“Your friends are going to think I have a produce fetish,” Visho drawled as Nice took another photo of him in front of a tinsel-garlanded fruit stand.

Nice blushed, but argued, “Fruits and vegetables make pretty backgrounds. All I have before today is a dark pic of you eating noodles.”

They had arranged to meet at the street fair in order to document their supposed relationship for social media.

“I feel like a stock photo model,” Visho remarked, examining a pomegranate with a level of attention worthy of antiques appraisal.

He looked like a model, too: someone suave and sexy dressed up as a middle-class shopper. Smile too white and enthusiastic for groceries, no coat and open collar despite the foggy December weather.

“Well, what do you want to look at?” Nice asked.

“We’ve been fake-dating for only a few days. I wouldn’t be out buying groceries, would you?”

“Um.” Nice blushed. “I’ve never really ... I don’t know. No?”

Visho hooked a finger under Nice’s belt and pulled him close. “If this were real we’d be home fucking like bunnies,” he said in Nice’s ear.

He raised one long arm and snapped a photo of Nice blushing against his chest.

“No one is jealous of Jerusalem artichokes,” Visho stated.

He led Nice, arm around his waist, to a stand named Spicy! and kissed him in front of a neon sign that screamed HOT.

It was the barest brush of lips, over before Nice had time to object.

He had been going to object, dammit. In a second.

Nice turned away and pretended to be studying the chile peppers in Santa hats surrounding the sign.

“Habanerita? Peppertini?” asked the woman behind the counter. “Some Like it Hot Chocolate?”

Nice bought some cayenne truffles to go, since they had been using the seller’s signage.

Visho smirked at him like he knew Nice was a pushover.

Nice’s phone chimed. Visho had sent him the picture.

It looked much hotter than it had felt: Nice’s lips were parted in surprise, making the kiss seem more intimate, and his cheeks were flushed.

“Good photo,” he said, not looking at Visho.

It was a good photo, Visho thought. He had a good model. Nice blushing and reluctant was hot as fuck. Too bad he wasn’t available. How the hell had Fritz landed someone so sweet?

Not that Visho was into sweetness, he hastily reminded himself. He didn’t even eat dessert. He just wondered what the appeal of a douche like Fritz was, that’s all. And sure, he would have given Nice a tumble if Nice were into that, but he clearly wasn’t. Which would, hypothetically, have stung a little if it had been a competition, because who the hell would choose Fritz over him, but it wasn’t because he hardly knew Nice and Fritz had just cradle-robbed some naif, which wasn’t Visho’s speed. Nice wasn’t even his type.

He wasn’t. Not at all.