At first, the realization had only amplified his sense of being kicked out of the pea pod, a useless third wheel. It took a bit of time and self-reflection for Luke to move past his initial distress regarding the shift in the dynamic between his sister and his best friend. He eventually got over himself, but that didn’t make being around their lovey-doveyness all day any easier.

While planning romantic-comedy experiences for others, his sister and best friend had gotten their own happy ending. He wasn’t jealous, exactly, but it was hard not to feel the sting, like a bit of salt rubbed in an open wound. The hole in his heart. Seeing them together amplified his own sense of loneliness, and it made Luke acutely aware of what he was missing.

After rejecting his grand romantic gesture, Julia’s glowing review of Notting Hill had surprised Luke. Ironically, the resort likely would have succeeded regardless of what her review said. Even before the TrendList feature went live, bookings had begun pouring in—many from LARPing aficionados who’d heard about the resort via word of mouth, thanks to Patrick and David.

To date, Pen and Jay had run two more sessions of the rom-com sim, each time expanding the player capacity a little more. Business at the resort was booming, and Mrs. W. was over the moon. But it wasn’t the impressive registration numbers that had his boss swanning about the hotel for weeks in a colorful, silken cloud of gloating satisfaction. And it definitely wasn’t the revenue. As she’d told Luke, the woman really didn’t give a fig about money.

He shook his head, recalling the morning she’d called him into her office to celebrate. It was a week after the first session had wrapped, and Julia’s “Take Me!” review of the resort had just posted on the TrendList website.

His boss had handed him a mimosa, plopped a corgi in his lap, and told him congratulations, he’d earned his bonus. When she rattled off the amount she was transferring to his account, Luke was stunned, unable to do little more than suck down cocktails as fast as she poured them. By the time the shock had worn off his brain, Luke realized that while his boss had kept refilling his glass, she’d stopped bothering to mix the drink, and his “mimosa” was now nine-tenths champagne with a splash of orange juice for color.

“Do you know what convinced me this experience was successful?” Mrs. W. asked.

Luke set his glass down and tried to collect his thoughts. “You found someone who believed the fantasy was real?”

“Exactly.” Cheeks flushed pink with drink, she beamed. “And that someone was you.”

“Me?” Luke asked, wondering if he’d misunderstood. His mind was slow, his brain soggy and saturated with champagne. “What makes you think so?”