Page 8 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Maybe,” he admits.

Okay, definitely a collector. And definitely skirting the billionaire line again.

“I prefer art that tells a story,” I say, feeling a sudden need to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Something that resonates. Something you can’t find anywhere else.”

“I agree,” he says softly. “Authenticity is rare. And valuable.”

With the alcohol continuing to flow, I feel more at ease, and we talk for what feels like hours. He tells me about a recent trip to Italy, describing the rolling hills of Tuscany and the chaos of Florence with a detail that makes me feel like I’m there with him. I tell him about my struggles to balance my art with the demands of school and the pressure to succeed and make it big. It’s a connection forged in shared vulnerabilities, fueled by alcohol and the anonymity of thedimly lit bar.

Eventually, I find myself sharing stories I rarely tell, about my grandmother teaching me to paint, and about the portrait of her that meant so much.

“It was the best thing I’d ever created,” I admit, swirling the ice in my latest whiskey sour. The alcohol has blunted the sharp edges of my anxiety, creating a pleasant haze where my usual self-consciousness should be. “It’s just too bad what happened to it.”

“And what happened to it?” he says, leaning forward.

I bite my lower lip. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s in the past.” I take another sip. “Let’s just say I’m very particular about my work now. About who gets to own it.”

Something flickers in his eyes: understanding, maybe, or something deeper. “Control matters when you’ve had it taken from you.”

“Exactly.” Our eyes lock, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how the background noise has faded to a distant hum. His cologne envelops me again, and I notice the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw.

A familiar heat creeps back into my cheeks, but this time it’s not entirely from embarrassment.

He leans forward, closing the distance between us by inches. “I find it refreshing, you know.”

“What?” My voice sounds breathier than I intend.

“Talking to someone who just sees me, for...” He pauses, searching for words.

“A person?” I suggest, smiling slightly.

He laughs, that rich sound I’m starting to anticipate. “Yes. Just a person.”

A comfortable silence falls between us, a silencefilled with shared understanding and something else. Something deeper.

The bar has a small dance floor, and a band is playing a slow song. ‘John’ gives me a questioning look.

“Dance?” he asks.

I nod, my heart beating.

He takes my hand, leading me onto the dance floor. Then he pulls me close, and I feel his body warm against mine. I can smell that damn cologne again, that heady mix of citrus and spice.

He moves with a natural grace, his hand firm on the small of my back, guiding me effortlessly. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me and getting lost in the moment.

His hand moves lower, tracing the curve of my spine, sending a tremble through my body.

I open my eyes, looking up at him. His gaze is intense, burning with a desire that mirrors my own.

The song ends and, fetching his martini from our table, he leads me off the small dance floor and through a set of doors that open onto a balcony.

The cool night air is a welcome contrast to the heat of the bar. We lean against the railing, looking out at the city lights.

He offers me his martini. I take a swallow of the drink and hand it back.

“You know,” I say, “I’m always careful. Too careful. I follow the rules. I do what’s expected. I always...” I trail off, unable to finish.

He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “And tonight?”

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