Page 33 of Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

Some manly-looking shampoo sits on an elevated glass shelf beside manly-looking shower gel and some other manly-looking things. I grab the shampoo and squeeze the thick lotion into my hand.

As I lather it through my hair, the warm smell of patchouli fills my nose, and whether I want it to or not, the scent seems to calm me a little. Maybe this is why Jake is always so darned laid back. I know it isn’t, but my sarcasm levels are dancing at the top of the sarcasto-meter right now.

When I’m done with my hair, I lift the shower gel and lather it over my body. It smells of zesty lime and, admittedly, is rather refreshing. I scrub every inch of myself, paying particular attention to my nails. The mud has gotten under them and is stubbornly refusing to get out. It takes ages to get them completely clean.

When I’m done, I just stand there for a while, letting the water flow over me. It’s only now that I gaze around the shower. It’s pretty modern with one of those rainfall shower heads. It really does feel like you’re caught in a downpour, only the water is lovely and hot, and you’re not getting annoyed that your clothes are getting soaking wet.

When I finally coerce myself out of the shower, I find two huge, fluffy towels draped over a warm radiator. I didn’t notice them earlier.

Probably because you were too busy threatening to murder your new fake fiancé.

Yes. There’s that.

I wrap one towel around my body, even though it goes around me nearly twice, and wrap my hair in the other, doing that turban-like twist on my head that no man has a clue how to do. After that, I pad into the bedroom.

Clearly, this is Jake’s room, and rather nosily, I wander around it. There’s a large bookshelf that runs from floor to ceiling, every shelf tightly packed with books. I trace my finger along them, noting the titles. Surprisingly, these aren’t novels. Every one of them is non-fiction.

Has he read them all?

He has everything from autobiographies to how-to books. There are books on investing standing next to poetry and encyclopedias. There’s history from all sorts of time periods, as well as atlases and mythological discoveries.

Wow. This is not the guy I dated ten years ago.

These clearly aren’t here for show. I mean, it’s his bedroom. Who’s he going to show off to?

My mind then goes somewhere I don’t want it to, and I gasp. “Oh.”

I shake my head as though that’s going to uproot the thought and swiftly move away from the bookshelf. Heading to the bed, I see the clothes he’s laid out for me. There’s a huge t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would probably fit me three times over.

Great.

Maybe…

I then move over to his dresser and open a drawer. I see underwear and quickly slam it closed. Not that one. It takes several more drawers before I find some coiled belts.

“This could work.”

I dry myself off, and after slipping my underwear back on, I pull on the sweatpants. Not only are they huge in the waist, but they’re also ridiculously long. I turn them up several times, now looking like Captain Jack Sparrow, and then I lift the belt from the bed.

Alas, I didn’t think this through. If the joggers are too big, then the belt’s going to be too big as well.

“Right. Now what?”

And suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my head. I move back to the bathroom and retrieve my hair band. It’s pretty stretchy, so it should do the trick. Gathering a bunch of the waistband in one hand, I pull it out so the joggers are as tight as I’m going to make them, and then I tie my hair band around the excess material.

It won’t win any fashion awards, but at least the pants will stay up. I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day. That being said, when I put his t-shirt on, it nearly reaches my knees, so if there is a wardrobe malfunction, I think I’ll be covered.

Clearly, Jake won’t have a hairdryer, so I have no choice but to rub my hair dry with the towel. I’m vigorous with my movements. I have a lot of hair. After some doing, it’s as dry as it's going to be, and dragging my fingers through it, I comb it the best I can.

Finally, I slip on the thick pair of socks he left out. Like everything else, they are far too big for me. Actually, as I look down at my boots, I do feel a little guilty. I’ve traipsed mud all over the floor, and no doubt, there’s a trail down the stairs, too.

Well, whose fault is that?

I know, but if I hadn’t been in such a mood, I would have taken them off at the door like a normal person.

Lifting my boots, I take them in one hand, grab the towels in the other, and make my way downstairs.

I follow the smell of bacon—the irony is not lost on me, though I do wonder if he’s smart enough to do it on purpose—and find Jake in the kitchen, standing at the stove.

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