Emery regretted scheduling the interview the second she saw him.
Liam Hart stood outside the café exactly two minutes early, holding a coffee he had clearly already bought for her. Tall, clean-shaven, tousled brown hair, button-down rolled at the sleeves—he looked like the kind of man who had a five-year plan, a well-watered houseplant, and a smile that wasn't trying to sell you something.
Unfortunately, he also looked painfully earnest.
"This is for you," he said, holding out the cup like a peace offering. "I guessed oat milk?"
Emery blinked. "How?"
"I stalked your old article about vegan dating disasters. You mentioned your almond milk betrayal and switched to oat." He offered a shrug. "Research."
She took the cup warily, already annoyed that he had guessed correctly and read her work. "Thanks. I'm lactose intolerant and emotionally unavailable, so that covers half of me."
Liam blinked—then laughed. A surprised, warm sound that made her briefly uncomfortable in her own skin. Like she'd said something real and it had landed, not deflected.
"Good to know," he said, smile lingering. "I'm Liam."
"Emery Blake." She shook his hand, firm and businesslike. "Before we start, I should tell you—this was meant to be a couple's interview. I assumed you and your... person were signing up together?"
Liam exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That's the thing. I thought this was for, like, relationship advice. Coaching. I didn't know it was for a published column."
She tilted her head. "So you're not in a relationship?"
"I was." His voice softened, his eyes finding a spot on the ground. "Six years. We broke up two weeks ago."
"Oof." She took a sip of her drink. "I hope you kept the dog."
"No dog. Just furniture and Spotify playlists."
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, exactly. Just quiet, like the air after a small explosion.
Emery narrowed her eyes. "Wait. So you signed up for a love column… right after getting dumped?"
"I panicked," he said with a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Saw the form in the newsletter and clicked. I figured… maybe a fresh start? Or advice? Or I don't know, something."
He looked up at her then. And that was the moment. The moment Emery should've said, "This isn't the right fit," smiled politely, and walked away.
But instead, the corner of her mind—the slightly unhinged, always-scheming writer part—flickered to life.
Marla wanted a real couple.Emery didn't have one.Liam needed help with love.Emery wrote about it daily but lived it never.
"What if…" she said slowly, setting her drink down. "And hear me out—this is objectively a terrible idea…"
Liam leaned forward slightly, cautious but curious.
"What if we fake-date for a month?" she said. "You help me write this column, I coach you into becoming someone your ex would beg to take back, and we both get what we need."
Liam stared at her like she'd just suggested they rob a bank. "Fake-date? Like, pretend to be in a relationship?"
"Exactly. Public enough for the column—some photos, a few cute moments, stuff people eat up. You get a free test run at being the guy she thinks she wants. I get my deadline. No feelings, no mess."
"You want me to lie to your readers?"
"I prefer to call it... storytelling."
Liam laughed again—more out of disbelief than amusement. "This is insane."
"It is," Emery agreed. "But you did sign up for something romantic during an emotional breakdown, so I think you've already shown you're up for questionable decisions."
He rubbed a hand down his face, thinking. "What if it works?"
"What, the fake relationship or your tragic love redemption arc?"
"Both," he said. "What if I actually get her back?"
Emery considered that. "Then we high-five at your wedding and I write an overdramatic conclusion column. Win-win."
"And what if it... doesn't work?" His voice had dipped lower now, quieter. "What if pretending to be in love just makes things worse?"
She hesitated. "Then you'll have proof you're ready to move on."
Liam looked down at his coffee. Thoughtful. Wary. Hopeful.
"You're really good at making fake things sound real."
"Occupational hazard."
A long pause. Then, finally—he reached out a hand.
"Alright, Blake. Let's lie to the internet together."
She grinned and shook it. "For the record, this is still a terrible idea."
"Yeah," he said, standing up and slinging on his coat. "But terrible ideas make great stories."
As he walked away, Emery watched him go with a strange flutter in her chest.
It wasn't attraction. Definitely not.
It was curiosity. Professional curiosity.
…Probably.