stargazer @firefeatherx - Tumblr Blog

Your honor, he's not my type. (part three)

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; Enemies with a deal: play the perfect couple for one week. But in the heart of Texas, under one roof and one lie too many… They forget where the act ends and the feelings begin.

word count; 5.4k

warnings; fake dating au, enemies to lovers, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, jake's in his late thirties) smut, oral (fem receiving), jake has a praise kink, reader has mommy issues (too self-indulgent haha), slight angst, happy ending

a/n; part 3!! this is soooo the proposal meets probably every single enemies to lovers romcom there is just because i'm actually obsessed with that movie and romcoms in general

series masterlist

masterlist

The second Jake pulled into the long gravel driveway and killed the engine, you knew something was… off.

It wasn’t the house — a wide, sun-bleached ranch-style home with a wraparound porch and hanging baskets of pink petunias swaying gently in the breeze. No, the house looked exactly like what you’d pictured.

It was the volume that gave you pause.

Voices. Dozens of them. Laughing. Shouting. Country music floated in the air, and was that the sizzle of a grill?

Jake frowned too, head tilted. “Did she—?”

The front door slammed open.

“Jacob Seresin, don’t you dare sit in that car another second and leave me waitin’!”

A woman in cropped jeans, a floral blouse, and pristine white sneakers was barreling down the porch steps, arms spread wide, her smile bright and unstoppable. Jake’s mother.

You barely had time to open the passenger door before she was there, wrapping Jake in a tight, no-nonsense Southern hug that made his six-foot frame look like a child’s.

“Hi, Mama,” he said, laughing into her shoulder.

“I told you I’d make peach cobbler and look at you, all late,” she scolded, squeezing him one more time before turning toward you.

And then—target acquired.

You barely had time to blink.

“Oh, you must be his sweetheart,” she beamed, and suddenly you were in her arms, her perfume (vanilla and something vaguely citrusy) enveloping you as she hugged like someone who had never once in her life done it halfway.

You tensed instinctively — not used to warmth so immediate, so unfiltered — but after a beat, your arms returned the gesture. Awkward. Soft. But real.

“I’m—hi,” you managed.

“You are darling, look at you,” she said, stepping back just enough to cradle your face in her hands like you were a lost puppy. “Jake’s been holding out on us.”

Jake coughed. “Mama.”

“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me, I had to hear about her through the phone!”

“Technically—” Jake tried.

But she was already waving him off and turning back toward the porch. “Now come on. Everyone’s waitin’. Don’t keep your cousins in suspense.”

You blinked. “Everyone?”

And then you heard it — more voices. Laughter. A child shrieking somewhere in the distance. Was that… lawn chairs clinking?

Jake winced, leaned close. “I think my mom threw a cookout.”

You turned to him, wide-eyed. “Like, a welcome party?”

He gave you a look that could only be described as deep, exhausted son energy. “She texted me last night and said something about ‘just the family stopping by.’ Which, for the record, means aunts, uncles, cousins, half the neighborhood, and probably the high school gym teacher who coached my JV football team.”

Your jaw dropped.

He tried to smile. “You can back out. I’ll say you got sick. Or jetlag. Or—”

You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, and said through gritted teeth, “You owe me so much wine.”

Jake blinked.

Then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

You lost count of how many people hugged you within the first ten minutes. Some of them kissed your cheek. One woman brought deviled eggs and referred to you exclusively as “that pretty girl Jake’s been hiding in California.” Another cornered you by the sweet tea station and showed you Jake’s baby pictures. Naked baby pictures.

You were hot, slightly sunburned, and fully overwhelmed. But you were also, miraculously, holding your own.

Your lawyer instincts kicked in — charm, nod, mirror, distract — and you leaned on the backstory like a crutch, filling in blanks with little lies that sounded like truth. You laughed when Jake made jokes, slid your hand into his when someone looked too closely. You let his arm rest casually along your waist as people asked where you met and how long you’d been dating and when you were planning on giving his mama grandbabies.

Jake, for his part, was surprisingly… easy. Steady. Every time he touched you, it was warm but never forceful. And every time you stumbled — a name you couldn’t remember, a question you didn’t expect — he was right there to redirect, to draw attention back to himself like he was built for it.

You were trying to stay focused, to keep the walls up, but Jake… Jake was looking at you differently.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible — the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer when you pushed your sunglasses up your nose. The way his brow furrowed when you tugged at the hem of your blouse — that nervous twitch of your fingers he must’ve clocked somewhere in the last hour. The way his lips quirked every time your nose scrunched in confusion.

He was noticing things.

Little things.

And suddenly, so were you.

Like the way he lowered his voice when he spoke directly to you, just enough that it felt private, like a secret. Or the way he subtly stood closer when someone asked a personal question, like he was buffering you from too much scrutiny.

You cleared your throat and stepped away to refill your lemonade.

Jake watched you go, eyes narrowing — not with suspicion, but with something heavier. Something thoughtful.

“Boy,” his mother’s voice floated beside him. “You got a look on your face.”

Jake turned, startled. “Huh?”

She smiled, slipping a serving spoon into the coleslaw. “Just saying. You always get that squinty little forehead crease when you’re figuring something out.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s hot out.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, not looking up. “You're in love.”

He made a face. “You’ve known each other five minutes.”

His mother laughed. “Jake, I’ve watched you go twenty years without bringin’ home so much as a girl you kissed under the bleachers. This one’s different. I can tell.”

Jake opened his mouth to deflect — something witty, something smooth — but nothing came out.

His mother patted his shoulder and walked off, humming.

Across the yard, you were laughing with one of his younger cousins, crouched in the grass in your red-bottom loafers like it wasn’t completely impractical. You had grass on your trousers, lemonade in your hand, and your smile — genuine and rare — was breaking across your face like sunlight.

Jake blinked.

Yeah.

This was a problem.

At some point between your third glass of sweet tea and the sixth person asking if Jake had finally proposed yet, the crowd began to thin. Or at least, they stopped swarming you like you were the newest baby goat at a petting zoo.

You took a breath. A real one.

Jake was on the patio now, talking to someone in a sheriff’s department polo who, if you heard correctly, used to be his high school wrestling partner. You watched him from your perch near the porch railing, the sun dipping low enough to cast everything in that warm, peach-colored glow.

You finished your drink, set it down, and plastered on the softest smile you could manage. Time to turn this into a performance again.

You sauntered over to where Jake stood, touched his arm lightly, and pitched your voice just loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear.

“Honey,” you purred, lacing the word with the kind of sweetness that could send someone into a diabetic coma, “would you mind bringing my luggage inside? I want to change out of these city clothes and into something a little more… barbecue-appropriate.”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You smiled. He smiled.

And in the exact same breath, under your teeth, you hissed, “You’re lucky I don’t stab you with one of your mom’s kebab skewers.”

Jake, ever unfazed, leaned in just slightly, that shit-eating smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “You’d miss. You’ve got no upper body strength.”

You smiled wider, waved at a passing aunt, and said through clenched teeth, “That’s rich coming from the man who almost cried carrying my carry-on.”

“Almost,” he said smugly, turning toward the driveway. “Didn’t. Key word.”

You followed him across the grass and pretended not to hear the very audible chorus of “Awwww” from the lawn chairs as Jake opened the back of the rental SUV.

Your luggage spilled out like an overstuffed clown car.

Jake stopped and blinked at the lineup. “I still think this is a war crime.”

You crossed your arms. “I told you, some of us like to be prepared.”

“For what? The apocalypse? Did you pack a wetsuit? Is there a flamethrower in here?”

“Texas weather is unpredictable.”

Jake grunted, heaving the first suitcase out. “You’re unpredictable.”

You leaned casually against the SUV. “You know you love it.”

He hauled another bag out, muttering something about airline weight limits and chiropractors, and started rolling them toward the house. The wheels snagged on the gravel twice, and you pretended not to hear the quiet stream of curses under his breath.

Behind you, someone actually whistled.

Jake glanced over his shoulder.

Half the party — cousins, neighbors, some guy named Dale in cowboy boots — was watching the two of you with open grins, eyes tracking every movement like it was a Hallmark Channel live taping.

You leaned closer to Jake and whispered, “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Put your hand on my back. Make it look romantic.”

You pressed your hand to the small of his back and smiled sweetly at the crowd. “How’s that?”

Jake grunted under the weight of your last suitcase. “Perfect. Nothing says romance like minor spinal injury.”

You giggled, which startled you a little — the sound felt genuine, too real for something that was supposed to be pretend.

By the time you reached the porch steps, Jake had a sheen of sweat on his forehead and was muttering something about “city girls and their beauty products” as he lugged the last bag inside.

You stepped in behind him, the cool air of the house washing over your skin, and murmured, “You know, I do appreciate this.”

He turned, wiping a hand down his face. “What, me playing bellhop?”

You gave him a faux-innocent look. “You carrying all my emotional baggage too.”

Jake stared at you for a beat, then snorted. “Nah. That’s clearly a whole other checked bag.”

You grinned, brushing past him into the hallway, calling over your shoulder, “I’m changing into something cute. Tell your mom to save me a slice of that peach cobbler.”

Jake called back, “You better wear something comfortable, because she also made you a plate of ribs the size of your torso.”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, turned back with a perfectly smug smile, and said, “Can’t wait to eat it… sweetheart.”

Jake groaned dramatically, turned toward the kitchen, and muttered, “Lord help me, this woman’s gonna be the death of me.”

From outside, through the still-cracked screen door, a voice called out from the lawn:

“Y’ALL ARE ADORABLE!”

Jake’s face went red.

You laughed all the way upstairs.

While you were upstairs navigating the jungle of your wardrobe options (and, let’s be honest, googling “what to wear to a Texas cookout without looking like a caricature”), Jake was in the kitchen, getting a drink and trying to remember which of his cousins had made that spicy jalapeño dip that nearly melted his esophagus.

His mom stood at the stove, humming along to a country song playing softly from a little Bluetooth speaker, her pink apron dusted with flour and barbecue sauce, like a battle-worn flag from a culinary war.

“Go on and bring your bags in too, Jacob,” she said casually, flipping something in the skillet.

Jake glanced up, mid-sip. “To where?”

She turned, eyebrows raised like it was the dumbest question she’d heard all week. “To the room.”

Jake blinked. “The room. As in… the other guest room?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “No, sweetheart. The room. The one y’all’ll be sharing.”

He lowered his water bottle slowly. “You want us to share a room?”

“You’re grown adults in a committed relationship,” she said, turning back to stir. “Ain’t no reason to pretend you’re sleeping in different beds.”

Jake made a vaguely strangled noise. “You have two guest rooms.”

“Yes. And I turned the other one into my yoga space, thank you very much.” She shot him a look over her shoulder, and then — without mercy — added, “Besides, let’s not act like y’all don’t sleep in the same bed every night already. You’ve been together for what, six months? Your words, not mine.”

Jake coughed. “Technically.”

She smiled sweetly. “Exactly.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she cut him off with a warning glance, the kind only mothers — Southern mothers especially — could deliver with a wooden spoon in hand.

“Oh, and Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

She turned fully now, arms crossed over her apron. “I’m really proud of you for bringing her.”

Jake stilled. “You are?”

She nodded, something softer sneaking into her voice now. “You’ve been stuck for a long time, honey. We all saw it. Ever since Lila… well. I just want you to be happy. And she makes you smile.”

Jake’s jaw tightened just slightly at the name — Lila — the echo of an old chapter he thought he’d buried deeper. He shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans and forced a crooked grin.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “She’s something.”

His mom patted his cheek affectionately. “You’re not foolin’ me, Jacob. That girl’s the real thing.”

Jake swallowed thickly and turned toward the hallway, lifting his keys off the counter with a clink. “I’ll go get my bag.”

As he walked out, his mother called after him, “Be sweet to her, Jacob — I want grandbabies before I’m fifty-five.”

“You’re sixty-two,” he called back over his shoulder.

“And yet my uterus still aches for them!”

Jake groaned so loud the front door rattled as he stepped out.

Upstairs, you had just finished reapplying lip gloss and pulling on a breezy button-down dress when you heard his heavy boots on the stairs. A moment later, his voice filtered in through your cracked door.

“You decent?”

“Define decent,” you replied, smoothing the front of your dress. “Do I look like someone who’s not dying inside?”

Jake pushed the door open, suitcase in hand, and paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Honestly? You look hot.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

“Temperature-wise,” he added quickly, face deadpan. “Obviously. It's brutal out there.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside so he could drag his bag inside. He parked it beside the dresser — your dresser, apparently — and straightened up with a long sigh.

“Bad news,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “More bad news?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

You stared.

He gestured vaguely. “Apparently, your side of the bed is the one closest to the fan. You’re welcome.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wait. Hold on. What do you mean we’re sharing a room?”

“I mean there is one room. Singular. Uno. Mama Seresin said, and I quote, ‘Let’s not pretend y’all don’t sleep in the same bed already.’”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She’s crafty.”

You turned away, pacing to the far end of the room like you were in a courtroom summation. “This is bad. This is so bad. I need a diagram of how bad this is.”

“She also wants grandkids,” Jake added.

You stopped pacing and turned to him, scandalized. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

You groaned and sat on the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going to have a stress-induced aneurysm.”

Jake walked over, crouched beside you with all the faux-seriousness of a man ready to be annoying on purpose. “I promise not to hog the covers.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you snore?”

“Like a lumberjack.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jake smirked. “You say that now, but give it one night and you’ll be curled up against me like a koala.”

You stared at him.

He winked.

You tossed a throw pillow directly at his face.

Jake caught it one-handed. “See? This is exactly the kind of couple energy your firm would love.”

You groaned again and flopped back onto the bed, arms outstretched like you were ready to be taken by the Lord.

Jake laughed — actually laughed — and it wasn’t smug this time. Just light. Easy. It made your chest tighten for a reason you didn’t feel like examining yet.

Outside the window, laughter drifted up from the backyard. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting everything in honey-colored light.

Jake stood and offered you his hand. “Come on, koala. If we’re stuck sharing a bed, might as well get through dinner without anyone catching on.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate you.”

He pulled you up anyway, grinning. “Nah. You tolerate me. Aggressively.”

The sun had long since dipped below the hills, the cicadas now buzzing in sleepy rhythms while porch lights flickered on like fireflies across the neighborhood. The grill had gone cold, the paper plates stacked in the recycling, and at last — finally — the last aunt had waved her final goodbye with her arms wrapped around your shoulders and a wink that made you mildly uncomfortable.

Jake’s mom stood in the doorway, a dish towel over one shoulder, watching the dust trail of the last truck disappear down the drive.

“Well,” she sighed, satisfied. “That was lovely.”

You and Jake were elbow-deep in soapy water at the sink, handing off rinsed dishes like a well-oiled, overly attractive domestic machine. You were still trying to wrap your head around how many side dishes a single backyard barbecue required when she turned to you, grinning.

“Darlin’, you’ve been such a trooper. City girl, bless your heart.”

You smiled politely, managing not to flinch when she pressed another kiss to your cheek.

“But go on now,” she added, waving the towel. “Shoo. I’ve got the rest. You two lovebirds go get some rest before someone needs to wheel you both out of here.”

You opened your mouth to protest — maybe offer to dry something — but Jake’s hand was already on the small of your back, guiding you toward the hallway like he’d just been handed the keys to a prison gate.

“Wouldn’t wanna disrespect the head of the house,” he said smoothly, barely hiding the grin in his voice. “Thanks for everything, Mama.”

“Oh!” she called after you both as you reached the stairs. “And no funny business under my roof, y’hear?”

You froze.

Jake didn’t.

Without missing a beat, he raised his voice and called back, “Define funny!”

“I mean it, Jacob Seresin!” she replied, laughing.

You covered your burning face with one hand. “I’m going to die here.”

Jake just smirked. “Not before we establish bed boundaries.”

By the time you reached the room, your shoes were off, your back ached, and your face hurt from fake smiling. Jake kicked the door shut behind you, tossing a hoodie onto the corner chair and stretching like a cat with too many muscles.

“Well,” he said, glancing around. “Home sweet nightmare.”

You turned toward him with a hand raised like a traffic cop. “Turn around.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I need to change.”

He scoffed, already walking to the other side of the room. “Please. It’s nothing I haven’t seen in a dream sequence.”

“Jacob.”

He snorted, but turned around, raising both hands like a hostage. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or on the entire bed, apparently.”

You changed quickly — opting for your favorite oversized sleep tee and shorts — and when you cleared your throat, Jake glanced back, clearly fighting a smile.

“Cute,” he said, eyeing the cartoon on your shirt. “Real intimidating.”

“Your turn,” you said, plopping onto the mattress and immediately stacking pillows around yourself like a moody princess in a rom-com bunker.

Jake pulled off his t-shirt with a stretch that was frankly illegal, then yanked on an old Navy Academy tank and gym shorts. He flopped down dramatically — not on the bed, but on the floor — and used his backpack as a pillow.

You frowned. “You’re seriously sleeping on the floor?”

He stared up at the ceiling. “Yes.”

“…Why?”

Jake turned his head slightly toward you, eyebrow raised. “Because your honor, the defendant has clearly stated that any attempt to share the bed would result in litigation.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like I’ll sue you. I’ll just smother you with a pillow.”

“Comforting.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“You can sleep on the bed,” you muttered.

Jake grinned at the ceiling. “Nah. I’m good. This floor’s got great character.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “One day, when I throw out my back and can no longer fly, I hope you think of this moment. This betrayal.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cozy little room.

Jake shifted slightly, settling in. “You know, for a fake girlfriend, you’re doing pretty well.”

You rested your head on your arm, facing him. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a professional headache.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

There was something comfortable about it — the teasing, the banter, the rhythm you’d fallen into like you hadn’t spent the last year arguing about everything from coffee orders to parking spots.

You watched him for a moment, just long enough to wonder if you were in over your head. If the fake was starting to blur. If Texas heat could get under your skin in more ways than one.

But instead, you said, “If you steal my blanket in the middle of the night, I will kick you.”

Jake smirked from the floor. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You tossed a pillow at his face. He caught it — again — and grinned, eyes glinting in the low light. “Goodnight, City Mouse.”

“Goodnight, Luggage Mule.”

Outside, the crickets chirped.

Inside, Jake lay on the floor with a stupid little smile on his face.

And you — well, you pretended you weren’t smiling into your pillow, too.

-

You didn’t wake up to an alarm. Or to a rooster, thank God. You woke up to the loud, masculine drone of a mower outside your window.

At first, you thought you were dreaming — some vaguely unsettling suburban nightmare where your exes mowed lawns shirtless in slow motion. But as your eyes adjusted and you peeled your cheek off the pillow, the hum continued.

And then you made the mistake of getting up to look.

The old farmhouse window framed the morning like a movie. Warm, golden light spilled across the lawn, and there — glistening with sweat, biceps flexing, baseball cap backwards — was Jake.

Shirtless.

Like, gloriously shirtless.

His back muscles moved with each push of the mower. His shorts hung just low enough on his hips to make you feel mildly unwell. He wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of a rag hanging from his pocket, and when he stretched to dump the bag of clippings, you nearly fainted.

“Has he always been this—” you whispered, then cut yourself off and darted back like a guilty Victorian widow caught staring at a stable boy.

Jake Seresin had no business looking like a GQ cover shoot before 9 a.m. on a Thursday.

You changed in record time — tugging on your most casual button-down shirt and a pair of fitted jeans. They were a little tight, but flattering, and fine, you’d admit it: you wanted to look good. You even tried to wear loafers, which turned out to be a rookie mistake.

Hair up. Gloss on. Not thinking about Jake’s abs. Not thinking about—

Okay, now you were just lying to yourself.

When you made it downstairs, the kitchen smelled like heaven. Bacon, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you like a cozy Southern hug.

Jake’s mom was already at the stove in a floral apron, flipping something golden in a cast-iron skillet. A full spread was laid out on the table — biscuits, jam, eggs, fruit, the works.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” she beamed when she spotted you. “You sleep alright? You need coffee?”

You nodded, offering a sheepish smile as you slid into a seat. “I’d sell my soul for coffee, actually.”

She chuckled and poured you a mug.

“So,” she said, sitting across from you with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “what’s your story, sweetheart? Where’d you grow up?”

You smiled, relaxing slightly. “I’m from Boston originally. Born and raised.”

“Lord, no wonder you look like you’re allergic to humidity,” she teased. “What do you do in California?”

“I’m a lawyer,” you said, and at her impressed noise, you added, “Criminal defense.”

Her eyes sparkled with something between admiration and mischief. “A woman who knows her way around an argument. I like that.”

“I’ll try not to cross-examine you at breakfast.”

She laughed again, warm and genuine. “College?”

“NYU. I lived in the city for a while. I only moved to California a couple of years ago. Too many rats in New York.”

“I’ve always said rats should pay rent,” she nodded solemnly.

You laughed. “Exactly.”

The kitchen door creaked open just then, and in walked Jake — still sweaty, still shirtless, a towel slung around his neck like a war medal. You tried very hard not to stare.

He made a beeline for the fridge, snagging a water bottle, and offered a lazy grin. “Mornin’.”

His mom glanced over her shoulder. “Boy, don’t drip all over my clean floors.”

Jake just smirked at you. “Did she tell you yet?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tell me what?”

Jake’s mom straightened up, pointing a spatula at your feet. “Those,” she said. “Are not shoes.”

You looked down at your—admittedly polished—loafers. “These are Ferragamo.”

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “Texas doesn’t care what they cost. They’re city shoes. You’ll break an ankle trying to cross a dirt road.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “It’s true. You’ll be the first casualty of fashion this side of the Mississippi.”

You glared. “Thank you, Vogue and GQ.”

His mom clapped her hands. “Which is why we’re all going into town later.”

You blinked. “We are?”

Jake looked amused. “We are?”

She turned toward him. “Yes, we are. My son is not dragging his girlfriend across the entire state of Texas without proper footwear. We’re getting this girl some real boots.”

Jake's eyes glinted with mischief. “Can I pick them?”

“No,” you and his mother said at the same time.

She winked at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll find you a pair that says ‘I fight for justice and look damn good doing it.’”

You smiled, suddenly charmed and overwhelmed all at once.

Jake finally pushed off the counter, tossing his towel in the laundry bin. “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower so I don’t scandalize the boot shop with my manly physique.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. They’ll think you’re doing a calendar shoot.”

He paused in the doorway, flexed dramatically, and shot you a wink.

You snorted into your coffee. “Someone needs to humble you.”

Jake pointed at you as he backed away. “And someone needs boots that won’t get them killed by a gopher hole.”

You leaned back in your chair, hiding a smile behind your mug.

Across the table, his mother just watched the two of you with an expression that could only be described as smug.

The drive into town was all blue skies and golden fields — postcard-perfect and offensively charming, like Texas itself had decided to play up the clichés just to mess with you.

You sat in the passenger seat of Jake’s dusty truck, the leather warm under your thighs despite the air conditioning on full blast. His mother rode in the backseat, humming something country and cheerful, her arm resting out the open window like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Jake, naturally, looked like he belonged in a commercial. Aviators. Henley rolled at the sleeves. That smug little half-smile that said he was very aware of how good he looked behind the wheel.

You hated how well he pulled off this whole aesthetic.

Worse, you hated that he was currently pulling off affectionate boyfriend like it was second nature.

His hand rested casually on your thigh — not too high, not too low, but perfectly placed — his thumb brushing slow circles against the seam of your jeans as he drove. He hadn’t asked. He’d just done it. You, flustered and dumb, hadn’t had the spine to move it.

And maybe you didn’t want to move it.

You cleared your throat, shifting a little. “You know you don’t actually have to touch me for the entire drive, right?”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m selling the fantasy, plus you know I can't keep my hands off you, honey.”

“Oh, is this the deluxe package?” you said, deadpan. “Does it come with thigh groping and excessive cologne?”

“That’s just my natural musk, sweetheart,” Jake said without missing a beat, turning to flash you the most infuriating smile known to man. “Be honest, you like it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his mother leaned forward from the backseat.

“I think it’s sweet,” she said, positively beaming. “I love how playful y’all are. So many couples forget how to have fun together.”

Your jaw snapped shut.

Jake squeezed your thigh like a punctuation mark. “We have tons of fun, don’t we, baby?”

You turned to him slowly, smile tight. “Oh, it’s a nonstop joyride. Just last week we fought over what color the living room throw pillows should be.”

Jake’s grin deepened. “And I was right, wasn’t I? The burnt orange really brought out your fiery temperament.”

You blinked at him. “You are so lucky your mom is in this truck.”

“Oh, I know.”

From the backseat, she laughed. “Honestly, I’ve never seen Jake like this. He’s practically glowing. You bring something out of him, sweetheart.”

You turned to the window to hide your blush. Jake just kept smiling — relaxed, easy, like he hadn’t just broken the Geneva Convention by flirting with you like that.

And then — to really commit to the role — he pulled into a spot on Main Street, killed the engine, and got out of the truck with an exaggerated stretch. You reached for the door handle, but he was already rounding the hood to open it for you like some cowboy Casanova.

You gave him a look as you stepped out. “You’re really leaning into this, huh?”

Jake leaned down, voice low. “You said I’d make a terrible actor. I’m just proving you wrong.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He closed the door behind you with a wink. “Too late.”

“Y’all are just precious,” his mother said from behind you, fanning herself slightly in the summer heat. “I swear, you should be in one of those Hallmark movies.”

Jake looked smug. You looked vaguely nauseous.

“Come on,” she added brightly. “Boots first, coffee later.”

Jake fell into step beside you, hand settling again on your lower back. You stiffened instinctively — not because you didn’t like it, but because you did.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered as the three of you walked down the street.

“Of course I am,” he said, brushing his fingers up your spine like a casual threat. “You’re letting me touch you in public and not slapping me for it. It’s the best day of my life.”

You glared at him. “Keep talking and I’ll ‘accidentally’ push you into a display of belt buckles.”

Jake leaned in, lips just near your ear. “Kinky.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Jesus.”

He laughed — genuine, loud, and a little too warm — and you hated that it made your stomach twist.

Back home, things were clean-cut, logical. Contracts, courtrooms, control. Here? In this sun-drenched, rodeo-hatted nightmare? Everything felt messy. You weren’t supposed to be flustered. You weren’t supposed to like the way Jake looked at you like he actually wanted to keep touching you.

You were supposed to be faking.

But from the way his mom sighed and smiled like her son had finally fallen in love — and from the way Jake squeezed your hand gently as you crossed the street — you couldn’t help but wonder:

Who exactly were you trying to fool?

-

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