Page 12 of Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

Or someone?

I look straight ahead and cross the parking lot. I’m about halfway when I hear her calling out.

“Do you want to go for a coffee?”

What?

From freezing cold to roasting hot. It’s no wonder us men can’t figure women out.

I shake my head and keep walking. “Can’t. Sorry. Got to get back.”

She doesn’t say anything, which is weird, and when I climb in beside Elsa, Tilly’s already in her dad’s truck. A second later, she peels out into the road.

What the devil is wrong with that woman? Why the sudden change?

5

Tilly

Once I heave thepaint into the back of the truck—the paint I intend to use to spruce up the dreary barn I’m currently living in—a lightbulb goes off in my head. It’s a terrible idea, and given the way he’s treated me so far, he likely isn’t going to go for it, but I have to try.

Jake doesn’t come out of the store straight away, and I feel uncomfortable lurking beside the truck, like I’m up to no good. Maybe he’s hiding in there so he doesn’t have to speak to me again because clearly, it’s a great effort for him.

You can’t blame him.

No. I suppose I can’t.

A few minutes later, he comes into view. I shuffle from one foot to the other as I stand near Dad’s truck, trying to pluck up the courage to speak. My stomach is in knots, my heart is thumping in my chest, and I swear, this is the worst idea I’ve ever had. But even with that thought, I open my mouth.

“Do you want to go for a coffee?”

Jake doesn’t stop, which is more than a little disappointing, and so clearly against the suggestion is he that he doesn’t even look at me when he turns me down.

The man probably thinks I’m nuts. Maybe I am. But I’m also desperate.

The humiliation at his rejection washes over me like a tsunami, and terrified of seeing the look on his face if he does turn around, I jump into the truck. Fumbling with the keys, I fail badly as I try to get them into the ignition. A minute later, I fly out of the parking lot with the speed of a getaway driver.

I truly am crazy. I must be. But as I think about Bryan’s visit last night, I can’t see another way to get rid of him. Remembering the conversation as I drive back to Mom and Dad’s only makes me even angrier than I was last night.

Mom had called me on my way to my bath, and I could hardly believe it when I saw Bryan standing at the door. When I got to the front, I ushered Mom back into the house, despite her protests; taking a step outside, I folded my arms across my chest and looked Bryan dead in the eye.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

His face crumpled with contrition. It’s what he does when he’s trying to play me. “I needed to see you.”

“You didn’t think giving me a call first might have been more appropriate?” I snapped. “Seriously, Bryan. You can’t just turn up at my parents’ house unannounced.”

“I know. I know,” he bleated. “I’m sorry.”

Which he was clearly not, or he wouldn’t have been standing there in the first place.

“What do you want?”

“I want you, baby,” he pleaded. “I miss you so much. I came all this way to tell you that I want you to come home.”

I didn’t miss the fact that there were a lot of I’s in that sentence. My stomach twisted, and I gritted my teeth. “I am home. This is my home now.”

He looked at me like I was a child. “Tilly—”

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