There are a few things I never planned on doing with my summer.
Pretending to be the doting husband of a neurotic psychology professor? Not even on my bingo card.
Yet here I am. Sharing a tiny cabin with Ivy Monroe—Miss All Work, No Play, Queen of Color-Coded Calendars—and pretending we're madly in love. It's either going to be a disaster or... well, definitely a disaster. But at least it'll be a profitable one.
The moment we stepped into that cabin and she saw the one bed, her whole body froze like she'd just walked into a bear trap. Honestly? I almost felt bad for her. Almost. But watching her panic while trying to maintain her composure? Kinda entertaining.
I tossed my duffel onto the mattress and gave her a grin. "This is going to be fun."
She didn't respond. Just glared at the bed like it had personally insulted her PhD.
The truth is, I wasn't doing this just for the money. Okay, fine—that was a big part of it. I needed the cash. My last gig filming a docuseries about burnout in med students fell through thanks to a morally questionable producer who decided trauma wasn't "marketable." But there was another reason I said yes.
I wanted to see if Ivy Monroe could actually let go.
You see, I remember her from that university mixer two years ago. Not just her pencil skirt or her perfectly parted hair. It was the way she talked about emotional vulnerability like it was some foreign concept, something you could dissect and analyze with charts and theories.
And now she needed to fake being emotionally vulnerable.
With me.
God bless irony.
Day one of the retreat kicked off with orientation. A chirpy woman in a floral jumpsuit—who I later learned was the director of the program—gathered us all around a fire pit near the lake. Ivy and I sat on one of the rustic benches, pretending to be cozy while I tried not to laugh at how stiff she looked next to me.
"Lean in," I whispered, nudging her with my elbow.
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because we're a couple. Act like it."
With visible reluctance, she shifted closer. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and to my absolute delight, she stiffened like someone had just poured cold water down her back.
"So natural," I murmured into her ear.
She elbowed me in the ribs.
We were off to a great start.
The first workshop was titled "Emotional Synchrony Through Movement." Translation: a slow, awkward partner dance class taught by a barefoot man named Sky who believed eye contact was the key to salvation.
Ivy looked like she'd rather walk on hot coals.
"You'll begin by matching your partner's breath," Sky said in a soothing voice. "Then mirror their movement. Flow together as one unit."
I turned to Ivy and waggled my eyebrows. "Ready to breathe together, babe?"
"If you call me 'babe' again, I will strangle you with a yoga strap," she muttered.
We moved through the motions, horribly out of sync at first. I swayed left. She stepped right. I leaned in. She flinched back like I was holding a live snake.
But then something happened. Somewhere between the exaggerated arm circles and the rhythmic foot tapping, she started to laugh.
Like, really laugh.
It started as a tiny giggle, the kind she tried to smother behind a clenched jaw. But I saw the moment she gave up. The moment she let go of the tight grip she had on her composure.
And damn, she was beautiful when she laughed.
We caught eyes. Just for a second. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair messier than usual, and there was a lightness I hadn't seen in her before.
"You're terrible at dancing," she said breathlessly.
"I was trying to lead," I said, smirking. "You were doing some kind of interpretive rebellion."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away when I placed a hand on her waist.
Progress.
Later that night, back at the cabin, I caught her pacing near the bathroom, mumbling to herself.
"You okay there, Professor?"
She turned, startled. "I just realized I forgot to bring my lavender sleep spray. It's fine. I'll survive."
I leaned against the doorframe. "Didn't realize lavender was the key to mental health."
"It helps regulate cortisol levels."
"Right. Science-scented sleep."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're mocking me."
"Only a little."
A long pause stretched between us. The air felt... different. Not just awkward. Charged. Like we were standing too close to a storm.
Then her eyes flicked to the bed.
One bed.
I raised an eyebrow. "Want me to take the floor?"
She hesitated. "No. That's not necessary."
"You sure? I'm okay with roughing it."
"No, Lake. We're adults. We can... share. Just stay on your side."
"My side has better energy."
"Lake."
I grinned and held up my hands. "Fine, fine. No funny business."
But when we finally lay down—her stiff as a board on the edge, me relaxed and half-sprawled—we couldn't help it. We kept talking.
About nothing.
About everything.
She told me about growing up in suburban Ohio, her obsession with rules, her fear of disappointing people. I told her about my chaotic childhood, my filmmaker dreams, the time I accidentally lit a kitchen on fire trying to flambé something I saw on TikTok.
And somewhere around 2 a.m., I looked over and saw her asleep—face turned toward me, hair falling in her eyes, lips slightly parted.
She looked soft. Real.
Not the uptight professor who lived in spreadsheets.
Just Ivy.
And for a brief, fleeting second, I forgot we were pretending.
The next morning, I woke up to a shriek.
"I was on the edge! How did I end up in your arms?!"
I rubbed my eyes, still groggy. "Morning, sunshine. You're surprisingly cuddly in your sleep."
"I am not—ugh, this is—this is unethical closeness!"
I sat up, laughing. "Ivy. It's fine. It's not like we—"
She threw a pillow at my face.
Yup. Definitely a disaster.
But I was starting to suspect it might be my favorite kind.