Page 24 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
8
Summer
"A... week?" I squawk. I didn’t heard that correctly. "You mean seven days?"
He raises his eyes skyward, "She can count."
Jerk.I swallow, press my knees together, "I won't do it."
"Why not?" He drums his fingers on the table. "Don't you need this gig?"
"I do."
"Then?"
"My uh—my," I twist my fingers together. How do I put this without giving away more about myself? How…? "My personal circumstances don’t allow me to—"
"Ditch him."
"What?" I stare.
The ego of this guy. I mean, it’s not possible he’s managed to get through life with this attitude, is it? Does everyone he encounter bend to him? Do they?
He rotates his foot, clad in Italian leather shoes.
"Time you got rid of whichever lover boy you're seeing."
My eyes bug out, "You’re joking."
"There you go again, presuming to know what I mean."
I throw up my hands, "You’re speaking in riddles."
"Good, one way for you to put that ol’ brain matter to good use."
Anger thrums at my temples. My pulse pounds. Adrenaline laces my blood. "I’ve never met anyone quite like… like… you." I raise my palm, bring it down.
There’s a blur of motion, and the next moment, he looms above me. His fingers lock on my wrist.
"Let me go."
"Your answer first, Pink."
"Don’t call me that."
"I’ll call you what I want, when I want to, and you’ll answer to it."
"No."
"Yes."
Obnoxious ass. I stare at his face, searching for something… anything that would give me a clue to why he is acting so unreasonably. "Were you born this way or did you become such a repugnant beast along the way?"
"You don’t get to ask the questions."
He tugs me forward and I squeak. My nose bumps his. That dark edgy scent of him envelops me. Moisture pools between my thighs. Hell. How could someone so horrible smell so delicious?
"Your boyfriend—"
