Page 28 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Okay,” I say.

He blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’re doing this. But there are going to be rules. A lot of rules. And prep work. And—”

“I’m good at rules.”

I stare at him. He stares back. Neither of us moves.

“We’re going to need more wine,” I say.

“You’ve had three glasses. Your optimal cognitive function decreases after two.”

“And that—” I point at him. “That right there is exactly the kind of thing you cannot say at this wedding.”

He nods. Serious. Filing it away.

I should be terrified. I should be calling Gemma to talk me out of this. I should be running every worst-case scenario through my head until I come to my senses. But I’ve had just enough wine to make this seem plausible.

And Aiden is looking at me with those steady dark eyes, and he’s already said the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in months, and somewhere between the seating chart and the spring rolls and the vibrator incident, I stopped being sensible.

We’re doing this.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Seven

Aiden

Fake It Till You Make It

Gemma arrives Saturday morning with a folder.

It has tabbed sections, printed pages, and highlighted passages. She sets it on the kitchen table and opens it like a surgeon laying out instruments.

“Your name is Aiden Cole. You’re a freelance software consultant. You went to Virginia Tech—majored in computer science, and graduated four years ago. Your parents are retired; they live in Florida now. You’re an only child.”

She delivers all of this in a tone that suggests she stayed up late building it and expects full compliance.

“I grew up in a lab,” I say. “I’ve never been to Virginia.”

“Exactly. Which is why we’re doing this.” She taps the folder. “Memorize it.”

I read the entire packet in four seconds. “Done.”

Gemma stares at me, then at Ruby, then back at me. “He’s going to be the easiest student I’ve ever had, and I’m not mad about it.”

She drills me for an hour: background questions, small talk scenarios, what to do when someone asks about work, about family, about how Ruby and I met. I answer everything correctly and immediately, and Gemma’s frustration shifts from “he can’t do this” to “he does it too well”—my answers are technically perfect but slightly flat, and she keeps saying “less robot, more human,” which I find imprecise as feedback, but I’m trying.

Ruby sits at the counter watching this happen with her coffee and an expression I’ve started thinking of as her “this is my life now” face.

“Ruby’s mom asks what you do for work,” Gemma fires. “Go!”

“I’m a freelance software consultant.”

“She asks what that means.”

“I help companies optimize their digital infrastructure.”