Page 72 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

That you have a tiny scar near your left eyebrow. That your hands have stories written across the knuckles. That when you’re actually amused, your eyes crinkle first, before your mouth catches up.

“That you ask too many questions,” I manage to say.

He smiles, just slightly. “Occupational hazard.”

We’re standing inches apart now. Paint still clings to my fingertips. I wonder if it would stain his white shirt if I touched him.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Something shifts in the air between us, a tangible thing, like the moment before two lips touch. I find myself yearning for his touch. To feel his mouth pressing against mine. To feelhis tongue—

He suddenly steps back, all warmth vanishing behind that wooden mask I’ve painted so many times.

“We should both get some sleep.” His voice is coolly professional.

I blink, feeling like I’ve been slapped. “What just happened?”

“Nothing. That’s the point.” He straightens his already straight tie. “Section 5, paragraph 3 of our agreement. No emotional involvement.”

This section 5, paragraph 3 will be the end of me.

“Are you seriously quoting contract sections at me right now?”

“I’m reminding us both of the terms we agreed to.” He glances at the covered windows. “The blinds are shut. No one from Blackwell’s team would see us anyway, so there’s no need for a performance.”

The disappointment that floods me is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

You’re actually upset he didn’t kiss you? Get it together, Ava.

I remind myself that I helped construct section 5, paragraph 3. Insisted on it, even.

“Right,” I say, my tone matching his. “No audience, no show. Business arrangement 101.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Exactly.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’m not confused about what this is.” I turn back to my canvas, picking up a brush I don’t need. “Goodnight, Gideon.”

He hesitates, and for a moment I think he might say something else. Instead, he simply nods. “Goodnight, Ava.”

When he’s halfway across the room, I whisper softly: “And go fuck yourself.”

“What was that?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” I reply sweetly. “Night night.”

He grunts, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

After he’s gone I stare at the painting. The dark figure. The shadow beside it. The fiery threat surrounding them both.

With sudden, decisive movements, I grab a palette knife and scrape across the canvas, destroying hours of work in seconds. Red and black and gold smear together into an unrecognizable mess. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Maybe some things are better left unexpressed.

But even as I think it, I know I’ll paint him again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Because that’s the truth about art. It reveals what we’re trying to hide, even from ourselves.

Especially from ourselves.

24

Gideon

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