Page 10 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Truly, I could have handled this whole thing better. Sure, what the Wolfe Foundation did was a dick move, but I'm used to rich people and their lack of consideration for other people's efforts. I worked with the Beverly Hills Brat, for crying out loud.
I know how to put my foot down without throwing a tantrum, yet, as evolved as I pretend to be, I'd allowed my temper to get the best of me. I should never have gone to his office and confronted him like that. It was a ridiculous thing to do, and highly unprofessional. Embarrassing, even. As for the sex… the sex was most definitely a terrible idea. What on Earth had gotten into me? Well,thatwas easy enough to answer, anyway. I know exactly what had "gotten into me" and if I am honest, I have to admit that it had felt pretty darned good—amazing, even.Okay, it was the best sex I've ever had, I gloomily acknowledge. What does that say about me?
The aftermath of it still ripples through my body.
God damn him.
Why did he have to be so fucking incredible? Why can't I stop thinking about the taste of that asshole's lips and the delicious sensation of his cock splitting me in two?
Not to mention the way he made me beg for it, his animalistic groan as he finally entered me.
Why couldn't he have a tiny wiener, or smell bad, or come too early, or have some other physical imperfection? Why, in short, couldn't he have been useless in the sack, so all I have is regret? Instead, I have both regretanda longing to do it all again. That's not fair. One or the other, yes. But not both.
I groan and drag my hand down my face, reaching over to grab my phone.
I just pray he hasn't ruined me for every other man I might meet.
I pray I don't dream about him every night from now on, but somehow, I know I will.
"I'm sorry, they said what?"
It's several days later, and I'm staring at my accountant, Gracie, in disbelief as she repeats what she just said.
"The Wolfe Foundation is not signing off on the expense report," she says. "They claim that they never agreed to most of the expenditure we are claiming for; hence, they will not be reimbursing us for it."
I feel my eye twitch. My blood pressure rapidly increases until I can practically hear the steam rising out of my ears.
"Of course they approved it," I bite out through my teeth. "Whenever I could get them to answer a phone call, I told them my plans, and they would always just say, 'Yeah, that's fine.'"
"That's not good enough. Not if they don't admit to it." She shakes her head pitifully. "There's no paper trail to show it was approved, is there?"
"No, because they don't answer their damned emails. Oh, that fucking bastard." I shut my eyes, because it's quickly occurring to me that this might be some kind of scam, a way for them to get out of paying what they owe. Why a billion-dollar company would want to pull something like that, I have no clue. But here we are. It's not enough that he shit on my hard work, before fucking me senseless; now he's trying to scam me too. It's not trivial either. Well, maybe for them, but not for me. We're talking tens of thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands I simply cannot afford.
I fell for the oldest trick in the book. I know better than anyone the necessity of getting everything in writing. Forgetting that was an amateur mistake. A lesson I promise myself I will always apply in the future. In this case, the lesson is not to doanythingfor a client unless we have their agreement in writing squared away first. No matter how urgent.
I jerk angrily out of my seat and head towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Gracie calls.
"To get it in writing, if I can."
"Good luck with that." Iris winces, not envying me the task I've set myself.
"I'll be back," I say. Arnold Schwarzenegger, eat your heart out. Grayson Wolfe hasn't seen the last of me yet.
CHAPTER 4
Grayson
The moment I step out the side door leading into the family estate's garden, I know it's a mistake.
The manicured lawn is full of New York's finest, all smartly dressed and with fixed smiles, mingling and greeting each other, holding polite and non-controversial conversations, seeing and being seen. Some loiter by the trimmed hedges deep in discussion, while others lounge under the gazebo, wine glasses in hand, listening to the orchestral quartet we've hired. There's a table set up with charcuterie and caviar appetizers, and waiters and waitresses in black suits and dresses mingle with the guests, offering trays of wine and fruit juice.
A waiter spots me and starts to head over, but then hesitates, probably because of my stormy expression. I don't blame him.
I'm not known to be a pleasant man, even on a good day, and I'm even worse when I'm pissed.
I'm definitely pissed right now.
