“Well, yeah, I guess, but really I was thinking about the blog post. I don’t know. It was kind of beautiful, if that’s not weird. And it was wild just how much attention it got for such a short post.”

And I smile because there’s something amazingly romantic about the idea that this guy has been in love with my writing since before he even knew me. And, well, it’s pretty funny that he thinks that’s the weird part, and not the fact that I wrote a fake story in which we got together without even knowing a thing about him.

“The point was to make people believe in love,” I say.

He smiles. “Yeah, I think it works.”

It’s like someone loosened a bolt in my jaw because I just can’t stop smiling.

Then he says, “Do you think this’ll be enough to save the Diary?”

I pause, the smile dropping off my face. “I mean, I hope so. I don’t know what to do otherwise.”

He picks at the edge of his menu, his voice rising an octave as he says, “You know, if you ever need my help with the Diary, I’d be happy to. I mean, I’m a huge fan. It’s like getting to help make a Disney movie.”

And all I can think is it’s beautiful how he’s a little timid, but in a good way.

“I would love that,” I say.

He flashes me this gorgeous smile as my heart does somersaults in my chest. It’s only fitting that our fake date would close with one of my biggest turn-ons—a smile designed to break hearts.

Once dinner’s over, Drew insists on getting me a ride and actually taking it back to Brian’s apartment with me. I don’t know if he just wants more time together, or if he’s worried the driver is going to kidnap me or something, but it’s nice, and I’ll never complain about more time spent gazing longingly into his eyes.

I hop out, and Drew pulls me aside, saying we should take a selfie by the curb to show how well our date ended. I agree, posing us for the perfect shot before thanking him and heading up to Brian’s apartment, simultaneously reaching for the front door and the key buried somewhere in my pocket only to find the latter isn’t there. What the hell? Why do men’s pants have bottomless pockets?

I groan, tapping out the Victorious theme song until Brian finally opens the door with a death glare on his face. “Why are you knocking?”

“I lost my key,” I say, stepping past him into the living room. “It’s probably in my other pants.”

“Damn it. Do you lose everything?”

“Obviously not.”