Page 13 of Falling for My Billionaire Fake Date

I couldn’t be selfish. I know I am the spitting image of my mom—everyone says so—and I could see the pain occasionally when he looked at me. Before she left, I wascalled ‘Dora’s twin.’ The townspeople had stopped calling me that after she left. At least in my presence anyway. I can still see some pitying gazes directed at me when they think I’m not looking, but that stopped bothering me a very long time ago.

Dad, Ryan, and Britt were able to convince me to go to therapy. That worked, at least for the time, and the nightmares had ended. I stopped having the urge to open more shops, but I couldn’t close them all, either. They are my sweat and hard work, and I see no point in closing down any of them. The nightmare must have been triggered by Alex’s text. Britt is right, I still need to heal.

Ryan had popped up in the pastry shop yesterday to say hello and again apologize for Jake’s behavior. And he asked if I’d be going for the interview at the new construction company. Getting suspicious, I had narrowed my eyes at him.

Raising both palms in surrender, he’d sworn Britt had run the idea through him before she came by on Saturday. This pep talk over a plate of doughnuts had motivated me to go for the interview, even though he’d looked at me weirdly, as if there’s a joke lost on me. Ignoring the tingling in my spine, I agreed to go for the interview and see what happens.

Looking at the time . . . yikes! It’s 7:15 and the interview is at 9:00. I still have time to get ready and prepare myself mentally. Taking a deep breath, I get up, stretch, and catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes look tired, and I have dark bags under my lower lids, contrasting darkly against my pale face. My hair sticks out wildly, and some is still plastered on my face.

I’d totally pass an audition for the role of a zombie right now.

Shaking my head, I walk downstairs to give Mr. Snow his breakfast. He is sleeping peacefully on his cat bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I tiptoe slowly towards where his bowls are situated to avoid waking him. One of us, at least, has to have a good night’s rest. Filling his bowls with cat food and milk, respectively, I place them down gently, turning to get back upstairs, only to see him already looking at me, eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry I woke Your Highness—wouldn’t want you starving while I’m gone now, would I?” I say sarcastically, grinning widely.

He purrs and raises his head giving me his full-on haughtiness before going to his milk bowl, lapping it up noisily.

“Okay, good morning to you too,” I say, laughing.

Walking into my closet, I select a professional, knee-length, gray skirt, pairing it with a white, button-down shirt with a collar. I want to look as professional as possible. Laying the outfits on the bed, I opt to pair it with a black belt, the buckle designed in the shape of a star.

A pair of closed-toe heeled sandals and a sleek handbag exudes confidence and sophistication—at least in my humble opinion. The handbag is made of high-quality leather with no excessive or loud patterns. It’s probably the most expensive gift I’ve ever gotten myself. I choose a delicate necklace with a tiny star as the design and decide to leave off the earrings.

Peeling off my nightie, I wrap myself in a fluffy pink towel and pad to the bathroom. After a quick shower, with my hair wrapped in a towel, I treat myself to some of my favorite body lotion.Wouldn’t want my skin feeling dry or wrinklinglike an old lady.After a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs, I see it’s 8:15 a.m. so I’d better hurry.

Running my hairbrush through my now-damp hair, I gather it into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck and wrap it around to create a neat bun. I dress as quickly and neatly as I can, since I don’t want to appear for the interview looking rough, or be late, either.

Slipping on a black leather watch, I pick up my bag and double-check to be sure that the credentials I had put there the night before are intact. Satisfied, I rub on some lip balm and apply a stroke of mascara. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

The nerves are beginning to kick in, and a sweaty mess with a white shirt does not pair well. Spritzing on a little bit of my favorite citrus perfume, I grab my phone from the charger, along with my car keys.

When I start the car, a country song comes on. Totally wanting some quiet time to myself, I switch off the radio, roll down the windows, and inhale the crisp, fresh air.

The construction company is on the bustling side of town, a few miles from my shops and house. This part of town is filled with larger companies and peppered with restaurants, a mall, car washes, and other likely shops you’d find in a developing town.

As I drive through, I can feel the change in the atmosphere, the ambiance is bustling and energetic. The streets are filled with cars and people rushing to their destinations. I can hear the sounds of honking horns, the revving of engines, and the chatter of pedestrians. The smell of freshly brewed coffee waftsthrough the air, mingling with the aroma of breakfast from nearby eateries. At least that is familiar to me.

When I glance at the dashboard, I see 8:45 a.m. Yikes! I have never been a good manager of time. It seems to happen every time, except when I’m going to work. No matter how early I wake up for any occasion, I end up getting there late. It’s a bad habit that I really need to get rid of.

Turning towards the next street, I thankfully spot the construction company. It’s located in a vibrant and even more bustling area and situated near a major transportation hub, making it easily accessible for employees and visitors alike.Hmmm,someone is really ambitious.

The environs are filled with other businesses, shops, and restaurants, creating a lively atmosphere. A stark contrast from where I live and where my shops are located. Birchwood is fast developing from what you’d call a small town. At least this part is. I don’t know why, but I feel a pang of nostalgia at the thought.

Pulling into a spacious parking lot for employees and probably visitors, I realize the company is much bigger than I’d imagined or spotted from a distance. It has a modern and professional exterior with ‘PRECISION CONSTRUCT’ displayed prominently in glittering, gold letters. There is also well-maintained landscaping that adds a touch of greenery.

Wow!I think. This company is obviously a big deal. It’s no wonder Jake feels he could insult my businesses, telling me the construction company is a better contribution to society. Obviously, he feels a sense of pride working here, but Ihope we never run into each other. The thought of that happening makes my gut ache.

Walking in, I see that the inside is even more beautiful and spacious, with a very welcoming reception area. The walls are adorned with photographs of completed projects, showcasing the company’s expertise. There is a small waiting area with plush chairs and a glass center table.

Obviously, this isn’t a startup company, it’s a branch. I swallow. If a branch is this big and beautiful, how about the head office? I swallow again, an imaginary lump sticking to my throat. Feeling self-conscious, I try to calm myself mentally.

How did Britt manage to know the CEO of this company again? She’s definitely got some long legs. I can only hope the CEO is a nice guy, or gal, maybe. Because who knows—I might actually get the job, and I won’t want to be stuck with a miserable or mean boss.

I walk towards the reception area, where I see a deep black marble countertop with beautiful gold lining in the middle. There is a computer, phone, and other necessary tools. Behind the desk is the logo of the company, a cursive ‘P,’artfully written inside of a ‘C,’ in a different, but equally artful font.

“Good morning,” I greet the receptionist, who looks up with a warm smile.

I can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks. Her blond hair is neatly kept in a tight ponytail, she has on a black jumpsuit and a white-colored blazer and compliments her outfit with a simple silver necklace and stud earrings. Her gold-plated nametag reads, ‘Sheryl.’

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