends. Grandma quizzed him about his favorite pies. And through it all, Liam was smooth, attentive, and annoyingly convincing.

At one point, Mom pulled me into the kitchen under the pretense of "helping with the salad."

"He's perfect," she whispered.

I forced a smile. "I know."

Back in the living room, I caught Liam talking to my father, heads bent over some fishing magazine like old friends. When his eyes found mine across the room, he gave me a look a subtle, questioning tilt of his head that somehow felt like we were the only two people there.

Later, during dinner, my cousin brought out an ancient family tradition: the Newlywed Quiz.

"Oh, we're not " I started, but Liam was already leaning in. "We're game."

They asked him my favorite movie. He said The Princess Bride. Correct. Favorite ice cream? Mint chocolate chip. Correct again. The story of our first kiss? He made it up on the spot something about rain and streetlights and told it so well that even I almost believed it.

By the end of the night, my cheeks hurt from smiling and my pulse was doing strange things every time Liam touched my hand under the table.

It was supposed to be an act. So why did it feel so real?

The guest room at the lake house had one bed.

"One bed?" I hissed as soon as the door clicked shut behind us.

Liam glanced around like he was appraising a hotel suite. "Looks comfortable enough."

"We can't"

"We're supposed to be engaged, Mia. What did you think your family would do, give us bunk beds?" He loosened his tie and tossed his suit jacket onto the chair, completely unfazed.

I paced. "We'll make a pillow wall."

He grinned, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. "By all means. Build your fortress. Just don't hog the blankets."

I was halfway through my pillow barricade when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Liam called before I could stop him.

It was my mother, holding two mugs of tea. Her eyes flicked from the bed to Liam's bare forearms and back to me. "I thought you two could use something warm before bed."

"Thanks, Mom," I said quickly, taking the mugs and forcing a smile.

When she left, Liam sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his tea like he hadn't just been caught in the most suggestive scene possible. "You're overthinking this."

"I'm protecting the plan."

His gaze softened just a flicker, quickly masked by that infuriating smirk. "You really think I'm going to blow our cover?"

"I think you like pushing buttons."

"Only yours."

The tension hung there, thick and electric. I climbed into my half of the bed, turning my back to him, determined to focus on sleep.

I'd almost succeeded when I felt the mattress shift. Liam's voice was low, close. "You talk in your sleep, Cross?"

"No." My voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Good. Wouldn't want you revealing our secrets."

I rolled over to glare at him and that's when it happened.

Too close. Too much heat between us. His hand was braced on the pillow next to my head, his eyes darker in the lamplight. My breath caught, and for a split second, I forgot every rule we'd agreed on.

He looked at my mouth, and I swear he almost ,almost closed the gap.

Then he pulled back, smirking again. "Goodnight, fiancée."

I lay there in the dark long after his breathing evened out, wondering if I was the only one replaying that almost-kiss.