Chapter 4

Dante

I don’t do relationships.

Not real ones. Not messy ones. Not the kind where you wake up beside someone and let them see you before coffee. Before you’ve ironed the mood out of your face.

So the fact that I’m still thinking about her. The way her fingers twisted in my jacket, the stunned little sound she made when I kissed her, the way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting... It’s a problem.

A big one.

She walks me to my car like we’re real. Like we’re not two strangers playing a game neither of us fully understands. The moonlight hits her face in that annoyingly romantic way and I can’t stop staring.

She smells like strawberries. Sweet and sharp and edible.

She’s so small. I could probably lift her with one hand, and that’s not even a brag. Her head barely reaches my chest. Everything about her screams harmless and chaotic and very, very off-brand for me.

With her brown hair, glasses, barely-there makeup, short body and total lack of curves, I shouldn’t be attracted to her. There are a thousand girls just like her and yet I’m... still thinking about our kiss.

My cock twitches.

Nope.

Time to go.

She hugs her arms around herself. “So… thanks. For showing up. For saving me from social death.”

I nod. Cool. Controlled. Even though all I can think about is kissing her again.

“Anytime. I’m a hero, remember?”

She snorts. “You’re insufferable.”

“Charming,” I correct.

She shifts on her heels. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you kissed me like that. I know it was just part of the performance.”

I don’t respond right away. I should say yes. Should agree. Laugh it off.

Instead, I say, “You’re a better actress than you think, Jennie.”

Her eyes snap to mine.

Before she can ask what the hell that means, I open my car door and get in. I need to leave. Fast.

Because I’m two seconds from pulling her into my lap and kissing her again. Just to see if it feels as real the second time.

Spoiler: I know it will.

The next morning is worse.

I wake up hard.

Morning wood is nothing new, but this? This isn’t my usual half-asleep, vague-dream situation. This is specific.

I try to think of thicc women. My usual type. Curves for days. Women who could suffocate a man with their chest alone.

Instead?

Jennie.

Her glasses slipping down her nose. That twitchy smile. Her too-small frame and those shy little looks she probably doesn’t even know she gives.

I groan and drop an arm over my face.

My pecs are bigger than her boobs. This should not be happening.

Still, I slide my hand under the covers. Just to take the edge off. Just to clear my head.

I try again. Curves. Boobs. Models in lingerie. Women with pouty lips and fake tan lines.

And then—Jennie.

Jennie giggling at her own joke. Jennie licking frosting off her finger. Jennie looking up at me like I hung the goddamn stars.

I let out an actual groan.

“Seriously?” I mutter at myself.

But my hand keeps moving. Slower now. And yeah, it’s hot. Uncomfortably so. Like my brain and my dick are in full mutiny.

She moans in my head. The sound she made when I kissed her replays on loop.

I’m seconds away...so damn close...and then my brain supplies a new image of Jennie trying to open a champagne bottle and hitting herself in the eye.

I bark out a laugh.

And it’s over.

I flop back on the bed, scowling at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.

Fantastic. I can’t even jerk off without turning it into a rom-com blooper reel. I don’t actually like the little nerd, do I?

I take a cold shower. Again. And I do it while TRYING to tell myself that I’m not crushing on the woman who tripped on her own shoelace and still tried to flirt after.

I don’t do crushes.

I do temporary.

Clean exits.

Fake dating.

Not this.

My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter.

Kendra.

Of course.

I swipe to answer and collapse onto the couch. “What now?”

“You looked good at that wedding,” she says, voice brisk. Businesslike like it always is.

“You stalking me again?”

“Public posts, Dante. You’re trending. Some blurry shots of you and the mystery girl. People are going feral. You know what that means?”

“That I should go off the grid for a week?”

“That you’re getting old.”

My brows lift. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not twenty-five anymore. You’re thirty-three. Still hot, yes, but Hollywood doesn’t let men age without a storyline. You want better roles? You need more than abs. You need narrative. You need relatability.”

“Kendra—”

She barrels over my protest. “You know what people love more than shirtless superhero shots? A reformed bachelor. A man who settles down. Gets married. Maybe has a kid or two. Even better if the wife is a normal woman. A nobody.”

I blink. “You’re not seriously—”

“I am. The internet loves her. People are already calling her ‘real’ and ‘refreshing’ and ‘our new queen.’”

“She threw a bread roll at a bird.”

“Exactly. She’s chaos. People relate to chaos. And if you were married to her...briefly, of course...it would buy you time. New opportunities. More eyes. And when you divorce, the sympathy narrative practically writes itself.”

I stare at the ceiling.

“You want me to play her.”

“I want you to flirt with her. Make her like you. See where it goes. Worst case? You have a summer fling that keeps your name hot. Best case? You sell a wedding special to People magazine.”

There’s a long silence.

Then I smirk.

“Got it.”

I hang up and scroll to Jennie’s name.

And type.

Me: You still owe me cake, Chaos. Want to fix that?