In the glittering world of Parisian fashion, Aurie’s perfect life is built on a web of lies. She has secretly started dating a down-to-earth guy . . . but can her heart handle the lies. Paris is always a good idea. Fake dating, not so much . . . Seventeen-year-old Aurie McGinley seems to have it all: a glamorous life as a fashion influencer in Paris, a best friend who’s a rising music star, and a whirlwind of followers hanging on her every post. But behind the scenes, her life is a carefully crafted illusion. Fake dating Remy St. Julien, the heartthrob musician, is just part of the act. When a chance encounter with Kylian, a down-to-earth guy her family would approve of, throws her into a real romance, Aurie’s double life becomes even more complicated. Torn between her public persona and her private desires, she juggles secret dates and live video diaries. But when a staged kiss with Remy ignites real feelings, Aurie’s world is turned upside down. “A sweet, delectable romance with a touch of ooh la la!” —Katrina Emmel, author of Near Misses & Cowboy Kisses “Emotional, funny, and completely swoon-worthy.” —Cynthia Platt, author of Postcards from Summer Sabrina Fedel is an environmental attorney and freelance writer. She earned her MFA in creative writing from Lesley University and has taught in the English department at Robert Morris University as an adjunct professor. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in various journals, and her award-winning work has garnered critical acclaim. Sabrina believes that chocolate is a love language, the beach is the most-likely place to find magic, and her dog loves her more than steak. She is the author of All Roads Lead to Rome and All Paths Lead to Paris . One Remy grabs my hand and tows me through the crowd to the marks. The black-and-white Christian Dior step-and-repeat backdrop will pop against the emerald of my dress and his midnight-blue suit. My black Doc Martens and Hermès foulard keep the green alive. “Smile,” he reminds me. I look at him before I do. A tiny rebellion in a long day. Then I turn to the cameras as they whir and flash with the precision of an orchestra, and I smile. Radiant. I let the word cascade to every part of me like a waterfall. It’s a mantra our manager, Lille, taught me, and it works every time. At least, it always has. Today it feels off, as if I’m only going through the motions. One more day spent trying to be what everyone expects me to be. But maybe that’s just the cramps I’m having as the ibuprofen wears off. When we step away from the photos, a flock of reporters from Teen Vogue and Seventeen surround us. A blond reporter jabs a thumb-sized microphone to my lips. “Aurélie, how are you enjoying Paris Fashion Week?” I search my brain for her name. Sarah, I think. She’s from the States. Remy squeezes my hand over this delay. “It’s magical, as it always is.” The same thing I say every time I’m asked, said in a different way. I’m about to add how fresh this season’s show is when it hits me that my tampon has sprung a leak. “You’re stanning Dior today, but you smell like Chanel,” she says. “Well, no one will ever be as classic in perfume as Chanel. But I love the new Dior line. It’s unironically sophisticated and yet still really playful for autumn.” “But the rest of your outfit is . . . ?” I recite my accessories, including the short charcoal trench by Givenchy I thrifted. I don’t mention the vintage rose-gold necklace I’m wearing that belonged to my dad’s mom. The one she gave me before she forgot who I was. “No head-to-toe Prada for you, then?” Sarah asks with a laugh. She’s referencing my first Fashion Week three years ago, when I was fourteen and made that mistake, although it was Valentino. I rub my gran’s necklace between my fingers before I return her laugh as if it’s funny. “Not until I have some yachts in the water, Sarah.” She has a Southern accent, so I’m betting she chose the Prada dig because of the country song about a girl wishing she could turn her ex’s lies and her memories of him into dimes to afford the iconic brand. It’s a risk, but the fashion world is always high-stakes. The reporter laughs in truce and turns to Remy to ask him what he thinks about being here with the world’s favorite teen fashion influencer, now that we’re officially “out” as a couple, and whose clothes he’s wearing and whether I chose them. I scratch my pinkie nail against his palm to tell him to hurry up, but he just squeezes my hand in reply. My other hand searches my coat pocket. The extra tampons I set aside must be sitting on my dresser, where I’d meant to grab them. Another reporter is waiting, and we go through the same routine, like I’m an athlete in a postgame interview. At least this one doesn’t backhand-serve me. She asks Remy a slew of questions about us as she tries to drag romantic details from him while he fidgets his fingers in mine as if he’s playing chords. This reporter asks in F