Marrying Him Was Easy, Loving Him Was Hell

Ivy

There's a very specific kind of panic that hits when you realize you just lied on a government grant application. Not a tiny fib like adjusting your weight on your driver's license. No, I'm talking about a full-blown, bold-faced lie with consequences, signatures, and potential jail time.

I, Ivy Monroe, PhD in psychology, neurotic overthinker, and rule-follower extraordinaire, just told the Midlake Arts & Wellness Institute that I am married.

Spoiler alert: I am not.

It started innocently. I was scrolling through my academic email while chewing on a stale protein bar and avoiding grading ten research papers on attachment styles. And then-bam. There it was. An email titled: CONGRATULATIONS! Welcome to Midlake's Summer Creative Couples Residency!

I blinked.

Then I blinked again.

The email said I'd been selected for a two-month, all-expenses-paid retreat in the mountains. Just me, my "partner," and our shared creative journey. A $50,000 grant for couples who want to blend art and therapy.

I'd applied on a whim, inspired by a late-night rerun of Eat, Pray, Love and one too many glasses of red wine. I figured they'd never pick a nerdy psychologist whose idea of a wild night was reorganizing her spice rack. But they did.

And there, in neat bold letters, it said:

"Note: This retreat is for couples only. No singles permitted. All selected applicants must arrive with their partner or forfeit the grant."

My stomach flipped.

I reread the line at least twenty-three times, as if it would suddenly change to, "Just kidding! Singles welcome! We love lonely intellectuals with control issues!"

But no.

I was stuck.

I mean... it was just a small lie, right? I wasn't hurting anyone. And it was for a good cause-my research on emotional intimacy in long-term relationships. I needed this grant. I needed peace. I needed the space. I just... needed a fake husband.

So I did what any sane, rational adult woman would do.

I panicked.

First, I called my best friend, Elise. She's an ER nurse, always calm in a crisis. Except she laughed so hard, she dropped her phone into a bedpan.

"Wait-you told them you were married? Ivy! You haven't even dated since... what? Brian-the-Barista?"

"It was one date. And he kept quoting Fight Club. It doesn't count."

"Girl, you need help."

Yes. Yes, I did.

Because with just six days until the retreat, I had one choice:

Find a fake husband, or give up the biggest opportunity of my career.

The solution came in the form of Lake Hart.

Well, more like he barged into my life like a leather-jacket-wearing hurricane with stupidly nice cheekbones and a reputation for being allergic to rules.

I met him once at a university networking event. I was there giving a talk on trauma resilience. He was there filming a documentary on academic burnout. He drank whiskey straight, told inappropriate jokes, and stared at me like I was an alien. I called him arrogant. He called me uptight. We haven't spoken since.

And yet...

When Elise casually mentioned he was "in between gigs and desperate for cash," I heard myself saying, "Set up a meeting."

Because I needed someone convincing. Someone bold enough to lie through his teeth, kiss me in public if needed, and survive two months of pretending to be married to me without losing his mind-or making me lose mine.

Lake Hart fit the role.

Too well, actually.

We met at a coffee shop two blocks from campus. He was fifteen minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors, and sipping a Red Bull like he was born to cause chaos.

"Ivy Monroe," he said with a lazy smirk. "Still wound up like a Swiss watch."

I folded my arms. "Still pretending Red Bull is a personality trait?"

He laughed. Bastard.

I laid it all out. The retreat. The lie. The fake marriage. The shared cabin. The shared bed. The shared shower. My voice cracked slightly on that last word.

He leaned back, eyes twinkling. "So you want me to be your husband."

"Pretend husband," I corrected.

"Right. The kind that kisses you in front of people and shares your toothpaste."

I opened my mouth to argue-but technically, yes. That was exactly what I needed.

He scratched his jaw. "Two months in the woods. With you. Playing house."

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you in or not?"

Lake tapped his fingers on the table. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"I'll do it."

Relief flooded me.

"But one condition," he said.

My heart paused mid-beat.

"If we're doing this, we're doing it right. That means cuddling. Hand holding. Convincing kisses. I don't half-ass roles, Ivy. I'm all in."

He leaned in close, his voice low and warm.

"And that includes kissing you-like I mean it."

Oh no.

What have I done?

We signed the forms. Sent our IDs. Packed our bags. And just like that, I was off to the most romantic mountain retreat in the country-with a man who made my brain short-circuit and my stomach feel like it was hosting the Olympic gymnastics team.

The Midlake shuttle picked us up in front of my apartment. Lake arrived with a single duffle bag and two cameras.

"You know this isn't a documentary, right?"

"You never know when real life gets interesting," he said.

I stared out the window as the city disappeared and pine trees took its place. The air smelled fresher already-or maybe that was just the scent of impending doom.

We pulled up to the retreat grounds by sunset. Rolling hills. Wooden cabins. A lake so still it looked painted. Couples wandered the grounds hand-in-hand, smiling like they'd never argued about dishes or in-laws.

Lake whistled. "Romance Disneyland."

A perky staffer named Willow handed us a welcome packet and two lanyards that read: "Dr. Ivy & Lake Hart – Couple #7"

My stomach dropped.

Couple #7.

It was real now.

We followed Willow to our cabin. It was nestled in the trees, cozy and private. Cute. Until she opened the door.

One bed.

ONE BED.

"Oh!" Willow chirped. "I almost forgot to mention-the cabins are set up to encourage intimacy and togetherness. So there's no divider. And the shower's a full-glass eco model! Just like nature intended!"

I choked.

Lake smirked. "Togetherness. Right."

Willow left. I stood frozen, staring at the single bed like it had personally betrayed me.

"Well," Lake said, tossing his bag on the mattress. "This is going to be fun."

I turned slowly. "You think this is fun?"

He grinned. "Come on, Dr. Monroe. What's the worst that could happen?"

The worst?

Falling for him. That would be the worst.

But I didn't say that.

I just gritted my teeth and started unpacking.

Two months. One bed. Zero chance of survival.

Let the pretending begin.

Lake

There are a few things I never planned on doing with my summer.

Pretending to be the doting husband of a neurotic psychology professor? Not even on my bingo card.

Yet here I am. Sharing a tiny cabin with Ivy Monroe-Miss All Work, No Play, Queen of Color-Coded Calendars-and pretending we're madly in love. It's either going to be a disaster or... well, definitely a disaster. But at least it'll be a profitable one.

The moment we stepped into that cabin and she saw the one bed, her whole body froze like she'd just walked into a bear trap. Honestly? I almost felt bad for her. Almost. But watching her panic while trying to maintain her composure? Kinda entertaining.

I tossed my duffel onto the mattress and gave her a grin. "This is going to be fun."

She didn't respond. Just glared at the bed like it had personally insulted her PhD.

The truth is, I wasn't doing this just for the money. Okay, fine-that was a big part of it. I needed the cash. My last gig filming a docuseries about burnout in med students fell through thanks to a morally questionable producer who decided trauma wasn't "marketable." But there was another reason I said yes.

I wanted to see if Ivy Monroe could actually let go.

You see, I remember her from that university mixer two years ago. Not just her pencil skirt or her perfectly parted hair. It was the way she talked about emotional vulnerability like it was some foreign concept, something you could dissect and analyze with charts and theories.

And now she needed to fake being emotionally vulnerable.

With me.

God bless irony.

Day one of the retreat kicked off with orientation. A chirpy woman in a floral jumpsuit-who I later learned was the director of the program-gathered us all around a fire pit near the lake. Ivy and I sat on one of the rustic benches, pretending to be cozy while I tried not to laugh at how stiff she looked next to me.

"Lean in," I whispered, nudging her with my elbow.

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because we're a couple. Act like it."

With visible reluctance, she shifted closer. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and to my absolute delight, she stiffened like someone had just poured cold water down her back.

"So natural," I murmured into her ear.

She elbowed me in the ribs.

We were off to a great start.

The first workshop was titled "Emotional Synchrony Through Movement." Translation: a slow, awkward partner dance class taught by a barefoot man named Sky who believed eye contact was the key to salvation.

Ivy looked like she'd rather walk on hot coals.

"You'll begin by matching your partner's breath," Sky said in a soothing voice. "Then mirror their movement. Flow together as one unit."

I turned to Ivy and waggled my eyebrows. "Ready to breathe together, babe?"

"If you call me 'babe' again, I will strangle you with a yoga strap," she muttered.

We moved through the motions, horribly out of sync at first. I swayed left. She stepped right. I leaned in. She flinched back like I was holding a live snake.

But then something happened. Somewhere between the exaggerated arm circles and the rhythmic foot tapping, she started to laugh.

Like, really laugh.

It started as a tiny giggle, the kind she tried to smother behind a clenched jaw. But I saw the moment she gave up. The moment she let go of the tight grip she had on her composure.

And damn, she was beautiful when she laughed.

We caught eyes. Just for a second. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair messier than usual, and there was a lightness I hadn't seen in her before.

"You're terrible at dancing," she said breathlessly.

"I was trying to lead," I said, smirking. "You were doing some kind of interpretive rebellion."

She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away when I placed a hand on her waist.

Progress.

Later that night, back at the cabin, I caught her pacing near the bathroom, mumbling to herself.

"You okay there, Professor?"

She turned, startled. "I just realized I forgot to bring my lavender sleep spray. It's fine. I'll survive."

I leaned against the doorframe. "Didn't realize lavender was the key to mental health."

"It helps regulate cortisol levels."

"Right. Science-scented sleep."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're mocking me."

"Only a little."

A long pause stretched between us. The air felt... different. Not just awkward. Charged. Like we were standing too close to a storm.

Then her eyes flicked to the bed.

One bed.

I raised an eyebrow. "Want me to take the floor?"

She hesitated. "No. That's not necessary."

"You sure? I'm okay with roughing it."

"No, Lake. We're adults. We can... share. Just stay on your side."

"My side has better energy."

"Lake."

I grinned and held up my hands. "Fine, fine. No funny business."

But when we finally lay down-her stiff as a board on the edge, me relaxed and half-sprawled-we couldn't help it. We kept talking.

About nothing.

About everything.

She told me about growing up in suburban Ohio, her obsession with rules, her fear of disappointing people. I told her about my chaotic childhood, my filmmaker dreams, the time I accidentally lit a kitchen on fire trying to flambé something I saw on TikTok.

And somewhere around 2 a.m., I looked over and saw her asleep-face turned toward me, hair falling in her eyes, lips slightly parted.

She looked soft. Real.

Not the uptight professor who lived in spreadsheets.

Just Ivy.

And for a brief, fleeting second, I forgot we were pretending.

The next morning, I woke up to a shriek.

"I was on the edge! How did I end up in your arms?"

I rubbed my eyes, still groggy. "Morning, sunshine. You're surprisingly cuddly in your sleep."

"I am not-ugh, this is-this is unethical closeness!"

I sat up, laughing. "Ivy. It's fine. It's not like we-"

She threw a pillow at my face.

Yup. Definitely a disaster.

But I was starting to suspect it might be my favorite kind.

Ivy

Ivy woke up to a heartbeat.

More specifically - a heartbeat beneath her ear, a strong chest rising and falling under her cheek, and a distinct lack of pillow barriers.

She blinked against the early light slicing through the curtains. Pine-scented air filled her nose. Warmth blanketed her like a heat pack.

And then it hit her.

She was sprawled on top of Lake Hart. Limbs tangled. Her leg very much wrapped around his like they were auditioning for a steamy romance cover.

Her brain took a solid three seconds to boot up.

"Oh my God," she gasped, jerking away like she'd been electrocuted.

Lake grunted, one arm still halfway draped over her waist. "Mornin', sunshine."

"What-what happened?" she squeaked, rolling to the farthest edge of the bed.

"You cuddled me in your sleep. Very aggressively, might I add."

"I did not-!"

"You mumbled something about bonfires and nuzzled my neck." His smirk was way too pleased. "I felt very emotionally connected."

"I must've been dreaming." She yanked the sheet up to her chin. "This never happened."

"Oh, it happened," he said, stretching like a damn lion. "You can deny it all you want, but you clung to me like I was a heated teddy bear."

She groaned, burying her face in the pillow.

This was going to be a long summer.

Ivy stayed in the bathroom for an unnecessary amount of time, pretending to be busy with a seven-step skincare routine while trying to recover from full-body embarrassment. Her cheeks were still pink when she came out to find Lake shirtless, making coffee, and humming "Careless Whisper" like it was a warning.

"You know that's psychological warfare," she muttered.

He turned, spoon halfway to his mouth. "What, the George Michael or the abs?"

"Both."

"You can touch them for realism," he offered, deadpan. "Commit to the bit, Monroe."

"Not in this decade."

Lake winked and handed her a mug. "We've got the couples orientation breakfast at twenty. Are you ready to act like you're hopelessly in love with me?"

She exhaled through her nose. "I already feel hopeless."

The dining hall looked like Pinterest exploded - vintage wood tables, sunflowers in mason jars, and far too many couples who looked like they'd either just gotten engaged or just finished tantric yoga.

Ivy's game face was on.

"Okay," she whispered as they approached the buffet. "Rule one, no wandering off. Rule two, subtle physical contact is fine. Rule three, no weird comments that'll make people suspicious."

Lake tilted his head. "Define 'weird.'"

"Anything that involves handcuffs, alien abduction, or-"

"Hey babe," he cut in loudly, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they reached the waffle station. "Remember that time we did couples skydiving and I screamed your name the whole way down?"

A few people turned.

Ivy smiled with a tight jaw. "He's always exaggerating," she said to the nearest couple.

"I exaggerate your moans too," Lake added, dropping a kiss to her temple.

She elbowed him so hard he nearly dropped his coffee.

They survived breakfast - barely - and made it back to their cabin just as Ivy started rehearsing how to fake a migraine. Her introversion had a limit and it was getting dangerously close.

But there was no time to retreat.

A knock came at the door.

Willow, in all her linen-wrapped glory, stood smiling like a fairy godmother on herbal tea. "Hi lovebirds! Just wanted to remind you that today's connection challenge starts at noon. You'll be preparing a Couples Welcome Video! Just a two-minute clip. A little story about how you met, what you love about each other, that sort of thing."

Ivy nodded slowly, panic rising. "Oh. Sure. Easy."

Willow beamed. "Make it passionate!"

As soon as she left, Ivy shut the door and turned to Lake. "We are so screwed."

"Relax," he said, dropping onto the couch. "We'll keep it simple. How'd we meet?"

"In this story? At a film festival in Chicago. You were there shooting a documentary. I was doing a seminar on emotion and memory."

He grinned. "And I asked you out by interrupting your lecture with a fake nosebleed."

"...That's not what we said."

"It is now. You had to help me out of the room. Instant bond."

Ivy dragged a hand down her face. "We have to kiss on video, Lake."

"Perfect," he said, standing. "Then we should practice. Again."

She backed up. "Last time, we almost burned the air with our faces."

"Exactly. We gotta make it look natural." His tone was teasing, but something in his eyes was serious.

A dare. A pull.

Ivy's stomach flipped.

He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. "Come on. One little kiss. For the good of the grant."

She exhaled. "Okay. But just one."

They stood face-to-face.

Close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath. Close enough to feel the energy shift in the room.

He reached up - slow, gentle - cupped her jaw. "You ready?"

She nodded.

Their lips touched.

Soft. Controlled.

But it only took one second for it to turn into more.

His hand slid into her hair. Her fingers curled around his shirt. The kiss deepened - hot, aching, stupidly good.

Her heart was pounding. His breath hitched.

And then-

They broke apart.

Both blinking. Stunned. Breathless.

Lake ran a hand through his hair. "Well. That felt... very convincing."

Ivy stared at him, chest heaving. "We can never do that again."

"Totally agree," he said.

Then paused.

"...Unless we have to."

They filmed the video a few minutes later, still pink-cheeked and awkward.

Lake told their story with a twinkle in his eye. Ivy forced a smile while sitting safely six inches away. But when it came time for the ending - "What do you love most about each other?" - something in Lake's expression changed.

"I love that she's smart," he said quietly. "And stubborn. And that she thinks she can fake a relationship without falling a little bit in love."

Ivy stared at him.

He smiled for the camera. "Kidding. Mostly."

She wanted to throw a pillow at his face.

Instead, she kissed his cheek and ended the video with a sunny, "We're having the time of our lives!"

As soon as the recording stopped, she turned to him. "You are infuriating."

"You're welcome."

That night, the pillow wall returned.

But it didn't stop Ivy from hearing every breath he took. Or remembering how he kissed her like she was his.

Her heart wouldn't stop racing. Not from nerves.

From something else.

Something she didn't want to name.

Not yet.

The next morning, Ivy decided she needed distance.

Not emotionally - that ship had already started to drift into dangerous waters - but physically. If she was going to survive two months sharing oxygen with Lake Hart, she needed barriers. Reinforcements. Possibly a priest.

She got up early, dressed in leggings and a hoodie, and escaped to the nearby trail loop. The camp had pamphlets labeled "Wilderness as Therapy" and "Grounding With Gaia," but Ivy just needed to walk. Alone. Fast.

Unfortunately, "alone" was a lie.

Because halfway through her speed hike, she heard footsteps catching up behind her.

"You know," Lake called, "if you're trying to lose me, maybe don't stomp like an angry duck."

She didn't turn. "I'm not stomping. I'm power-walking."

"Ah, so this is therapy with cardio."

"Exactly. Go away."

Instead, he jogged until he was beside her.

They walked in silence for a minute, just the crunch of gravel and the rustle of pine trees between them. It should've been peaceful. But the memory of his hands on her hips - of the kiss they weren't talking about - kept playing in Ivy's brain like a broken record.

Finally, he said, "You're freaked out."

She scoffed. "No, I'm not."

"You are. Your 'I'm fine' voice is very sharp. Like a bread knife."

She stopped and turned to him. "We kissed. It was... confusing. It shouldn't have happened."

Lake raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't have happened? Or shouldn't have felt like that?"

"I don't have time to develop feelings for a fake husband with commitment issues," she snapped.

"Who says I have commitment issues?"

"You literally said it during our contract agreement."

"Fine. Past tense. Maybe I'm evolving."

Ivy laughed - short and bitter. "You're not evolving, Lake. You're flirting and playing and making everything a joke."

His face shifted, something sober settling behind his eyes. "I'm not joking about you."

Her throat tightened.

Silence.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just... there.

"I know this is fake. I know we're here for money and you need a grant and I need a miracle. But maybe - maybe - it doesn't have to stay fake every second."

She looked away, eyes burning. "You're dangerous."

Lake smiled, soft and rueful. "Yeah. But you knew that before you kissed me back."

By the time they returned to the cabin, things were quieter. Not in a cold way - in a charged way. Like the pause before thunder.

Lake cooked dinner - surprisingly well, Ivy had to admit - and they ate on the porch under string lights. The mood was weirdly domestic. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.

"I don't get you," she said after a bite of garlic pasta.

Lake sipped his wine. "You just now figured that out?"

"You're not what I expected."

"Expected how?"

"I thought you'd be a lazy, smug, ego-driven flirt."

"I am all those things."

"But also..." She trailed off.

"But also what?" he asked, leaning closer.

She shook her head. "Forget it."

"Nope. You started it. Finish."

"You're not entirely terrible," she muttered.

He grinned. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Ivy smiled despite herself.

Then-his fingers brushed hers.

Not by accident.

Slow. Intentional. Testing.

She didn't pull away.

That night, the pillow wall was... thinner.

Still there, but more symbolic than functional. Like both of them had agreed to pretend it offered protection.

Ivy lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Lake's breathing.

He wasn't asleep.

She could tell.

"You're thinking loud," she whispered.

"I do that."

A pause.

Then he said, "What happens if we actually fall for each other?"

Ivy swallowed. "Then we're screwed."

He chuckled softly. "At least we'll be screwed together."

Her lips twitched.

And for the first time since the whole fake-marriage madness began...

She let herself imagine what it would feel like if it weren't fake at all.