Page 126 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever witnessed.

More intimate than sex. More revealing than any financial disclosure or business negotiation. This is Ava stripped to her essence. Passionate, focused, ferociously talented. No masks. No pretense.

I realize I’m holding my breath when she steps back to study the canvas.

“What do you think?” she asks without turning.

The question catches me off guard. “I’m... I...”

Now she does turn, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “That bad, huh? You can be honest. I can handle it. What do you feel when you look at it?”

“No, it’s just...” I study the painting again. “I feel... like I’ve been let in on a secret. Like I’m seeing something that was never meant to be seen. Like you’ve exposed yourself raw.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “That’s... exactly what I was going for.”

“Really?”

“The vulnerability of creation.” She sets down her brush and approaches me. “Every time I finish a piece, I’m terrified. It’s like standing naked in acrowded room.”

“Yet you do it anyway,” I observe. “You create knowing your work will be judged.”

“Because the alternative is worse.” She’s standing close enough now that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes. “Not creating would kill something essential in me.”

“I’ve never felt that way about anything.”

“Not even your buildings? Your developments?” She gestures toward the window where, just visible in the distance, the lights of Manhattan glitter. “You create too, Gideon.”

“That’s different. Real estate is controlled. Calculated.”

“Is it?” She smiles slightly. “Then why did you fight so hard for the Riverside Corridor project? That wasn’t just about beating Blackwell.”

She’s right, though I’ve never articulated it, even to myself. The project represents something beyond profit margins and market share. A vision of what could be,should be.

It helps that she had a big hand in that vision, of course.

“Perhaps we’re not so different,” I concede.

“Perhaps not.” She reaches out, her paint-stained fingers hovering just above my cheek. “You have vulnerability in you too, Gideon. You just hide it better.”

I catch her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my grip. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she challenges, eyes flashing. “Don’t see you? Too late.”

“Ava—”

“You tracked me down in the middle of the night. You watched me paint for an hour. You’re not here asmy fake husband or business partner. Why are you here, Gideon?”

The truth rises in my throat, dangerous and raw. “I couldn’t sleep without you there.”

Her expression softens, and something shifts in the air between us. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine, and I breathe in the scent of her, that paint and vanilla and that subtle, deeper smell that’s so uniquely Ava.

“I’m here now,” she whispers.

My control shatters. I pull her onto my lap, claiming her mouth with mine. She responds instantly, her fingers threading through my hair, her body melting against me. I taste the coffee she must have had hours ago, feel the softness of her lips contrasting with the firm press of her body.

“We can’t do this here,” she says. “Nowhere to shower off. You’ll get smeared with paint.”

“I don’t care,” I murmur against her neck. “I’ve wanted to do this since I walked in. You’re fucking magnificent when you create.”

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