I accept his offer of coffee, decline the eggs—that seems like too much—and escape to the bathroom for a moment alone with my thoughts. I slump against the sink. Blake is so kind, so attentive, so sweet. He’s a nice guy, plain and simple. Is it wrong to be here, to pursue him like this, when my motives aren’t strictly innocent? I try to flip the situation in my head to see if it feels sleazy when the gender roles are reversed. Men ruthlessly concoct all sorts of schemes to build a business or turn a profit, don’t they? But as hard as I rack my brain, I can’t fathom a situation where a guy like Blake would callously arrange a fake engagement with a girl like me.

My hair is mussed. Blake’s robe slips off my shoulder. The contrast of my skin against the white terry cloth makes me look tan. I don’t look quite like myself, especially not in this marble bathroom with vanity lights over the mirror. I still feel conflicted, but I also look like kind of a bombshell. I lean a hand on the counter with my wrist turned just so the reflection of my bare ring finger isn’t visible. I pout into the mirror. Click. I take a selfie that I can post later online.

I slip out of the bathroom, collect my clothes from scattered corners on Blake’s floor, and dress quickly. Blake raises an eyebrow when I emerge into the kitchen again.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, cracking an egg into a glass bowl.

“I should head to work,” I say, jerking my thumb toward his door.

He drops the eggshell into a garbage can, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and reaches for mine.

“Can’t you head in whenever you’d like?” he asks. “Founder’s perks?”

“I have a pile of work to do,” I explain. I fidget with one foot to scratch the back of my other leg.

I tilt my head up and kiss him softly.

“I’ll see you soon,” I promise.