Page 10 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“You know, covered in body art and glitter,” I clarify.

He smiles. “Sounds messy. And fun.”

“Oh, it is,” I confirm. “But also beautiful when you get it right. I admit I prefer non-moving canvases, though.”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at me with an intensity that makes my cheeks even hotter.

We pull up to a building that’s all glass and steel. The door opens, and the driver (chauffeur?) bows slightly as I get out.

At the entrance, the doorman tips his hat. “Good evening, Mr.—”

“Evening, Charles,” he interrupts. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The doorman grins. “Very much so.”

We pass a security guard at the front desk.

“Evening, Mr. Blake,” ‘John’ forestalls him.

“Evening, sir,” the security guard replies.

We get into an elevator that’s bigger than my entire studio apartment. ‘John’ presses the top floor button and the elevator shoots us up so fast my ears pop.

When the doors open, we’re in a penthouse. A real penthouse. Not the movie kind, the... I don’t even know. Architectural Digest kind? I’m pretty sure my jaw drops.

Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a view that’s insane. The city lights are spread out below, glittering like a spilled jewelry box. It’s breathtaking. And terrifying. Because it’s becoming painfully obvious that this is not a lookalike situation.

My carefully constructed wall of denial is crumbling. Fast.

But I’m also strangely calm, if not intrigued. And, okay, maybe a little turned on. Fine, a lot turned on.

“Nice place,” I manage, trying to sound nonchalant. As if I hang out in billionaire penthouses all the time.

“It has its moments,” he says, leading me toward a wall covered in...

Wait, are those original paintings? Like, museum-worthy originals?

My inner art nerd is having a full-blown conniption. I spot a Rothko, a Pollock, a...

Holy crap, is that a de Kooning?

This guy isn’t just rich, he’s royalty rich.

“You, uh, weren’t kidding when you said you were a collector,” I say, my voice a little squeaky.

His gaze lingers on a vibrant abstract. “No, I wasn’t. These speak to me. Literally speak to me.”

“Yeah, well, they’re screaming at me,” I mutter.

Screaming, ‘You’re so out ofyour league!’

He turns toward me, concern in his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “Just... admiring the walls. Very nice walls.”

Smooth, Ava. Real smooth.

He takes a step closer, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating from him. He smells incredible. That cologne of his is really growing on me.

---