📘 She needed a fake boyfriend for 48 hours. What she got was robes, rooftop kisses, and something suspiciously close to feelings.
Plus-One Problems by Mills and Swoon
“You didn’t bring a plus one?” Gabs asked, faux-concerned, eyelash extensions fluttering like a threatened peacock.
“I did,” Lydia said smoothly, even though she absolutely hadn’t. “He’s just—parking.”
“Oh. He drove you?” Gabs’ tone suggested this was code for something deeply erotic.
“Mmm,” Lydia replied, sipping her drink. “Manual.”
The problem was, this was a lie. A big, juicy one. And now she had roughly twenty minutes to produce a man from thin air, or spend the weekend as that girl—the one still “focusing on her career” while everyone else was comparing ring sizes.
She was mid-strategy (Plan A: fake gastroenteritis, Plan B: fake Buddhism) when the hotel door swung open and salvation walked in wearing motorcycle boots and an expression like he’d rather be hit by traffic.
He was tall. Rugged. Slightly damp. And holding a helmet.
Lydia moved fast.
“Sweetheart!” she called, with confidence born of too many gin tonics and not enough therapy. “There you are.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
She leaned in, touched his arm. “Listen, I’ll explain later, but I need you to be my boyfriend for 48 hours or I’m going to be matched with someone called Callum who runs a beard oil company.”
He paused. Looked her up and down. Nodded once.
“I’m in,” he said. “But I get full spa access.”
He introduced himself as Nico. She had no idea if that was real. She didn’t care. He said things like “Shall we?” and held doors open and made Gabs visibly sweat. It was glorious.
By the time the bridal brunch began, Lydia and Nico had a whole backstory. They’d “met on a train.” He was “in sustainable architecture.” She was “softening.”
They spent the afternoon in matching robes, pretending to argue about houseplants and then accidentally winning the couple’s yoga class with an improvised pose called The Distracted Otter.
In the sauna, he leaned close. “You’re enjoying this.”
She smirked. “Fake love is so much better than the real kind. No heartbreak, no laundry.”
“Plenty of steam, though,” he said, eyes not quite innocent.
That evening, after the hen games (Pin the Tail on the Fireman, emotional damage edition), Lydia found herself in Nico’s suite, half in her dress, half on his lap, all tension.
“Tell me something true,” she whispered, fingers in his hair.
He kissed her like it was his job.
“Okay,” he said against her mouth. “I hate weddings.”
She smiled. “I think I love you.”
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Too late,” she said, and pulled him down with her.
By Sunday afternoon, they were both sunburnt, sore, and suspiciously quiet.
As the girls piled into taxis, Gabs cornered her. “So. Nico. Will we see him again?”
Lydia shrugged. “Maybe. He’s got a thing in Finland. Or Bristol. Or… something.”
Nico walked by, winked, and disappeared behind the check-out desk. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever see him again.
But she’d never look at a spa robe—or a man holding a motorcycle helmet—the same way again.
The End.
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