Page 3 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Name tag, genius.

I continue dabbing, unable to look up, mumbling apologies that blend together into an incomprehensible stream of self-flagellation.

“Ms. Redwood,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

A strong hand wraps around my wrist. The touchis firm but not painful, commanding my attention. I finally force myself to look up, and meet those storm-gray eyes.

What I see is a surprise. There’s no anger. Instead, his eyes crinkle slightly and the ghost of a smile plays at his lips.

Then, unbelievably, he chuckles. A rich, entirely unexpected sound.

“You certainly make an impression, Ms. Redwood,” he says, still holding my wrist. His thumb rests against my pulse, which is currently doing its best impression of a hummingbird.

The couple I was entertaining exchange uncomfortable glances. “Perhaps we could continue our discussion another time,” the husband says to the wife, who looks like she might faint. The pair melt into the crowd.

“I am sososorry.” My voice sounds strange in my ears... tight and unnaturally high, like I’m auditioning for a role as a nervous chipmunk. “I can’t believe... I mean, I never... your suit...”

He releases my wrist slowly, almost reluctantly. “It’s just a suit. It can be replaced.” His eyes move past me to my painting. “Your work, however, cannot.”

Wait. Is he... complimenting me? After I’ve essentially assaulted him twice in one evening?

My brain frantically attempts to compute this information. It fails spectacularly, like an old iPhone struggling to run the latest gaming app. And then I have a horrifying thought... what if he meant...

Oh my god, did I splash champagne on my painting, too?

My head shoots to the canvas, and I’m relieved when I see it escaped unscathed. Therelief doesn’t last long, however, when I remember where I am and who’s standing next to me.

He steps closer to the painting, ignoring the wet stain on his suit. “Your brushwork here,” he points to a particular section, “shows remarkable confidence. No hesitation.”

I stare at the spot he’s indicating, wondering if we’re looking at the same painting. That section was a complete accident. My elbow knocked over a cup of coffee, and I frantically incorporated the spill into the piece. The story of my life: turning disasters into art, then turning art showcases back into disasters. A perfect, humiliating circle.

“Uh, yeah," I mumble, eyes fixed firmly on his Italian leather shoes. “It’s... good brushwork.”

The heat from my face has now spread to my neck and chest, creating what I’m sure is a lovely mottled effect that pairs beautifully with the growing sweat stains under my arms.

“Tell me about your inspiration for this piece,” he says, gesturing toward the canvas with one broad palm.

I look up but don’t meet his eyes. “It’s, um...” I swallow hard, my tongue suddenly too large for my mouth. “About urban fragmentation?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement.

“And these red elements here?” He points to a series of jagged crimson lines cutting through the composition.

“Emotional disruption,” I blurt, then immediately wish I could snatch the words back. Could I sound any more like a first-year art student cobbling together pretentious buzzwords?

I chance a glance around the gallery. Severalpeople are watching our interaction with poorly disguised interest. Some even point at me.

Probably talking about how red my face is.

Dean Wess hovers nervously nearby, looking like he’s contemplating diving between us.

Gideon either doesn’t notice the attention or doesn’t care. “The contrast between structure and chaos is compelling. You’ve captured somethingrealhere.”

Convinced he’s either mocking me or suffering from temporary insanity brought on by champagne fumes, I manage a weak nod and shift from one foot to the other.

Is it too late to fake a medical emergency?

Spontaneous combustion from embarrassment might not even be a lie at this point.

“Your use of negative space here,” he gesturing to another section, “suggests absence. Very deliberate.”

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