So here's a fun fact I didn't expect to learn today: apparently, hospital cafeterias do not serve emotional stability with their soggy lasagna.
I'm sitting across from Eli in a tiny booth, my coffee cold and his untouched. The fluorescent lights are buzzing like they're judging us, which honestly feels fair at this point.
"So…" I say slowly, tapping the table like I'm not on the verge of screaming, "what exactly does 'someone's contesting the will' mean?"
Eli drags a hand down his face like he's peeling his soul off.
"It means my charming cousin Miles thinks my mom's recent will change is suspicious. And he's threatening to take it to court."
Ah. Cousin Miles. Never trust a man named Miles who isn't at least slightly British and wearing a tweed blazer.
"What changed in the will?" I ask, praying it's something boring like antique furniture.
Eli gives me a look. "She made me the executor. Left me the house. The business. Everything."
My stomach drops. "Oh."
He nods. "Yep. And Miles, who has done absolutely nothing for her in twenty years except show up for Christmas dinner and steal pie, thinks she's being manipulated."
I blink. "Manipulated by who?"
Pause.
Oh no.
By me?
"I'm sorry," I say, sitting back. "Is this about the fake girlfriend thing?"
Eli's face is unreadable. "We don't know what he's saying yet. Just that he thinks something shady's going on. Like maybe Mom's not in her right mind."
Which is laughable because she could out-argue a courtroom full of lawyers with a blood pressure cuff still on.
I press my palms to my eyes. "So what now? Courtroom drama? Emotional testimony? A surprise wedding to prove our love is real?"
He grins. "You offering?"
"Don't tempt me. I've always wanted to make an objection during vows."
But the smile slips away, and we sit in it—the tension, the weirdness, the surreal reality that our little "pretend to be dating for one stupid event" scheme just turned into a full-blown family war.
"I should probably go," I say eventually, standing.
Eli stands too. "Wait."
I do.
He hesitates, then reaches for my hand. Doesn't hold it, just… rests his fingers against mine like he's not sure if he's allowed.
"I know this is insane," he says. "But I don't want you to go."
My voice is quiet. "Why?"
"Because I like you. Because this… doesn't feel fake anymore. Because you made my mom laugh when she was scared. Because I kissed you and everything else stopped existing for a second."
Well.
Now I'm definitely not breathing.
I could kiss him again. Right here. Right now. Next to the vending machines and the judgey lasagna.
Instead, I say: "Okay."
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I won't go. But we need rules. We're in too deep and this is starting to smell like a Netflix Original Series."
He laughs—relieved and real.
"Deal. Rules. Go."
"One: No lying to your mom. If she asks about anything serious, we tell her the truth."
"Fair."
"Two: No more random kissing. Unless you really mean it."
He raises a brow. "Define 'really.'"
"Don't make me slap you with a cafeteria tray, Eli."
He nods. "Got it. Continue."
"Three: We stick together. Through whatever this Miles garbage turns into."
His hand wraps fully around mine now. Steady. Warm. Not fake.
"Okay," he says. "All in."
And that's when his phone buzzes again.
He looks. Frowns. "It's Miles."
He answers.
I hear every word from this smug, entitled jerk on speaker:
"I know what you're up to, Eli. And if you think your little flavor-of-the-month girlfriend is gonna help you steal what's mine—guess again."
Eli's face goes stone cold. "She's not a flavor. And it's not yours."
"Oh," Miles purrs, "we'll see about that. See you at the reading."
Click.
The tension hits like a slap.
Eli turns to me. "We're going to the will reading together. Tomorrow. You in?"
And for reasons I still don't fully understand—reasons that may or may not rhyme with "I'm totally falling for you, you sarcastic idiot"—I nod.
"Let's go give Cousin Miles something to choke on."