Page 8 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Fake Girlfriend

"I know," he said, his voice softening. "But it's necessary. If we're going to convince the board, we need to make this look real."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Fine. But we stick to the boundaries we agreed on. No kissing, no touching, none of that."

He rolled his eyes. "We will have to touch each other a little bit to make it convincing, Sasha."

I blew out a breath and glared at him. "Okay, fine, but we keep it family-friendly. Hugging and kisses on the cheeks only."

He nodded. "Agreed."

We spent the next hour hashing out the details of our plan, from the story of how we met to the events we would attend. By the time we were done, I felt a little more in control, but the weight of what we were doing still hung over me. Could I really pull it off? A part of me felt like a fraud.

As I stood to clear the table, Denver reached out and gently grabbed my wrist. "Sasha."

I looked at him, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. "What?"

"I know this isn't easy for you. But I want you to know that I'm going to do everything I can to protect you. From the stalker, from the board, from everything. No matter what happens with this fake relationship, I will keep you safe and give you an opportunity to lead your own line."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. "Thank you, Denver."

He released my wrist, and I quickly turned away to escape to the dishwasher. I busied myself with the dishes while he cleaned up the kitchen table. But his words lingered in my mind, stirring up emotions I wasn't ready to face. This arrangement was supposed to be simple, but already, it was becoming anything but.

For the rest of the afternoon, we fell into a strange rhythm. Denver worked from home in an office on the other side of the penthouse. I could hear him on the phone and the sounds of his typing on his computer through the closed doors. His presence was a constant reminder that I wasn't alone.

While he was in the office, I explored the penthouse and settled on setting up my workspace in the living room. I spread out my sketches on the sofa and coffee table. Soon, I was lost in the flow of work as I added finishing touches to the sketches.

For lunch, I rummaged around the fridge and found the supplies to make a turkey and ham sandwich. Denver didn't emerge from his office until it was almost sunset.

"Do you like seafood?" He asked. His shirt slightly rumpled and there was a determined set to his jaw that told me he had been deep in work all day. As he made his way to the fridge, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean tanned muscles that flexed with each movement. My breath caught in my throat and I clenched my fingers on the edge of the table like they were his arms.

I nodded. Clearing my throat, I found my voice. "Yeah, what do you have in mind?"

"How about grilled halibut in a garlic white wine sauce with roasted vegetables? I figured we could have something lighter and healthier after all the pancakes this morning."

My stomach grumbled and Denver smirked at the noise. "How about you help prepare a salad while I cook?" he asked.

I mock-saluted him and took the knife and cutting board he handed me.

We worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the soft hum of the refrigerator. It was oddly domestic, and I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort in the moment. Despite being forced to live together under unfortunate circumstances, there was something nice about this. About him.

As I chopped the vegetables, I couldn't help but hum under my breath.

"What's that song?" Denver asked.

"Just something I made up," I said with a grin. "It's called Denver's Glare Could Freeze Hell Over." He shot me a look, but I swear I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"So," Denver said, breaking the silence. "How's the design coming along?"

I glanced up, surprised he'd asked. "It's going. I'm still working out some details, but I think it's coming together."

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I'd like to see it sometime. If you're comfortable sharing."

I hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure. Maybe after dinner."

He smiled, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. There was something about his smile, so rare and genuine, that made him look boyish. Not the grumpy billionaire who left a trail of broken hearts and scandals in his wake. Right now, he was just a man who, despite everything, seemed to care about my work.

We finished preparing dinner and sat down at the table, the salad and grilled fish between us with a bottle of wine. The first few bites were quiet and stilted, but as the meal went on, the conversation began to flow more naturally.

"You're a good cook," I said. "I didn't expect that."

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