Page 105 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Tomorrow, I’ll have to face what this really means. Tonight, I let myself have this moment, storing away the memory of being in his arms for when our six months are up and I have to walk away.

Because that’s still the plan. It has to be.

Doesn’t it?

34

Gideon

Iwake before Ava, my arm still draped over her waist. For a moment, I allow myself to simply watch her sleep. The early morning light filters through the partially opened blinds, casting a soft glow across her face. She looks peaceful, unburdened by the complications of our arrangement. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache.

This is dangerous territory.

I carefully extract myself from the bed, mindful not to wake her. In the bathroom, my gaze lingers on the shower longingly. I quickly look away, splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. The man looking back at me seems different somehow. Softer around the edges. Fuck.

Last night was... intense. The fear of losing her to Burt’s machinations, the protective rage that coursed through me, culminating in that explosive release. But it shouldn’t have happened. We have a contract, for Christ’s sake. A contract with a very specific clause about emotional involvement.

I tell myself it was just sex, but the problem is, sexcan very easily lead to feelings. But is that necessarily a bad thing?

Yes. Yes it is.

I’m dressed and in the kitchen when she finally emerges. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh, her hair a wild tangle of curls. She freezes when she sees me, uncertainty flashing across her face before she composes herself.

“Morning,” she says, her tone deliberately casual.

“Coffee?” I offer, equally detached.

“Please.”

I pour her a cup, careful to avoid brushing her fingers as I hand it to her. The distance between us feels both necessary and painful.

“About last night,” I start, because someone has to say something.

“Just adrenaline,” she cuts in quickly. “The whole Burt situation was intense.”

I nod, ignoring the irrational stab of disappointment. Isn’t this what I want? What we both agreed to?

“Right. Just adrenaline.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, eyes fixed on anything but me. I should be relieved by her detachment. Instead, I find myself irrationally hurt. I want her to be affected, to show some sign that last night meant something to her.

Pathetic, King. Get your shit together.

“We’ve reached the halfway point,” I say abruptly.

Her eyes snap to mine, and I see a glimmer of fear. “What?”

“Our arrangement. Today marks three months. We’re halfway through.”

Understanding dawns on her face, followed bysomething I can’t quite read. Uncertainty? Regret? Whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that practiced neutrality she’s perfected.

“Oh. Right.”

An awkward silence stretches between us. Three months down, three to go. The thought sits heavily in my stomach.

“I’ve made reservations atLe Cielfor tonight,” I say, filling the silence. “For appearances’ sake.”

Her eyebrow arches slightly. “Le Ciel?Isn’t that impossible to get into?”

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