The stern expression on his face slips, and he grins at me. “I’m just fucking with you, man.” He gestures for me to come inside and puts out his hand. “I’m Brandon. Good friend and roommate. Occasional fake boyfriend when she needs me.”

The tension in my muscles dissipates. “I’m Dean,” I say as we shake hands. “Good to meet you.”

Just when I think the situation’s clear, he plants his legs wide and glares at me. “Full disclosure, though: Between us, I’m secretly in love with her, and I’m not happy about this little game you’ve drawn her into. Sounds like you’re using it as an excuse to get close to her.”

It’s a standoff, and I have no idea what to do next, so I meet his gaze and wait.

“And . . . scene.” He shakes his head, his mouth twitching in amusement. “Again, I’m messing with you.”

Solange strides into the room from down the hall, an empty laundry basket in her hands. She’s wearing a light blue dress that hugs her curves, and her feet are bare. “Brandon, they asked you to work an emergency shift for a reason. Get your ass in gear.”

Brandon swipes a wallet off a table in the foyer and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. “True, indeed. My patrons and their alcohol-induced confessions need me stat.”

Solange flicks her gaze upward as if to warn me against being fooled by her friend’s melodrama. “Brandon’s a bartender and aspiring actor who isn’t ready to live in New York. That should explain a lot.” Lifting the basket, she adds, “I put my clothes away in your honor. Otherwise, I usually treat this as my dresser for the week.”

She doesn’t say hey, or hello, or anything, and for some reason that omission eases my nerves. If she’s this casual with me now, imagine how she’ll be after we actually get to know each other. It also suggests she isn’t worried about our scheme, and I could use any extra bravado she has to offer. I place my hands over my heart and bat my eyes. “I’m flattered.”