Page 77 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I remind myself that every time we’re close enough to lock lips when no one is watching he always pulls back.

“When he finally told me who he really was, by then I’d already figured it out myself,” I admit, which draws morelaughter.

“She came to appreciate my desire for genuine connection,” Gideon finishes smoothly.

“You married a week later, didn’t you?” The suspicious woman presses. “Isn’t that kind of fast?”

I feel heat creeping up my neck.

“When you’ve spent your life surrounded by people who want something from you,” Gideon says, his voice suddenly serious, “you recognize authenticity immediately.” His eyes never leave mine. “I wasn’t about to let that go.”

The group around us collectively sighs at this romantic declaration, and I’m momentarily stunned by how convincing he sounds.

Get it together. He’s just very good at this performance thing.

More guests arrive, and we’re momentarily separated as Jonas pulls Gideon into a conversation with some business associates. I find myself cornered by a cluster of socialites asking detailed questions about our wedding ceremony, which I deflect with vague answers about wanting privacy. Still, I’m thankful there’s no one like Vanessa at this party.

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and small talk. I notice Gideon watching me from across the room as I chat with his extended family members. He raises his glass slightly in a private toast, and I feel a ridiculous flutter in my chest.

It’s the champagne. Definitely the champagne.

The music shifts to something slower, more intimate, and couples begin gravitating toward the cleared area serving as a dance floor. Gideon materializes at my side, taking my half-empty glass and setting it aside.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. King?” he asks, extending his hand.

“Making sure we keep up appearances?” I murmur as he leads me to the floor.

“Something like that.”

His arm encircles my waist, drawing me closer than strictly necessary for convincing others. The spicy notes of his cologne mingle with the warm scent of his skin. I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. An image of his ripped chest and washboard abs flashes fleetingly through my mind. I dismiss it.

Show show show. It’s all a show.

“You’ve been remarkably comfortable tonight,” he observes, guiding me smoothly through the steps. “You’ve come far since that first charity gala.”

“Amazing what a little success will do for one’s confidence,” I reply. “Nothing like having a billionaire’s investment committee approve your crazy artist vision to make you feel like you belong.”

His lips curve into a genuine smile. “Not crazy.Inspired.”

“A compliment from the great Gideon King? I should mark this day on my calendar.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But there’s no bite to his words. His thumb traces small circles against my lower back as we sway to the music, and I find myself relaxing into his embrace.

“They believe us,” I say quietly, nodding toward our audience. “Our story.”

“It’s a good story.”

“Fiction usually is.”

His eyes find mine, searching. “Is it all fiction, though?”

Did he really just say that?

I must be imagining.

My heart stutters. “Sorry, could yourepeat that?”

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