Page 89 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I finally risk a glance at him. He’s wearing a crispcharcoal suit, hair perfectly styled, not a hint of stubble on his jaw. Nothing about him suggests a man who had wild, passionate office sex last night. Meanwhile, I’m wearing yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt with a coffee stain on the hem because I can barely function this morning.

This is fine. Totally fine. We’re adults. We had sex for show in case Blackwell was watching. It meant nothing. We both agreed it meant nothing.

“The West Village space looks interesting,” Gideon says, walking over to look at my screen. He stands close enough that I can smell his cologne. That expensive blend of blood-orange zest and woodsmoke that makes my stomach flip.

I shift slightly away, creating distance. “It needs work, but the location is prime. It’s super expensive, though. But by the time our contract is up, I should have enough from the settlement to make it work. And if not, I suppose I could always convert my Brooklyn studio into a gallery.” I try to sound excited, professional, but there’s a weird hollowness in my chest when I mention the end of our arrangement. Which makes zero sense because that was always the plan.

“Sometimes the diamonds in the rough are the best investments.” His voice sounds cold, detached.

Is he still talking about real estate? I have no idea. This conversation feels loaded with subtext, but maybe that’s just me projecting. Maybe for him, this really is just about gallery spaces.

I close the laptop. “Well, I should get to my studio. I have a commission I need to finish.”

I don’t have a commission. What I have is an urgent need to escape this penthousebefore I do something stupid like ask if he’s thinking about last night too.

“Actually,” Gideon says, checking his watch, “you might want to wait a few minutes. There should be a delivery coming up.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes, and Philip, Gideon’s household manager, appears with a signature white box from Magnolia Bakery.

“A delivery for you, Mrs. King,” Philip says, placing the box on the counter.

“Thank you, Philip,” I say automatically, staring at the box.

Philip discreetly exits, leaving me alone with Gideon and a box of pastries I didn’t order.

I open the lid to find an assortment of my favorite pastries. There are the raspberry almond croissants I mentioned loving once, those little lemon tarts that are impossible to eat without making a mess, and chocolate éclairs that I’ve been known to make inappropriate noises over.

“What’s this?” I ask, confused by this display of thoughtfulness from a man who’s been acting like we’re discussing a merger rather than the fact that we violated our “no emotional involvement” clause in spectacular fashion.

I remind myself that it was just sex. That there was no emotional involvement.

It’s a good lie.

Gideon takes a sip of his coffee. “I thought you might enjoy them with your coffee.”

“You remembered these are my favorites.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t hard to remember. You practically proposed marriage to that éclair when we had dinner at Le Bernardin.”

I laugh despite myself, the tension easing slightly. “In my defense, that was a life-changing éclair.”

Our eyes meet, and for a second, I see a flash of the man from last night. The one who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. Then the mask comes down again, and he’s back to being the controlled, detached businessman.

“I should head out,” he says, finishing his coffee. “Board meeting at nine.”

“Right. Of course.” I pick up a croissant just to have something to do with my hands. “Thanks for the pastries.”

He nods, heading for the elevator. At the last moment, he turns back. “Ava—”

I look up, heart suddenly racing.

Is he going to acknowledge what happened? Are we finally going to talk about it? Oh please, please...

“The gallery in Chelsea,” he says instead. “Make sure you check the water damage in the back corner. That building had flooding issues last year.”

And just like that, we’re back to business.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say, forcing a weak smile.

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