Page 31 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Properly dressed? Who does he think he is?
I might have been tempted by the offer if not for the barbed comments. But he's got my dander up now, so I dig in.
"What exactly is your problem with what I'm wearing?"
"Too much color and fluff."
I shrug. "So I like whimsical pieces. Sue me."
"You might not like it so much after you're humiliated at a country club by a woman with a smile sweet as sugar and a tongue sharp as glass."
It takes me a second. "You mean your mother."
He nods. "Her and her equally judgmental friends."
"Yeah, I'm not worried about that."
Both Grayson and Steph talk like their mother's the second coming of Monster-in-Law — a woman who chews up girlfriends and spits them out. They think she'll have me in tears.
They underestimate me.
The Beverly Hills Brat's mother had been no walk in the park either, but she'd still given me a fat tip in the end—because I got her to appreciate me, even if she didn't exactly like me.
No matter how tough Grayson's mother is, I'm sure I'll win her over. But what if I don't? Big whoop. I'm not actually marrying her son, so her opinion means nothing. I won't break down crying over a few snide comments.
"I'm not letting you dress me up for the duration of this contract," I tell him. "I want to present myself as my authenticself. If I look and feel like a caricature, it'll be harder to pretend, and we'll get caught."
He rubs his chin. "Is that your final decision?"
I nod, though my stomach knots. Please don't let this be a deal-breaker.
"Suit yourself," Grayson says. "You going to sign?"
I blink, surprised. I hadn't expected him to back off so easily. "Okay," I say, and just like that, I've signed the single largest contract of my entire life by far—one million dollars, payable in cash, to a bank account I nominate, in six months' time. Just so long as I keep my mouth shut, pretend I'm his goddamned fiancée, and act like a good little girl at all times.
Can I manage it?
For a million bucks?
Yeah, I think I can manage it. I sign with a flourish and hand Grayson back both copies of the contract and his flashy, Louis Vuitton pen that probably cost twice as much as all the furniture in my apartment combined.
He steps closer, but I automatically retreat, the signed contract offered out to him at arm's length. He arches a brow. My face heats, but I hold my ground. "Three feet apart."
Any closer and my brain starts misfiring, replaying how perfectly his body had fit tightly against mine. Having him here makes it worse.
I'm suddenly aware of how much space he takes up, the quiet power of him. His eyes travel over the paintings on the wall and the thrift-store knick-knacks on our coffee table. Cynicism flickers in his gaze, but before he can speak, I raise a hand.
"Don't say a goddamn word about my décor. Not all of us are billionaires. Some of us have to appreciate what we can afford."
"What makes you think I wasn't going to say something nice?" His voice is low, smooth as honey, sliding over my skin as he countersigns the contract and hands me one copy, retainingthe other for himself. He carefully replaces the cap on his pen and tucks it away into his suit jacket.
I laugh. "When have you ever said something nice?" I cross my arms, trying to ignore the charge of simply having him here. "So, explain again—why do we have to move in together?"
"Because we're engaged."
"So? Engaged people live apart all the time."
He sighs. "Look, I'm a billionaire with a sought-after penthouse on Central Park West, overlooking the park, and a mansion in Upper Saddle River that would make half of Europe's royals jealous. I'm not boasting—just stating facts. You, on the other hand, share an apartment in Chelsea with another working woman. If we were really engaged, of course you'd move in with me. If you don't, my family will know something's up."
