Page 5 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Him.

Okay, maybe nothimhim. The lighting in here is definitely playing tricks on my brain. He is... similar. Same tall, lean build. Same ridiculously sharp jawline. Same dark hair, though this time it is styled in a more casual, less ‘I-own-half-of-Manhattan’ way. He’s wearing a dark, fitted sweater and jeans, which is a significant departure from earlier.

But the eyes. Those intense, storm-gray eyes are unmistakable.

Okay, Ava, play it cool. Pretend you didn’t publicly humiliate yourself in front of him. Twice. Maybe he has a twin. A slightly less intimidating, more approachable twin who enjoys slumming it in SoHo galleries after hours.

“Admiring your handiwork?” he asks in a low voice.

I can feel my face turning red already.

Handiwork? Is he talking about the painting or the champagne incident?

“More like contemplating the best way to burn it and flee the country,” I reply, forcing a casual tone that feels about as natural as a penguin on a Miami beach. “You know, start fresh. Maybe take up goat farming. Goats don’t judge our questionable life choices.”

“No, they don’t.” He smiles. The curve of his lips makes my stomach do a distracting flip. “But really, goat farming? Seems a bit drastic. Though I imagine the scenery would be an improvement over this.” He gestures vaguely at the gallery.

Okay, he’s definitely got a sense of humor.

And he’s not running away screaming.

Progress.

“This,” I say, gesturing back with a flourish, “is the culmination of four years of school.” I point directly at my painting. “Behold. My masterpiece. Otherwise known as a collection of colorful splatters that vaguely resemble the Manhattan skyline. Depending on your current blood alcohol content, of course.”

His gaze fixes on the painting, and I feel the heat in my face subside somewhat. “I’d say it’s more than just ‘colorful splatters.'" His voice is softer now, almost intimate.

He’s complimenting my work. Again. Is this some kind of elaborate torture? Is he going to present me with a bill for dry cleaning and then have me arrested for assault?

“You look familiar,” I blurt out. “Have we met before? You kind of look like... you know, um, that Gideon King guy?”

Smooth, Ava. Real smooth.

Ofcourse it’s him.

Or maybe not?

The lighting is different, and so are the clothes. I mean, I didn’t really look at him all that closely earlier. And what little memories I have of his face are fuzzy. Humiliation in front of all your peers will do that to you.

Either way, he’s gorgeous.

He smiles, and it transforms his face in a way I hadn’t seen earlier. “I get that a lot. Makes for some interesting situations. Once got upgraded to first class because the flight attendant was convinced I was him.”

“That’s...” I struggle to find the right word. “Convenient?”

He gives me a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m John.” He closes the gap between us and extends a hand.

Hesitantly, I take it. His hand is warm and firm, the scars on his knuckles a subtle reminder of a past that is probably far more interesting than mine. His cologne hits me full-on. That damn cologne. Blood-orange zest, amber, vetiver, and... woodsmoke. It’s unmistakable.

Holy shit. Itishim.

My face heats up instantly, my dreaded blushing beginning right on cue. Great. Just when I thought I’d used up my daily quota of mortification.

“Ava,” I manage to squeak out, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. “I know.” He nods at my chest. “Name tag.”

I stare at him, stunned. Then I look down at my dress and giggle girlishly as I remove the tag.

---