Page 32 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Ethan showed up at the bakery Wednesday morning at 6:30 AM sharp, carrying coffee and looking like he hadn't slept. Dark circles under his eyes, his usually perfect hair slightly disheveled, his jaw tight with tension.

"You look terrible," I said, holding the door open.

"Thanks. You look great, too." He handed me the coffee—large oat milk latte, exactly how I liked it. "We need to talk about the Friday Harbor trip. And about what happened yesterday with my firm."

I'd been thinking about that all night. About Ethan telling his boss he was reporting them for fraud. About him choosing to dothe right thing even though it would cost him his career. About the look on his face through the video chat—determined, almost relieved, like he'd finally made a decision he could live with.

"You really did it," I said quietly. "You quit."

"I didn't quit. I got fired." He took a long drink of his coffee. "Marcus called me at midnight, very officially informed me that my partnership was terminated effective immediately, and that the firm would be pursuing disciplinary action with the state bar for breach of client confidentiality."

My stomach dropped. "Can they do that?"

"They can try. I documented everything before I told them, made copies of all the evidence of fraud. If they come after me, I'll bury them." His voice was cold, professional. "But yes, my legal career is probably over."

"Because of me." The guilt sat heavy in my chest. "Because you were trying to help me."

"Because I was trying to be someone better than who I'd become." Ethan met my eyes. "This isn't on you, Maya. This is on me for spending five years not asking the right questions about how my firm operated."

Tessa breezed in at 7 AM, took one look at both of us, and immediately poured herself a large coffee. "Jeez, what happened? You both look like someone died. You didn’t fake break-up, did you?”

"Ethan's firm fired him for reporting fraud," I said.

Tessa's eyes went wide. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." Ethan pulled out his tablet. "But the motion to dismiss is ready to file. We just need to get to Friday Harbor today to submit it before the county clerk closes at 4 PM."

"Today?" I looked at the schedule board on the wall—Wednesday was always busy, with morning rush and afternoon prep for Thursday's farmers market delivery. "I can't just leave for the day—"

"I've got this." Tessa waved her hand. "Go file your legal documents. Save the bakery. I'll handle the bread. It’s not like youjusthired me for my stunning good looks.”

"Tessa—"

"Maya." Her voice was firm. "You've been fighting this battle alone for seven years. Let your fake boyfriend actually help you for once."

The words hung in the air. Fake boyfriend. Except Ethan had just sacrificed his entire career to protect my bakery, and that didn't feel fake at all.

"Okay," I said finally. "Let me change into something court-appropriate."

Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting in Ethan's Mercedes, watching Lopez Island disappear behind us as we drove toward the ferry terminal. I'd changed into dark slacks and a white blouse. Ethan had changed too, back into his lawyer uniform: pressed suit, crisp shirt, tie.

“We need to meet with Richard Sterling first,” Ethan said, navigating the island’s winding roads with easy confidence. “Since he agreed to take your case, he’s now your attorney of record. That means he’ll need to approve and sign the motion before we can file it.”

"Will he?" I fidgeted with my phone. "Sign off, I mean. He might not want to get involved in accusing another law firm of fraud."

"He'll sign." Ethan's voice was certain. "Richard doesn't tolerate ethical violations. And he cares about this community. He'll do the right thing."

I hoped he was right.

The ferry ride to Friday Harbor took forty-five minutes. We stood on the deck, watching the San Juan Islands slide past, the morning sun turning the water silver. A few locals gave us curious looks—the mainland lawyer and the local baker, clearly together, clearly serious about something.

"People are staring," I said quietly.

"Let them." Ethan's hand found mine, his fingers threading through my fingers in a gesture that was becoming familiar. "We're supposed to be dating, remember? This is what couples do."

"Right. The arrangement." But my hand felt warm in his, and I didn't want to pull away.

We drove to Richard Sterling's office in Friday Harbor, a small building near the marina. Richard's secretary—a cheerful woman in her sixties named Patricia—ushered us into his office immediately.