Page 33 of Faking It with my Small Town Billionaire

I’m sitting at my desk working on my laptop when I hear the front door slam shut.

“Hey,” I call out.

Usually, Lily calls back, but I don’t hear anything, which is a bit unusual. But then, she walks into the open plan lounge area, and I know right away that something’s not right.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says coarsely.

Uh-huh.

She doesn’t linger, as she ordinarily would, and moves through the apartment. The next thing I hear is her bedroom door slamming closed.

Okay. So, something has definitely happened, I just have no idea what. I’m also mindful of our written contract. Clause 21a, to be exact.

The participants will respect each other’s personal and private space.

And now, I’m not sure what to do. I’ve heard many of the men at work talking about how complicated women can be. But I can’t speak to that. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve dated. I am a hot-blooded male, after all, but I’ve never been involved that deeply. Commitment has always been a distraction to me.

I decide to remain where I am, though my concentration is now shot. I try to get my head back into the spreadsheet I was working on, but like that day on the beach, I find myself reading the same lines over and over again.

Maybe I need to come at this from a different angle. I push myself up from my chair and wander down the hallway. Once I reach her door, I give it a light knock.

“I’m going to order Chinese. You want some?”

“No, thanks.” Her voice sounds faint through the door.

“You sure?”

“Yep,” she says shortly.

“Okay.”

I move back to the living room but don’t bother sitting at my desk. There’s no point. I’m not going to get any more work done until I know what the heck is going on.

When I’m troubled, I pace. It helps me think. And so, that is what I do, back and forth over the rug I bought especially for this apartment. I don’t like this tension. I’ve never liked it. No doubt, if Jake was here, he’d attach it to the childhood trauma he was talking about the last time we met. Maybe he’s right.

But as I continue to move back and forth, the contract comes back to my mind. Clause 33b, to be exact.

The participants will resolve any issues in a swift manner, ensuring the living space is free from tension.

That will do me just fine.

I move back down the hallway and knock on her door again. “Lily, we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Tell me. Is this about me?”

She hesitates, which tells me it is, so I continue. “You remember the contract we drew up, right? Resolving issues as quickly as possible, etc.?”

There’s no answer for a long moment, and then I can hear movement in her room. The sound of sliding metal on the lock reverberates against the door, and then finally, the door opens a tiny crack.

“I don’t want to do this now,” she says.

“I know,” I say gently, wanting to show some understanding, “but we can’t let whatever this is fester.”

She heaves a sigh and pulls the door open fully, inviting me inside. I shake my head. “I think this is best dealt with on neutral ground.”

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