Page 108 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Here we go. Deep breaths. It’s just your mother. Who you haven’t seen since your wedding to a man you met a week prior. Totally normal.

Gideon moves to answer, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Remember the story. We met at the gallery. You were mistaken for staff. We hit it off. Whirlwind romance. Yada yada.”

“You think I’d forget our own cover story?” His voice carries a hint of amusement. “Considering that most of it actually happened?”

“I’m just saying, she’s going to have questions. Lots of them.”

“I’m prepared for an interrogation,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, wait until she starts showing you my embarrassing childhood photos on her phone.”

The moment the door opens, I’m enveloped in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and maternal worry.

“Ava, sweetheart!” My mother pulls me into a tight hug. She’s only 5’2” but hugs like she’s trying to compress you into a more manageable size. “Let me look at you.”

She holds me at arm’s length, her critical eye scanning me from head to toe. Her gaze lingers on my hair, which I know she’s mentally styling into something more “appropriate.”

Please don’t mention that I need a trim. Please don’t mention that I need a trim.

“You need a trim, darling.”

Damn it!

“Mom, this is Gideon. My husband.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue, even after three months.

She turns, and I watch her face go through a series of expressions. I see surprise, assessment, and finally, approval. Because of course she approves. He’s Gideon freaking King, billionaire among billionaires.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Redwood,” Gideon says, taking her hand.

“Please, call me Wendy. And I must say, the pictures don’t do you justice.” She actually flutters her eyelashes at him.

Oh god, my mother is flirting with my fake husband. Kill me now.

My face heats up predictably. “Mom, let’s get you settled. I’ll show you the guest room.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure your husband can manage my bag. I want to see this apartment I’ve heard so much about.” She links her arm through mine, practically dragging me toward the living area. “Though you haven’t actually told me much of anything, have you?”

And we’re off to a great start.

Two hours later,we’re seated at a restaurant Gideon chose. It’s something upscale but not intimidating, with muted lighting and tables spaced far enough apart for privacy. Our ever-present security detail hovers discreetly nearby.

My mother has spent the entire timepeppering Gideon with questions about his business, his family, his intentions. He answers each one with practiced ease, occasionally reaching for my hand or giving me looks that would convince anyone we’re madly in love.

He’s good at this. Too good. It’s almost easy to forget this is all for show.

“So tell me,” my mother says, sipping her wine, “how did you know Ava was the one? It all happened so quickly.”

Gideon’s hand finds mine on the table. “Some things you just know.” He looks at me with such convincing affection that I almost believe it myself. “When I met Ava, it was like seeing in color for the first time.”

Wow. That was...poetic. And completely rehearsed, obviously.

“He’s exaggerating,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “He just liked that I didn’t fawn all over him when I found out who he was.”

“That’s pretty much the truth,” Gideon agrees, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, “She saw me,reallysaw me, before she knew who I was. Oh sure, I’m sure she suspected thatJohnwas just an alias. But she didn’t know for sure. And she fell in love with the man, not the billionaire. That’s rare in my world.”

Something shifts in my chest, a flutter of something dangerous.

My mother watches our exchange with sharp eyes. “Well, it’s certainly different from your usual type, Ava. Remember that street artist? What was his name? The one with all the tattoos who kept trying to ‘liberate’ you from conventional artistic expression?”

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