Page 7 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I look back. They don’t seem to be following us. Not private security, then.

Maybe he’s not Gideon King after all.

He makes small talk during the walk. The easy banter keeps my mind occupied, almost silencing the tiny voice screaming about billionaires and bad decisions. Each streetlamp we pass feels like a decision point, a chance to turn back. But my feet keep moving.

And then we’re there.

The Velvet Curtainis dimly lit and intimate, with a low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses and silverware. We find a booth tucked away in a corner, the plush velvet seating swallowing us when we sit.

A waiter appears and ‘John’ orders two martinis without even asking me what I want.Presumptuous, but I can roll with it.

As we wait for our drinks, a man approaches our table. He’s tall, blond, and looks like he’s stepped straight out of GQ magazine. Still, he’s got nothing on ‘John.’

“Well, hello there, beautiful.” GQ-wannabe gives me a predatory smile and leans in. “I’m Brad.” He extends a hand, pretending that ‘John’doesn’t exist.

Before I can come up with a polite rejection, ‘John’ intervenes.

“She’s with me,” he says firmly, his eyes glinting dangerously. The blond guy assesses him for a moment, then shrugs and walks away.

“Thanks,” I say. “I can usually handle myself, but—”

“Sometimes it’s nice to have backup,” he finishes.

Exactly.

The waiter returns with our drinks, two perfectly crafted martinis with olives gleaming in the dim light. We clink glasses.

“So,” I say, taking a sip of the overly strong drink, “tell me, ‘John,’ what does a man who’s definitelynota billionaire do for fun?”

His slow, deliberate smile makes my stomach flip. Again. “The same things everyone else does, I suppose.”

“Like what?”

He considers for a moment. “I like trying new things. New restaurants, hidden bars like this one.” He gestures around the intimate space. “Travel when I can find the time. Though lately, it’s mostly been domestic.” A fleeting shadow crosses his face, gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

“Domestic, huh? So, you’re a homebody?” I tease, taking another sip of my drink. The alcohol is starting to loosen my anxiety.

He chuckles. “Not exactly. But I do appreciate a well-appointed space.” He adds with a wry smile: “And I’m a surprisingly good cook if I do say so.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Specialty?”

“Anything that involves fire. Grilling, mostly.”

I purse my lips. “I, on the other hand, am a master of the microwave. Mac 'n' cheese, frozendinners. You name it, I can nuke it. I can even make fried rice in the microwave.”

He laughs, then leans in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “Everyone has their talents.”

My breath catches in my throat. The air between us suddenly feels charged.

“So,” I say, leaning back and forcing myself to break the spell, “besides culinary adventures and gallery hopping, what else? Any secret hobbies? Competitive ferret racing? Extreme ironing?”

He smiles patiently. “Nothing quite that exotic. I’m a collector. Of sorts.”

“Ofsorts?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Experiences, mostly,” he says. “Moments. Things that can’t be bought or replicated.”

“Like art?”

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