Look, I didn't mean to destroy the idea of love in front of a live TV audience. It just sort of...slipped out. Like when you sneeze in an elevator and accidentally insult every couple holding hands within a ten-foot radius.
One minute, I was doing a piece on Valentine's Day spending trends. The next, I was ranting about how love is a marketing ploy created by greeting card companies to sell overpriced glitter.
"It's just oxytocin and chocolate, Brenda," I said.
Apparently, Brenda did not appreciate that.
Now my inbox is full of break-up hate mail and one guy offering to marry me just to prove me wrong. Tempting, if he hadn't spelled my name "Happer" and attached a photo of his ferret.
"You tanked your brand," Margo said, slamming a giant travel mug on my desk. It read: Love is Dead, But Coffee is Forever. Fitting.
"I tanked nothing. I gave them truth. I'm a truth-giver."
"You're a cynic with a law degree and zero filter. Which, don't get me wrong, is your brand, but also—our client list is now just a guy named Steve."
Ah. Steve.
"So," I said, sipping the bitter taste of regret (and espresso), "what's the plan?"
She dropped a folder on my keyboard. Red heart sticker. I flinched.
"You're doing a 30-Day Love Challenge. Public. Documented."
I spit coffee. "I beg your entire pardon."
"You want the senior partner track? You clean up the PR mess you created. You do the challenge. You date. You post about it. You look like you believe in something other than prenups and solitary brunches."
"That sounds horrifying."
"And romantic," she added, flipping her sleek ponytail like a Bond villain. "Also, it goes viral, we get the firm back in the spotlight, and you keep your career."
"Do I get to choose who I date? Or are we hiring a boyfriend off Craigslist?"
"You'll pick. But he has to be charming. Telegenic. Ideally not a man who owns taxidermy."
So, no Steve.
By lunch, I was spiraling. I tried flirting with the barista. He gave me a loyalty punch card and called me ma'am.
"Try a bookstore," Margo texted. "Nothing screams romance like paper and potential bankruptcy."
So I did. And that, dear reader, is where things went from bad to absolutely, fantastically unhinged.
I didn't mean to insult Theo either.
"This place smells like heartbreak and old socks," I said, stepping into the most aggressively charming bookshop I'd ever seen.
He looked up from behind a counter stacked with used paperbacks and sarcasm.
"That's the scent of literature."
"Smells like mold."
"Poetic mold."
He had the nerve to smirk. And dimples. The kind that looked like they got tips in coffee shops. His flannel was aggressively casual.
"Looking for anything?" he asked.
"A boyfriend. You got one in stock?"
He blinked. "Romance section's over there. But fair warning—none of them come with return policies."
God help me, I laughed. Just once. Quiet. But it counted.
"What's the weirdest book you sell?" I asked.
He considered. "There's one called How to Fall in Love Without Losing Your Dignity. It's very short."
I was about to make a joke about putting it on my tombstone when my phone buzzed. Margo, of course.
Him. Pick him. He's cute and looks like he'd cry during a Pixar movie.
Was he cute? Objectively, yes. Was I desperate enough to ask a flannel-wearing stranger to fake-date me for thirty days?
Apparently.
"So," I said, tapping my nails against the counter. "Wanna be my boyfriend for a month?"
Theo didn't blink. Didn't laugh. Just said, "Define terms."
And just like that, I knew two things:
1. He wasn't joking.
2. I was in so much trouble.
We met for coffee an hour later. Theo had a notebook. He wrote things down. Like, actual contract terms.
"I get promo for the shop. You get public redemption. I attend a minimum of ten events. No actual feelings. We keep it fake."
"Deal," I said, trying to look like I hadn't just broken out in a stress rash.
He looked up. "You sure you can fake being in love?"
I leaned in. "I'm a lawyer. Faking affection is my specialty."
He grinned. And that stupid dimple winked at me again.
We shook hands.
"God help us both," he said.
And then the fire alarm went off.
I swear I didn't do it.
Probably.