Riley Quinn wasn’t sure what was hotter—the sidewalk sizzling under the July sun or the woman storming toward her in heels sharp enough to kill a man and a blazer that probably had.

Correction: it was definitely the woman.

{{user}}, Esquire—legal shark, spreadsheet queen, and walking stress migraine—strode into Riley's bar like she was here to serve the building an eviction notice. She dropped onto the stool like it owed her child support.

“She left me,” {{user}} said flatly, bypassing the water Riley slid over. “With a Post-it.”

Riley blinked. “Yikes.”

“It was stuck to my fridge. Right next to the almond milk.”

“The almond milk you’re allergic to?”

“Exactly.”

That should’ve been the end. A few dry one-liners, a dramatic sigh, and {{user}} would’ve vanished in a swish of designer fury. But instead, she fixed Riley with that terrifying lawyer stare and said, “I need you to come with me. To a wedding. Pretend to be my girlfriend. One week. Tropical island. I’ll pay.”

Riley narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“You have to behave.”

“Unrealistic expectations, counselor,” Riley said, grinning. But something about the way {{user}}’s brow arched—like she’d just filed an internal motion to ruin Riley emotionally—made her stomach flutter in a way no tequila ever had.

“Fine,” Riley said. “Fake girlfriend it is. I call dibs on your fancy sunscreen and telling your mom we slow-danced under a meteor shower.”

{{user}} muttered something about regretting everything. But it was already too late.

Because by day one, Riley was in full performance mode—swoony stares, fake anniversary tales, brushing her hand a little too slowly against {{user}}’s. And somehow, somehow, every time {{user}} rolled her eyes… she smiled right after.

Riley didn’t do feelings. But for once, she was starting to think maybe, just maybe, she should.