Page 30 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"Because," he replies, voice calm and unyielding, "upon signing it, you have to move in with me."
"Huh?" I blink in confusion.
Grayson smirks and steps through the doorway, forcing me back a pace. With him, I always need distance — at least three feet at all times. Yes… let's make that a rule.
"Firstly, Grayson, if this is going to work, I need my personal space. You stay at least three feet away from me at all times, got it?"
He considers, then shakes his head. "Well… yes and no, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean, yes and no?"
"I mean yes — when we're alone, I'll respect your three-feet rule, and of course it applies both ways. But when we're in public — say, visiting my parents — we'll have to act like a couple in love, which means doing what couples do."
"Such as?"
"Holding hands. Kissing goodbye. That sort of thing."
"My, oh my, you've thought this through, haven't you?" He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.
"All right, fine. I suppose it's what I'm being paid for. But only in public. Otherwise, three feet at all times, Mister."
He sighs, like I'm a difficult child he's been saddled with. "Got it."
"Now… why do I have to move in with you?"
"Because I said so."
"Not good enough."
"For the same reasons I already mentioned," he replies evenly. "If this is going to work, we have to look real. Real couples live together — or at least spend most of their time together. You can go home sometimes, but for the majority of the time, you'll be living with me. My apartment's on the Upper West Side, and weekends we'll stay at my place in Upper Saddle River."
He sees my expression and mistakes surprise for annoyance. "Don't worry, you'll like it. It's beautiful out there, and the house is huge. You can have as much of your own space as you need."
Yeah, of course he has two homes — probably more. Billionaires can afford as many as they want. I just hadn't really pictured it until now.
"But before that," he continues, "we need to buy an engagement ring and do some clothes shopping. It's going to be a busy evening."
"Clothes shopping? I have plenty of clothes."
He smirks. "Not the right types of clothes." His eyes travel slowly up and down my body.
Ugh. His condescension is infuriating. "So you want me to buy designer stuff?"
"I'm buying," he says, matter-of-fact. "And it doesn't all have to be designer — just high-end, quality pieces that look less…" His gaze drops to my blouse. "…cheap."
Cheap? Did he just call me cheap? What a bastard.
I glance down at my lime-green blouse with its pearl hem and flared sleeves. Sure, it's a few years old — okay, three — and it's been on heavy rotation, but it's still serviceable. People have complimented me in it. What's his problem?
Breathe, Jenna. Just breathe.
"You may think so, but I think I look good as I am," I tell him. "Not everyone has money to waste on couture."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Don't tell me you buy knock-offs because it's all you can afford. You live in an upscale two-bedroom in the heart of Manhattan. You're doing fine."
"I'm not broke," I snap. "But I only just break even. Every cent I ern goes back into the business. I share my apartment with a roommate, and yes I buy good clothes because in my profession Ihaveto look the part, or no one will hire me. But Ionly buy what I need, and I always buy them in the sales. I can't afford to spend my hard-earned money on a pair of shoes or a handbag, just because it's got a designer name on it and I happen to like it."
He shrugs. "Then don't. Spend mine instead. But it has to be done. My mother and sister would instantly smell a rat if I said I was engaged and you weren't properly dressed."
