Page 34 of Billionaire Fake Fiancé Daddy

I haven’t seen him get drunk since college.

I hastily text Tom back letting him know I’ll take care of it. And then I shift my focus back to Gage, who’s standing there with his hands on his hips.

“I made a joke. You didn’t laugh,” he accuses.

“It was a very good joke,” I reassure him, trying not to smile. “Why don’t you go get some water.”

He doesn’t listen to me. Instead, he closes the front door behind him and wanders over to the wall. He stops in front of one of the very expensive, very boring paintings he owns.

Gage tilts his head. “This one is the loneliest. We should get rid of it first.” He takes it off the wall and tosses it on the couch.

I scramble to catch it before it falls off the couch and onto the floor. “Gage! That’s worth a million dollars.”

“Two million. I don’t like it.” He turns and spots my painting, propped against the wall. “I like that one.”

He crosses the room, grabs my painting, and hangs it where the old one was. “There.Those peoplearen’t lonely,” he says, gesturing to my dancers. And then he notices the wet yellow paint smeared on his hand. “Oops.”

Sober Gage is one of the most feared men on Wall Street. But Drunk Gage is completely stumped by discovering wet paint on his hand. Then he perks up, like he’s figured out a solution, and reaches his hand out to his gleaming, luxurious, crazy expensive white couch.

“No!” I burst out, rushing to him. “Just...don’t touch anything, okay?”

Gage pouts.

I didn’t even know Gagecouldpout.

I carefully use the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe his hand clean.

He stills. “You put on pants.”

“Yeah, well, you let my brother wander into the apartment. Kind of killed the whole pantsless vibe.”

“Sorry.” He sways closer to me, inhaling deeply. “You smell so good. You always smell so good.”

My skin tingles at the compliment. “You smell like a bar,” I make myself say.

But he’s not listening anymore. He’s wandering around the room, taking one painting after another off the walls and tossing them aside like they mean nothing. I scramble after him, trying to protect the paintings. They’re boring art, but they’re still art.

“Gage, what’s gotten into you?”

Why are you drinking so much?

“I had a dream about you,” he says.

My heart stutters. “What?”

“I’mnotlonely,” he announces as if those two thoughts are connected. And maybe in his drunken brain, they are.

Gage runs out of artwork to strip off the walls and comes to a stop in the magnificent dining room.

Then he narrows his eyes at the priceless crystal chandelier and points. “Thatlooks lonely. It has to go.”

“Okay, that’s enough redecorating for you.” I grab his arm and steer him back to the living room, shoving him down onto the couch. “Just sit there, okay? I promised Tom I’d make you drink water, so you won’t wake up with a headache.”

But when I try to walk away, he loops an impressively strong arm around my waist and pulls me back to him, until I’m standing directly in front of him and he’s resting his head against my stomach.

“I always have a headache,” he murmurs, and I can feel his warm breath against my thin t-shirt. “That’s where the stress is. In my head.”

I hesitate, then gently trail my hand through his dark hair, applying just enough pressure to turn it into a soft massage. He makes a pleasurable hum somewhere deep in his throat.

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