There's a very specific kind of panic that hits when you realize you just lied on a government grant application. Not a tiny fib like adjusting your weight on your driver's license. No, I'm talking about a full-blown, bold-faced lie with consequences, signatures, and potential jail time.
I, Ivy Monroe, PhD in psychology, neurotic overthinker, and rule-follower extraordinaire, just told the Midlake Arts & Wellness Institute that I am married.
Spoiler alert: I am not.
It started innocently. I was scrolling through my academic email while chewing on a stale protein bar and avoiding grading ten research papers on attachment styles. And then—bam. There it was. An email titled: CONGRATULATIONS! Welcome to Midlake's Summer Creative Couples Residency!
I blinked.
Then I blinked again.
The email said I'd been selected for a two-month, all-expenses-paid retreat in the mountains. Just me, my "partner," and our shared creative journey. A $50,000 grant for couples who want to blend art and therapy.
I'd applied on a whim, inspired by a late-night rerun of Eat, Pray, Love and one too many glasses of red wine. I figured they'd never pick a nerdy psychologist whose idea of a wild night was reorganizing her spice rack. But they did.
And there, in neat bold letters, it said:
"Note: This retreat is for couples only. No singles permitted. All selected applicants must arrive with their partner or forfeit the grant."
My stomach flipped.
I reread the line at least twenty-three times, as if it would suddenly change to, "Just kidding! Singles welcome! We love lonely intellectuals with control issues!"
But no.
I was stuck.
I mean... it was just a small lie, right? I wasn't hurting anyone. And it was for a good cause—my research on emotional intimacy in long-term relationships. I needed this grant. I needed peace. I needed the space. I just… needed a fake husband.
So I did what any sane, rational adult woman would do.
I panicked.
First, I called my best friend, Elise. She's an ER nurse, always calm in a crisis. Except she laughed so hard, she dropped her phone into a bedpan.
"Wait—you told them you were married? Ivy! You haven't even dated since… what? Brian-the-Barista?"
"It was one date. And he kept quoting Fight Club. It doesn't count."
"Girl, you need help."
Yes. Yes, I did.
Because with just six days until the retreat, I had one choice:
Find a fake husband, or give up the biggest opportunity of my career.
The solution came in the form of Lake Hart.
Well, more like he barged into my life like a leather-jacket-wearing hurricane with stupidly nice cheekbones and a reputation for being allergic to rules.
I met him once at a university networking event. I was there giving a talk on trauma resilience. He was there filming a documentary on academic burnout. He drank whiskey straight, told inappropriate jokes, and stared at me like I was an alien. I called him arrogant. He called me uptight. We haven't spoken since.
And yet…
When Elise casually mentioned he was "in between gigs and desperate for cash," I heard myself saying, "Set up a meeting."
Because I needed someone convincing. Someone bold enough to lie through his teeth, kiss me in public if needed, and survive two months of pretending to be married to me without losing his mind—or making me lose mine.
Lake Hart fit the role.
Too well, actually.
We met at a coffee shop two blocks from campus. He was fifteen minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors, and sipping a Red Bull like he was born to cause chaos.
"Ivy Monroe," he said with a lazy smirk. "Still wound up like a Swiss watch."
I folded my arms. "Still pretending Red Bull is a personality trait?"
He laughed. Bastard.
I laid it all out. The retreat. The lie. The fake marriage. The shared cabin. The shared bed. The shared shower. My voice cracked slightly on that last word.
He leaned back, eyes twinkling. "So you want me to be your husband."
"Pretend husband," I corrected.
"Right. The kind that kisses you in front of people and shares your toothpaste."
I opened my mouth to argue—but technically, yes. That was exactly what I needed.
He scratched his jaw. "Two months in the woods. With you. Playing house."
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you in or not?"
Lake tapped his fingers on the table. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"I'll do it."
Relief flooded me.
"But one condition," he said.
My heart paused mid-beat.
"If we're doing this, we're doing it right. That means cuddling. Hand holding. Convincing kisses. I don't half-ass roles, Ivy. I'm all in."
He leaned in close, his voice low and warm.
"And that includes kissing you—like I mean it."
Oh no.
What have I done?
We signed the forms. Sent our IDs. Packed our bags. And just like that, I was off to the most romantic mountain retreat in the country—with a man who made my brain short-circuit and my stomach feel like it was hosting the Olympic gymnastics team.
The Midlake shuttle picked us up in front of my apartment. Lake arrived with a single duffle bag and two cameras.
"You know this isn't a documentary, right?"
"You never know when real life gets interesting," he said.
I stared out the window as the city disappeared and pine trees took its place. The air smelled fresher already—or maybe that was just the scent of impending doom.
We pulled up to the retreat grounds by sunset. Rolling hills. Wooden cabins. A lake so still it looked painted. Couples wandered the grounds hand-in-hand, smiling like they'd never argued about dishes or in-laws.
Lake whistled. "Romance Disneyland."
A perky staffer named Willow handed us a welcome packet and two lanyards that read: "Dr. Ivy & Lake Hart – Couple #7"
My stomach dropped.
Couple #7.
It was real now.
We followed Willow to our cabin. It was nestled in the trees, cozy and private. Cute. Until she opened the door.
One bed.
ONE BED.
"Oh!" Willow chirped. "I almost forgot to mention—the cabins are set up to encourage intimacy and togetherness. So there's no divider. And the shower's a full-glass eco model! Just like nature intended!"
I choked.
Lake smirked. "Togetherness. Right."
Willow left. I stood frozen, staring at the single bed like it had personally betrayed me.
"Well," Lake said, tossing his bag on the mattress. "This is going to be fun."
I turned slowly. "You think this is fun?"
He grinned. "Come on, Dr. Monroe. What's the worst that could happen?"
The worst?
Falling for him. That would be the worst.
But I didn't say that.
I just gritted my teeth and started unpacking.
Two months. One bed. Zero chance of survival.
Let the pretending begin.