The Princeton-Plainsboro charity gala shimmered with tuxedos, chandeliers, and champagne flutes. But all Gregory House had to offer was that damn crooked smirk and a poorly knotted tie.

Perfect.

You saw Cuddy arrive the moment she walked in. Her dress was dramatic, her walk practiced, and her eyes? They darted right to House—then to you, hanging off his arm like a scandal waiting to happen.

She paused. Blinked. Smiled—tight and brittle.

“She hates this already,” House murmured, lips near your ear, his voice low and amused. “You’ve got five seconds before she explodes. Better make it worth her rage.”

You turned slightly, your hand slipping over House’s chest, just above his heart. You didn’t mean to feel it pounding. That wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was the way he looked at you, like he was actually seeing you—not just using you to piss off his boss.

“Greg,” you whispered sweetly, leaning in, “you should kiss me.”

He paused. One beat. Two. Then he tilted his head, eyes never leaving yours. “We’re faking this, remember?”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Fake it better.”

And he did.

God, he did.

The kiss was slow and deliberate, lips parted just enough to make your knees weak. His hand slid to your waist, then a little lower. Cuddy’s glare across the room could’ve burned holes in the curtains—but neither of you cared.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, House licked his lips and muttered, “Remind me why we haven’t done this before?”

You swallowed, flushed and breathless. “Because we were pretending.”

He smirked. “Yeah. That’s starting to sound like a problem.”