Page 165 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
Neither of us says a word.
Then he clicks his tongue, "Max, get it."
I frown, watch him. He has his gaze trained on the paper. I wait a second, another. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.
"Sinclair?"
His jaw tics.
"Sin?"
A vein throbs at his temple.
"What’s wrong?"
"Max." He clears his throat, tracks his gaze across the floor toward me. "You like her, don’t you, boy?"
I scan the room again, see nothing… except for the pet rug in the corner—which I’d spotted before—and next to it, a leash. My heart begins to thud. "Sin, you’re beginning to scare me."
"I knew you liked her from the moment you saw her at the pub. How she leaned across the counter as if she owned the place, sucked down that pink concoction—"
"It’s called a Daiquiri—frozen, not stirred."
"What-bloody-ever."
I stiffen. For a second there, I was sure I’d sensed something different. "I signed it, so that’s it. It's over between us." I pivot, walk toward the door.
"Stop."
I hasten my steps.
"Bird."
My heart stutters. No, I will not give in to his stupid nicknames. He doesn’t mean anything when he calls me that. It is how he manipulates my emotions, which, apparently, I have a shit ton of when it comes to him.
I reach the door, grab the handle.
"Max, go to her."
My spine stiffens.
"Go on, good boy, that’s it, brush up against her ankles, grab the hem of her skirt, rub her back—"
"Stop." I pivot to face him, "Who’s Max?"
"My imaginary dog."
