Page 13 of Holiday Hoax

“I’m buying all our meals.”

“I can handle that.”

“And any incidentals.”

That’s up for debate, but my stomach growls again, so I push my reluctance aside in order to dig into my dinner. He looks at me as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to piece together. The fact of the matter is that I don’t want to be something he has to solve.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks in between bites of moussaka.

“How much I hate that question.” I smirk at him. “But I’ll answer it anyway. I just want this to be a mutually beneficial arrangement for us.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smirk. “Follow the rules, and it will be.”

I scoff and glance away because that made me tingle in places that have no business tingling. The last thing I need to do is get a crush on the billionaire I’m fake dating. Especially when he is my own brother’s brother-in-law.

Long after Ian has left, my mind is still reeling with the echoes of his words. Accepting financial help from him is out of the question. I’m honestly surprised he even offered.

What’s more troubling, though, is my body’s reaction to his anger over finding my list. Why did seeing him get protective turn me on like it did? I’ve never been into guys with a possessivebone in their bodies before. Hell, half of my exes would have been just fine if I wanted to explore outside of the relationship. I always told myself it was great to be with open-minded men, even if I’m a serial monogamist.

I roll onto my side in bed, looking out the window at the city lights dotting the horizon. The tingle I felt when the wordmineleft Ian’s lips continues to linger in my body. But I refuse to relieve the growing ache.

Nope.

Not happening.

I will not be masturbating to thoughts of the sexy as sin billionaire I’m fake dating. We’re just friends. Acquaintances really. The only reason we would have crossed paths is because of our siblings being married to each other.

It doesn’t matter that his eyes crinkle when he laughs or smiles. Or that his forearms are as sexy as his hands. In fact, I bet his hands are soft. Billionaires all have soft hands, I bet, probably from earning their money off the hard working backs of their employees.

I should just lump Ian in with all the other people of the same net worth as him. Elon Musk,gag. The Koch brothers,shiver. Jeff Bezos,cheater.Bill Gates, I stop at that one. At least he gives to charity. I wonder if Ian does, and if so, I wonder which ones.

Instead of counting sheep I fall asleep listing billionaires and why they suck. All in an effort to remind myself not to catch feelings for the one taking me to dinner tomorrow night.

CHAPTER 5

IAN

Sweat rollsdown my temples as I round the corner of my building and approach the private entrance for my penthouse. I added an extra few miles onto my run this morning to try to burn through all my restless energy from last night. Even with the wind coming off the lake and the chilly temperatures, I still managed to drench myself.

Unfortunately, that restlessness continues to linger even as my muscles ache and my lungs work in overdrive. I lift the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat off my brow as I step onto my elevator. The doors close, giving me a distorted image of myself in the reflection.

It’s an apt metaphor for how I’m feeling about my life at the moment. Just like I can clearly see my form, I know what I want. But much like the detail of my face and body, how to achieve my goals is unclear. What exactly am I striving for beyond being installed as CEO for my own family’s company?

I shake my head as I step off the elevator and into my foyer. The sound of Marta puttering around in the kitchen gives me an excuse to shove my worries to the back of my mind. She’s putting together some kind of casserole that will go in the freezer for me. I had never had anything like it the first time she made one for me. My mother always employed private chefs who made elaborate meals for us. She’d probably lose her mind at the thought of me sitting down eating a casserole.

Which honestly just makes it taste better.

“Good morning,” I tell her as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You stink,” she says with her thick accent as she points a wooden spoon in my direction. “Too much exercise. You should be relaxing on the weekend.”

“Exercise relaxes me.” I lean my hip against the counter and watch her. “What are you making?”

“There’s no name. I just throw stuff together and, poof, magically tastes good.”

I chuckle. “I can’t wait.”

“What are you doing today? Going into work?” Judgement coats her question.

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