Page 43 of It's Not All Fake

“Nothing. It’s covered.”

Clearly, Liam covered it. Is this an employee—or employee-with-benefits—benefit? I wonder cheerlessly.

“Thank you,” I say.

As he leaves the office, I’m left standing beside my desk, enveloped by the quiet. The sun has dipped lower, the light flooding across the room. Soon, it will sink into the ocean.

I, too, feel like I’m sinking. My respectable, professional self is about to drown.

The theory that Lucas is behind this feels right. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. He hits me up for money, I refused him, and now my files might have been compromised? The timing of all this is too coincidental.

Things are blowing up with Lucas and they will, undoubtedly, blow up with Liam as well. It’s not Liam’s fault, but our messy relationship is a career killer in my line of work. People don’t want coaching from someone who is a hot fucking mess like me.

The money isn’t worth losing everything I’ve worked for.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out to find a text message from Liam:

I can’t wait to see you

My stomach clenches. My first reaction is skepticism, but this has to be true. There are no paparazzi monitoring his text messages. There’s no reason for him to lie about wanting to see me.

But what am I to him? An employee with benefits? Maybe even a friend with benefits?

I let out a long, slow breath, trying to release the tension in my shoulders.

I try to remind myself that Liam has a lot to work through. He is emotionally unavailable. He is making progress, but I am going to screw him up more if we continue to mix business and pleasure.

I need to resurrect the boundaries between us. For my sake and his. I decide against texting him back.

My phone buzzes again with another text message. It’s from Liam’s driver who says the car is downstairs.

I notice the top button of my white sleeveless shirt has come undone and I quickly fasten it. I’m glad I chose a conservative outfit today—my blue pastel lace skirt reaches below my knees. Although I look feminine and summery, my white loafers are perfectly business casual. No fuck-me-heels today.

I’m tempted to check myself in the bathroom mirror before I meet the driver downstairs, but I decide against it. I should be as unmade-up as possible. I’m an employee, I repeat in my mind, trying to form a new neural loop in my brain that I will not deviate from.

I tuck a brown curl behind my ear, steeling myself. I grab my purse and head downstairs.

In the parking lot, I freeze at the sight of the sleek, white Rolls Royce. A burly man in a suit stands by the car.

“Evening, Ms. Middleton,” he greets with a smile, holding the back passenger door open for me. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

This is too much. It all feels so foreign, but what did I expect? I am, after all, fake dating a billionaire.

I slide into the plush leather seat and check my phone again. Nothing more from Liam. He never mentioned where we were going to dinner, only that he wanted a dinner date.

But it truly makes no difference what we do tonight. Our photo will be snapped, and the ruse will continue as planned.

As I watch the blur of palm trees and busy tourist-lined sidewalks rush by the window, I resolve to talk to Liam about keeping things strictly professional from now on. The hand holding and other light forms of PDA are okay, but I’m not going to be some high-end hooker.

Is that what he thinks of me?

I almost want to cry. Our sex felt caring and tender and almost… loving. But I’ve never been one to engage in recreational sex. Maybe it is just business with sex on the side for him.

My mind is reeling, ticking off the clusterfucks again. I might have to go to court with my ex. He might have hacked my computer. My confidential client data could be compromised. My make-out pictures with Liam are plastered all over the tabloids. I had incredible, but completely irresponsible sex with my boss.

I’m a ball of nerves as the luxurious car glides toward the boat slips in Marina del Rey. I suspect we’re heading to one of the chic new waterfront restaurants. The sun is setting and the sky blazes with oranges and pinks. It’s breathtaking and undeniably romantic. Damn it, Liam.

I’m surprised when the car turns down a narrow road lined with docks and massive yachts—floating cities. Suddenly, the car stops.

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