Page 4 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

What does surprise me is how she looks.

Gone is the buttoned-up assistant; in her place stands a woman with dark jeans that fit her curves perfectly, a fitted jacket, and fresh curls framing her face.She could make a paper bag look sophisticated.

She spots my car and starts making her way toward it. In response,I step out to greet her, taking her suitcase. I place it gently in the backseat, unsure what exactly she’s packed.

As I slide into the driver’s seat, I offer a smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” she replies, slipping into the passenger seat without another word.

Once we’re on the road, the silence between us feels comfortable. She’s scrolling through her phone. I sneak glances at her screen while we’re sitting in Manhattan traffic and notice that she’s triple-checking every detail of the weekend. Reclaiming my attention, I grip the steering wheel, forcing myself to focus on the taillights ahead of us.

“So,” I say, breaking the quiet. “Ready to play the role of a lifetime?”

She lowers her phone, giving me a skeptical look. “You mean playing your loving, devoted girlfriend?”

“Exactly.”

She snorts—then catches herself, clearing her throat as if smoothing over the slip. “Lower your expectations, Mr. Clarke. I’m not much of an actress.”

“I disagree,” I parry. “Remember last month’s board meeting? You convinced Thompson that I was in Dubai when I wasactuallynursing a hangover.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. “That was different. This is…”

“A challenge?”

“A mistake,” she states firmly. “This whole thing—” she gestures between the two of us as she continues her thought, “terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

“Because the company needs this,” I admit, “and I can’t do it without you.”

That catches her attention. She looks at me—really looks at me—like she’s deciphering some code that surrounds me. “Deceit is dangerous, Mr. Clarke.”

“So is crossing the line, but here we are.”

When we arrive at the marina, a gleaming yacht dominates the view—large enough to host a full party, but not gaudy enough to be mistaken for a cruise ship. It’s the kind of ostentatious display that doesn’t need flashy colors to scream old money. Harris doesn’t just have power—he flaunts it.

Dana steps out of the car, her gaze flicking between the yacht and me. Her brows lift. “Wow. It’s…big.”

I press my lips together fighting the immediate, entirely unprofessional thought that wants to follow.

She turns to me, deadpan. “Don’t.”

I smirk, shrugging innocently. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“What can I say? Some things just demand appreciation.”

She exhales, shaking her head before narrowing her eyes. “Please tell me I don’t have to share a room with you.”

I grin. “Would it be so terrible?”

She gives me a look that could freeze hell. “Yes.”

“Relax,” I reply, grabbing her suitcase. “The suite is big enough that you’ll hardly notice I’m there.”

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