Page 85 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

The woman I’m absolutely not developing feelings for.

“That’s all for today,” I tell him. “Go home to your actual happy marriage.”

Jonas sighs but knows better than to push.

After he leaves, I lose track of time buried in financial projections and property values, trying to anticipate Blackwell’s next move. A soft knock at my door pulls me from my concentration. Security wouldn’t let anyone up without alerting me first, which means it’s someone who already has clearance.

“Come in,” I call, not looking up.

The door opens, and the familiar scent hits me before I even see her. Paint and vanilla. Ava.

I raise my head, surprised. She’s standing in my doorway in a simple, short black dress that hugs her curves, holding two crystal tumblers and a bottle of scotch. Her security detail is nowhere to be seen, which means they’re waiting downstairs.

“Hard day?” she asks, stepping inside.

I straighten, suddenly aware of my loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves. “What are you doing here?”

“I came so we could go home together,” she says, approaching my desk. “You know, maintain the illusion that we’re a couple.” She offers me one of the glasses. “And I thought we could properly celebrate my graduation. You know, like a husband and wife should.”

I take the tumbler. She sets down her own, opens the bottle of scotch, and pours us each a generous helping.

I take a sip. The scotch is top-shelf, exactly what I keep in my private bar in the corner of my office. She’s been payingattention.

“I still have work to do,” I tell her, even as I down another mouthful.

“You always have work to do.” She perches on the edge of my desk, closer than she normally allows herself. “But right now, you look like you want to murder someone.”

I snort, taking a sip. The burn feels good going down. “That obvious?”

“Your left eye twitches when you’re fantasizing about corporate homicide.”

Despite my mood, I find myself smiling. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m an artist. I notice details.” She gestures toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. “And I thought we could give any watchers a good show.”

The implication sends a jolt of heat through me that has nothing to do with the scotch. I study her face, trying to read her intentions.

“A good show?” I ask.

Her cheeks redden. “I meant, like show them we’re still on good terms.”

We haven’t touched each other since that night before our arrangement, unless you count the occasional hand-holding or arm-around-waist for public appearances. And that one kiss we shared in the penthouse. A kiss I—

I bury the thought. “What’s really going on, Ava?”

She takes another long sip of her scotch, then reaches for the bottle, pouring herself another generous measure.

“You planning on finishing that bottle?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe.” She shrugs, a slight flush spreading across her cheeks, deeper than before. The scotch ishitting her, softening her edges. She takes another slow sip, gathering her thoughts. “Lucy told me about Blackwell’s new project. About how it’s copying the Riverside concept.”

Of course she did. It was probably a bad idea to share that with her best friend at the graduation, but I had my guard down. “And?”

“And I thought you might need a distraction.” Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. “Plus, if Blackwell has people watching you, what better way to cement our cover than being seen leaving together? Like an actual married couple.”

I put down my glass. “Thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a very thoughtful wife.” There’s something in her tone I can’t quite identify. Frustration? Resignation?

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