Page 68 of Never Fake Date the Financier
“I haven’t,” I rasp, tilting her chin toward me and kissing her softly. Sensually. Slow but intense. I break the seal, lips still brushing as I say, “I’m hungry for my thirds.”
Ella smiles against my lips.
“I’m hungry for you.”
She holds my gaze for a few beats before speaking, “Looks like I just found my appetite.”
“So you’re ready to get out of here?”
“I’m ready to get out of these clothes again.”
Say no fucking more.
Ella gasps as I scoop her off the ground and whisk her away. “If you’re going to carry me over the threshold like this, I think I need a ring on my finger.”
“Consider it done.”
She laughs, thinking I’m joking, but I’m not. She may not know it yet, but she’s going to be my wife.
My life.
My one and only.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to her.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER - ELLA
“And that’s a wrap for Ella!”
I nearly collapse when I hear those glorious words. Six consecutive fourteen-hour days on set will do that to a person. The crew breaks into applause, and I manage a wobbly curtsy before accepting a bouquet of flowers from the director.
“You were brilliant,” Miranda says, kissing both my cheeks. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I know she says that to everyone, but I still feel a rush of pride. My first real movie role, a supporting character in a BlackeThorne romantic comedy. I didn’t mess up, throw up, or give up. Although there were moments when all three seemed like a real possibility. Thankfully, not all at once.
That wouldnothave been pretty…
Forty-five minutes later, I’m in a car headed home. Our home. Penthouse, I guess. Pent…home? Whatever.
We made it official a few months after we returned from the wedding. I’d been spending more time there than at my apartment. Clothes kept disappearing from my closet and reappearing in Adrian’s. Toiletries. Electronics. Slippers. The works…
I knew the change was inevitable when the only things left at my apartment were my bed, some half-eaten bags of candy, and picture frames with headshots of Nicolas Cage. Olivia was the mastermind behind that one. She wondered how long it would take me to notice.
Months.
Too many months.
When the elevator finally opens up to our penthouse, I’m hit with two distinct scents: something delicious and something not.
“Adrian?” I call out, nervously, unsure of what I just walked into.
I kick off my heels, groaning with relief. I forgot to pack some flats today, so my feet are killing me. Maybe I can convince Adrian into one of his killer foot massages. Then again, he probably won’t need much convincing. And there wouldn’t be much massaging because he’d get distracted, peel my clothes off my body, and well, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad either.
I follow the strange mixture of aromas to the kitchen, hesitant about what I might find. And when I round the corner, I find Adrian frantically waving a dish towel at a smoking oven.
“You’re early,” he says, looking caught between delight and alarm. “I was—cough, hack—hoping to have—hyacck, hyaacck—this under control before you got back.”
