Page 41 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I consciously release the tension. This arrangement requires compromise, even from me.Especiallyfrom me. It’s a calculated transaction, and some discomfort is simply part of the cost.

“Need some help?” I ask, setting my briefcase down.

She startles, nearly dropping the painting. “Jesus! You scared me.”

“Sorry. But Ididsay I’d be back tonight.” I glance around at the transformation already taking place. “You’ve been busy.”

“I figured I might as well dive in.” She gestures vaguely at the boxes. “Rip off the Band-Aid, you know?”

I nod, removing my suit jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. “You’ve already found a place for your work?”

“Oh.” She looks at the painting in her hands, suddenly hesitant. “I should have asked first. Sorry. It’s your place, and I didn’t mean to—”

“Ourplace,” I correct. “For the next six months, anyway. But yes, next time I’d appreciate it if you asked, first.”

I move closer to examine the canvas she’s holding. It’s a riot of blues and purples, chaotic but somehow harmonious. Nothing like the carefully selected pieces in my collection, yet I find myself drawn to its raw energy.

“It’s good,” I say, genuinely impressed.

Relief flashes across her face. Along with the usual blush. “Thank you.”

I hold out my arms. “Above the couch, then?”

“Above the couch,” she agrees. “Thought I’d give the de Kooning some company, sitting all alone over here.”

I smile. When I take the painting off her hands, our fingers brush briefly. The contact sends an unexpected feeling through me that I quickly suppress.

As I hang the canvas, I’m acutely aware of her closeness, and of the strange domesticity of the moment. This isn’t how I imagined my evening would end when I woke up this morning as a bachelor.

“Thanks,” she says when I finish. “You’re pretty handy for a billionaire.”

“I didn’t always have people doing things for me,” I reply. “Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon.”

“No?” She looks genuinely curious as she settles onto the edge of the sofa. “How did you start, then?”

“Construction work through college. Then flipping houses. Then apartment buildings.” I shrug. “It wasn’t glamorous.”

“Hence the scars.” She gestures to my knuckles.

I glance down at my hands, surprised she noticed the faint white lines crisscrossing my skin. Most people don’t look that closely.

“Some from construction. Some from a more... colorful youth.” I change the subject quickly. “Have you eaten?”

“I had some wedding cake.” She grins sheepishly. “I may have stolen an entire tier for myself.”

“That’s hardly dinner.” I movetoward the kitchen, loosening my tie further. “I can order something.”

“At midnight?” She follows me, hopping onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “Everything’s closed.”

I unlock my phone. “Not for me.”

“Of course not,” she mutters, but there’s amusement in her voice rather than judgment. “Do billionaires have secret midnight food delivery services the rest of us don’t know about?”

“Something like that.” I scroll through my contacts. “Preferences?”

“Surprise me. But nothing with truffles or gold leaf or whatever rich people put on food.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Fine. No truffles.”

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