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His hands. Those same hands along my jaw— the ones that gripped my hips while he pounded into me.And he can’t connect the dots.

But I remember everything. How thick he felt stretching me. How he made me come twice before he even got his cock inside me.

And now I have to pretend we’re strangers playing house for the cameras when all I want is to grab him by that perfect jaw and remind him exactly how I taste.

Stop.What the hell are you thinking Katarina?

I rub my hand over my forehead letting the hot water bead down the top of my head.I agreed to fake-date a man I’ve already let ruin me once. And there’s no universe where Griffin’s going to be okay with any of this. Not the lie. Not the cameras. Definitely nothim.

I nudge the water colder—just enough to shock some sense into me. I have to keep it together, or everything I’ve worked for unravels. just a 60-second flash freeze to chase off the guilt. By the time I step out, I feel less wrecked.

Not fine.

But functional enough to fake it.

Towel-wrapped, hair dripping, I start to breathe again.

Until the doorbell rings.

And rings again, sharper this time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, grabbing my robe off the hook and cinching it tight around my waist. I don’t even have underwear on. Just bare skin and a towel that’s one wrong move from hitting the floor.

I pad barefoot down the hall, pulse ticking faster with each step. I’m not expecting anyone. Definitely not dressed for surprises.

But when I open the door and find six-foot-four inches of lean muscle, tousled dark hair, and smirking confidence holding a bouquet of flowers—my stomach free-falls and my brain flat lines.

Liam.

Standing on my doorstep like he belongs here.

T-shirt clinging to his chest like it was sewn there, jeans low enough to show the sharp cut of his abs. His smile’s crooked—cocky but unsure.

“Hi,” he says, offering the flowers like a peace treaty. “Thought you might like these.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or grab him by that shirt and drag him inside so I can show everything I’m not able to say with words

Instead, I just stare.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, heart thudding somewhere around my ears.

“I came to drive you to work,” he says easily. Like we’ve been doing this for years.

Like showing up unannounced with flowers and a five-o’clock shadow I want to feel scratching between my thighs—that’s something fake boyfriends do.

“Figured we should start selling the story before someone else writes it for us.” He shrugs.

Selling the story.

If only he knew the story I could tell. How he called me sweetheart while making me beg, and whispered filthy commands in my ear while he fucked me senseless.

Geezus, I need to stop

I step aside. “Come in, before my neighbor calls the cops on you for loitering with hydrangeas.”

He walks past me, slow and calm.

“Didn’t expect flowers,” I murmur, dropping them on the counter.