Page 30 of The Billionaires

Grr. “Why can’t you just tell me now?”

He smirks. “Because I want the paperwork settled, and I bet you’re curious enough to sign here and now.”

“Maybe I am curious,” I admit. “Would it get me killed if I were a cat?”

“If you were a cat, I’d probably die of allergies,” he says, deadpan. “So it would be a murder-suicide situation.”

Saguaro damn it. The proverbial cat died of wanting to know, and I feel like I might die if I don’t find out right this second. And let’s be honest, was I really going to get a lawyer?

I take the papers and skim them as thoroughly as I can considering my dyslexia and the fact that the closest I’ve gotten to law school is watching Legally Blonde. When I’m done, I think it’s possible, even likely, that it all matches what Lucius has said. Then again, if it turns out I’m agreeing to do naughty pony play whenever he wishes, I won’t be all that surprised either.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask grudgingly.

To his credit, he doesn’t gloat. Instead, he simply pulls out a pen from his pocket and hands it to me.

Huh. The thing is heavy and very fancy-looking. Must be one of those Montblanc ones that cost thousands.

“I sign this and you tell me,” I say. “None of that ‘I’ll think about it’ bullshit.”

“Deal.” He sips his wine.

With a big sigh, I initial and sign the stupid papers, then push the stack toward him. “Talk.”

He pockets the papers and the pen. “My grandmother has never been happy with my lack of dating. When she saw the article, she was so happy I didn’t want to take it away from her.”

I gape at him, waiting for a punchline.

He just finishes his soup and sips his wine.

He has a grandmother? I mean, obviously—I know he isn’t a clone grown in an underground lab, and thus must have parents who also have parents and all that. He just doesn’t strike me as someone who cares about making anyone else happy, grandmothers included.

“Oysters Rockefeller,” the waitress/hostess says, startling me.

I wait for her to set down the plates and leave before whispering, “Is it me, or did she appear out of nowhere?”

Lucius flashes his dimple. “The staff in this restaurant attend ninja school.”

Grinning, I taste the new entree—and this time, a moan does escape my lips.

Crap. Given how wide Lucius’s eyes are, he heard that. Must change the topic, quickly. Thankfully, that part is easy. “Let’s discuss the logistics of our fake relationship.”

He scans the empty restaurant. “Given the ninja staff and all that, how about we just call it ‘our relationship’ going forward?”

“Hmm. That might be confusing. We need a word—and it can be a secret one—for when we want to emphasize the fakeness of it all.”

“If you insist.” He thinks about it for a beat. “How about fartlek?”

I suppress a groan. “Do we need to bring bodily functions into it?”

His lips flatten. “Don’t be a child. Fartlek means ‘speed play’ in Swedish. It’s a type of workout that’s similar to interval training—you run fast, then you run slow, then fast again.”

I roll my eyes. “I take it you like to fartlek?” Maybe after consuming large quantities of legumes?

“Sure. Fartlek strengthens willpower and endurance.”

Endurance? Should I tell him that’s not something we need for our fake relationship—sorry, our fartlek? Fighting a grin, I say, “Okay, what are our next steps… for the fartlek?”

He decimates an oyster as he considers my question. “How about we get to know each other?”

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