Page 32 of Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

“Alright. Alright. I surrender,” I laugh.

“Look at the state of me!” she squeals. “I’m an absolute mess.”

“It’s only a bit of mud. It won’t kill you,” I say, taking her by the arm and leading her to the passenger side of the truck.

When I’ve opened the door, I gently shove her in. I don’t care that she gets mud all over my seats. This truck has seen far worse than a bit of dirt.

I round the truck and jump into the driver’s seat.

“I can’t believe you did that to me. Everyone was watching. You stood there and let me make a complete fool out of myself,” she continued.

I fear I’m going to have to listen to this for most of the way home, and though I hate being wrong, I’m not particularlythrilled with being right on this occasion, because that’s exactly what she does.

Half an hour later, my ears are ringing, and I can’t wait to get her out of the truck. Was it worth it? I’m still not sure, though I’ll have the memory of her sliding around a pigpen safely tucked away in my memories for the rest of my life, so maybe.

“You need a shower,” I say when I get to the passenger side. “Come on. Out, before you smell up my truck anymore.”

“No,” she says, folding her hands over her chest like a child. “I’m not moving. I’m going to stay here and smell up your truck for as long as I want.”

“Fine,” I say, slamming the door closed again. “Stay there. See if I care.”

I head toward the house. Once inside, I take the steps two at a time and take a right into my bedroom. It’s the only room with an ensuite. I could have put bathrooms in the other bedrooms, but seeing as I’m the only one who lives here, I’ve never seen the point.

From the closet, I get two huge, fluffy towels and drape them over the warm radiator in the bathroom. I then go to my dresser and pick out a t-shirt, some socks, and a pair of sweatpants. They’ll be huge on her, but I don’t have anything else. At least when she finally finishes having her tantrum, everything will be ready for her.

But as I reach the last step on my way down the stairs, Tilly’s standing there in the hallway, the mud beginning to dry on her face.

“Where is it?” she demands.

“Top of the stairs, first door on the right.”

She scowls at me before storming past me. I then hear her thumping up the stairs. I’m sure she’s doing it on purpose. Like I said, she doesn’t really weigh that much.

“Throw your clothes down and I’ll put them in the washer.”

She doesn’t answer, and a second later, I hear my bedroom door slam shut.

Okay, then.

13

Tilly

Once the door slamsbehind me, I stand in the bedroom with anger still pumping through my veins. I can’t believe he would do that to me. Maybe it was fun and games for him, but I am certainly not seeing the funny side.

I strip off my filthy clothes, and peeking my head out the door to check that the coast is clear—I’ve already been embarrassed enough, I don’t need Jake seeing me in my underwear—I toss them down onto the dark wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs. I’m sure they’ve made a mess of his floor, but I don’t care.

Once I enter the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror and gasp at the state I’m in. My hair is caked in mud, and dried brown patches are stuck to my cheeks, my forehead, my chin, and my neck. If I was going on an undercover mission with the Marines, I’d fit right in.

“I am going to kill him. And when I’m finished killing him, I’m going to kill him again.”

I reach my hand into the shower and turn it on, still ranting about what he’s done as I pull my hair out of the braid I tied it in this morning.

At least the water’s hot, and as it pummels down on my body, I press my hands against my face and rub at the muck that’s stuck to it.

“I need you to jump in there and get the one I just bought,” I mimic sarcastically, repeating Jake’s words. “Don’t worry; they won’t hurt you.”

Of course not. They were tiny piglets. It’s Jake who’s the pig.

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