Page 41 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

And my brother is standing by the bar.

Ben. In a polo and jeans, beer in hand, looking like an off-duty cop because that’s what he is and he can’t turn it off. He’s talking to someone—one of Natalie’s groomsmen, maybe—but his eyes are already moving, scanning the lobby the way he scans every room he walks into, cataloging faces, clocking exits, reading body language.

His gaze lands on me. Warms for a second—big brother, genuinely glad to see me.

Then it moves to Aiden. To our hands, still clasped together. Back up to Aiden’s face.

His eyes narrow.

Oh dear God, this is it.

Ben’s gaze shifts. It’s his something doesn’t add up face.

He raises his beer in our direction. Starts walking over.

My hand tightens around Aiden’s. I feel his fingers adjust—not pulling away, not squeezing back. Just holding. Steady. Warm. Ready for whatever comes next.

I hope.

Ben is ten feet away. Eight. Five.

“Hey, Rubes.” He pulls me into a one-armed hug, beer in the other hand, chin on top of my head the way he’s done since I was fifteen. Then he steps back and looks at Aiden, and his eyes do the narrowing thing again, and he extends his hand.

“Ben. Ruby’s brother.”

Aiden takes his hand. And I watch—barely breathing—as they shake.

I can see Ben calibrating the grip. Testing. It’s what he does. He holds on a beat too long, watches Aiden’s face for a reaction—a flinch, a flex, a tell. Any tell.

Aiden gives him nothing. Matches his grip exactly. Holds the eye contact without blinking, without shifting, without any of the micro-fidgets that humans do under scrutiny. He’s a wall of calm, patient stillness.

Which is exactly the problem.

Because normal men flinch. Normal men adjust. Normal men do something when Ruby Hart’s six-foot-two cop brother squeezes their hand and stares them down. They either crumble or they puff up, and Ben knows how to read both.

Aiden does neither. He just… is.

Ben lets go. His jaw works slightly—the thinking tell, the one he doesn’t know he has.

“So,” he says, and his voice is easy but his eyes aren’t. “You’re the boyfriend.”

My stomach is on the floor. My heart is in my throat. Every single hour of coaching and backstory prep comes down to this moment, and the man who’s supposed to be my fake boyfriend is standing in a hotel lobby, being stared down by a detective who has never once approved of anyone I’ve dated.

Oh gosh… why did I think I could do this?

Aiden smiles. Not the too-wide one, not the one he practiced in the mirror. A smaller one. Almost shy. Almost human.

“Aiden,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. Ruby talks about you a lot.”

Ben glances at me, then back at Aiden. He hasn’t decided yet. I can see it—he’s filing, not judging. Collecting data points. Running his own version of the analysis that Aiden runs constantly, except Ben’s is powered by thirty-two years of reading people and a gut instinct that’s almost never wrong.

“Likewise,” Ben says. He takes a sip of his beer, eyes still on Aiden over the rim. “We should grab a drink later. Get to know each other.”

It’s not an invitation. It’s a summons.

My stomach drops to my feet.

“I’d like that,” Aiden says, and he sounds like he means it, and I can’t tell if that makes things better or worse.