Page 16 of Marrying the Billionaire

On the other hand, if all Archer and I have is a pretend marriage for the next however many years, could having unrequited feelings end up being worse than the indifference Gabriel and I shared?

“Sorry about that,” Archer says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. “It was time sensitive.”

I nod, surreptitiously eyeing the way his shoulders fill out his suit as he rolls them back, how handsome he is, how powerful.

No, I’ll never regret marrying Archer instead of Gabriel, no matter how it turns out.

An aura of quiet authority surrounds him as we head out of his office and toward the elevator, the people we pass giving deferential nods or murmuring, “Mr. Bishop,” with respect in their tones.

There’s something exciting about being by this man’s side, his long legs striding confidently down the hall like he owns the place. Well, I guess he does in a way. Or will one day as his father’s successor. And from what I can gather, it wasn’t just a vanity appointment to his current position as CFO solely because of who his father is.

He jabs the elevator button as we reach it, his thumb tapping restlessly against his leg for a moment before he sticks his hands in his pockets, and the metal doors slide open, a heavyset man already inside. “Mr. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop.” He nods, stepping aside to make room for us.

Full body chills race over my skin at his reference to me as Mrs. Bishop. No one has called me that yet.

I glance over at Archer to see if he caught it too, but he’s concentrating on the elevator’s digital readout descending methodically.

Today’s mission is to figure out a way to break through his reserve. Discover things we have in common. Make a connection.

No pressure.

For now, I enjoy standing close to him, inhaling the subtle spice of his cologne, and as we exit the elevator, a tingle of electricity rushes through me as he gently presses his palm against my lower back.

I shouldn’t read anything into it, but I can’t help but savor it all the same.

The stares are even more obvious as we pass through the lobby of the building to his waiting town car downstairs, and if it’s this bad here, it’s sure to be worse at Evergreen. Expensive, exclusive, and frequented by the elite of New York, the marketing packet listed it as a prime location for paparazzi.

He scrolls through emails on his phone as the driver takes off, and I rack my brain for something to say, unwilling for any private time we spend together to be in silence. We’re supposed to be connecting, not ignoring each other.

“I read that piece Gabriel wrote for the Manhattan Herald. Or did the PR team write it?”

“What?” he asks, only half paying attention.

“The editorial about us.”

His thumb pauses in its scrolling before he carefully sets his phone down on his lap. “What are you talking about?”

“Tracy told me…” I fumble in my purse for my phone, praying I still have the article up in my browser. “You mean it wasn’t part of the strategy?”

“No.” The single word sends a shiver down my spine.

I hand him my phone, his face impassive as he reads through his brother’s explanation to the world.

“Well, this will help squash the rumors we’ve been going behind his back,” he finally says.

People are actually saying that about us? I’ve deliberately avoided social media the past few days.

“Has your dad seen it yet?”

“I’m sure I’ll hear about it,” he mutters as the car comes to a stop.

He grips my hand as we step out, keeping it in a loose hold as we enter the restaurant, a few whispers and curious glances circling us as we pause at the hostess podium and then continue on to a private table in the corner. I choose the seat facing away from the other patrons, pretending they aren’t actively staring at us.

After the server takes our orders, I pull the marketing packet out of my purse, smoothing it out in front of me. “Should we come up with a game plan for the next few days?”

He nods, folding his hands in front of him. “Do you have any events you planned to go to?”

“No, just work.”

---