I stared at the screen. Ben told me that Mario hadn’t spoken to his parents in years. They lived in Italy, and the idea of them flying in felt wildly impractical. Then, impossibly, a third text from a number I didn’t recognize.
Hi Lily! This is June. Hope you don’t mind, but Channel 8 called about the photo. They want to do a segment on local love stories for their Valentine’s feature. So exciting! Call me!
Channel 8. The local news station wanted to interview us about our relationship.
I stared at the phone in my hand, watching as the texts kept coming. More family members chiming in with dinner suggestions. Friends I hadn’t heard from in months suddenly reaching out to congratulate me. The entire town, it seemed, had appointed themselves stakeholders in my love life.
This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. The spotlight, the pressure, the expectations. And now it was spiraling completely out of control, fed by a single Facebook photo and the town’s insatiable appetite for romance.
I pictured Mario, probably holed up in his little rental cottage, blissfully unaware that Channel 8 wanted to interview him about his “feelings” for me. He’d come here to hide; I’d accidentally made him the star of Autumn Grove’s favorite fairy tale.
The back door opened behind me, and my mother appeared with a concerned expression and a cup of hot cider.
“Are you sure you’re alright, sweetheart?” she asked, settling onto the porch swing beside me. “You seem… overwhelmed.”
I took the cider gratefully, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “It’s just a lot, Mom. Everyone’s so excited, and I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“Oh, honey.” She smoothed my hair back from my face, the gesture soft and automatic. “You could never disappoint us. We’re just so happy to see you happy. You’ve been alone for so long, carrying everything by yourself. It’s wonderful to see you letting someone help shoulder the load.”
Her words hit me in a way that surprised me. They weren’t wrong — I’d been doing everything myself for years — and the idea of someone sharing that weight felt, in a small, dizzying way, like relief.
“I like him,” I admitted before I could stop myself, the thought arriving like a small, guilty confession. Not love. Not even close. Just … like. A warm flicker that made my chest unclench for the first time in weeks.
My mother’s face softened into that mix of hope and vindication she wore so well. “See? That’s what I mean. The man in that photo — the one who helped your daughter with her costume and looks at you like you’re precious — that’s a man who stays.”
I wanted to tell her the truth, that this was an arrangement, that Ben had masterminded it, that we’d agreed on rules. That it was supposed to be boring, safe, and temporary. But the words felt small and useless against the swell of everyone else’s excitement. And the last thing I wanted to do was pop the fragile balloon of joy hovering over my family’s heads.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said softly.
“I know I am.” She squeezed my hand. “Now come inside before you catch cold. Dinner’s almost ready, and I want to hear all about that Halloween costume project. Every detail.”
As we walked back into the warm, noisy kitchen, the plan I’d signed up for felt suddenly bigger. I needed Mario to understand how out-of-hand things were getting. I needed him to agree on the next steps, to help tamp down the publicity and the invitations and the invasive questions.
The problem was that I worried he’d back out of our deal, that he wouldn’t want to keep pretending once the circus grew. He’d signed up for a quiet, boring fake relationship, not this town-wide spectacle with news crews and engagement chatter. And the truth that made my stomach flip was this: I was already starting to like him enough that I couldn’t handle us blowing up on national television.
We were in this together now, whether we liked it or not.
CHAPTER9
Mario
I should have known betterthan to accept a cup of coffee from Ben. It’s never just coffee. With Ben, it’s a setup waiting to happen, a friendly offering that conceals an army of obligations.
I was in my rental cottage, trying to read a thriller about a rogue spy that was beginning to feel like a documentary about my life. The heater hummed. The notebook I used for mechanical diagrams lay open on the coffee table like the kind of homework I pretended not to care about. The phone on the end table buzzed — Ben, already in full charm mode by the time he stepped through my door.
He flopped onto the couch opposite me with that smile. The one I’d seen a thousand times before, usually right before I ended up holding something heavy or explaining to the authorities why their prize hedge now resembled a Formula One car.
“Big day today,” he said, voice casual.
“Is it.” I didn’t look up from my book.
“The annual Autumn Grove Community Bake-Off for Charity. Huge event. The rivalry between the Methodist pecan pie and the Catholic lemon meringue is legendary.”
I grunted, turning a page. This was the opening move. He was establishing stakes, trying to make me care.
“And Lily’s making her famous Spiced Apple-Cider Cupcakes. Her signature. But she’s running behind—the shop was chaos this morning, and Mom’s monopolizing the stand mixer for some seven-layer potato thing.” He paused for effect. “She could really use some help.”
“And you, her loving brother, are stepping up.”
