Page 20 of Billionaire's Fake Wife: A Single Mom BWWM Romance

"Lovely. Please be seated," Gloria directs us.

She motions to the waiter who comes by our table and gets our order.

"Sonya," she says. "I know you work in our company, so I already know you professionally. Right now, I'd like to know you a bit more. Tell me about how you and Grant ended up with each other."

I look at Grant, and he encourages me with a nod. I start telling her the story that Grant and I agreed to, with Grant adding some bits and details as I go along. The entire time, he's holding my hand, which lessens my nervousness.

Gloria seems to be convinced by our story. Mostly she just hummed or nodded in acknowledgment, but she also asked some questions. Thankfully, we're able to answer everything.

As our main course arrives, the atmosphere becomes a little lighter, and we start talking about the fashion industry. This one, I know by heart. The three of us discuss several things, especially the ones related to the company.

Gloria's impressed, and I can see that. She even mentions the possibility of a promotion which I've waited for so long. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

The meal ends well, and Gloria tells me that she looks forward to Grant and I working together for the company. I let out a deep breath of relief once we're back in Grant's car.

One point for team Grant and Sonya.

Ten

Grant

One word: Wow.

Sonya Lynx is an angel sent from above. I send her a quick message to thank her for helping me.

I'm glad that it's over, whew, but I was expecting to have one of the worst days in my life, and yet I get the opposite. The meeting was successful, and even when my mother tried to hide her feelings behind her usual veil of indifference, I saw right through her.

That's because I always see right through her.

If Gloria Fields thinks nothing her son does get past her, then that said son's the same. It runs in the family. Since the age of seven, I've learned to read her every quirk and anticipate her every reaction like a forecaster does with the weather.

Of course, I'm kidding, although my mother's a type of weather all her own; volatile. Bring an umbrella or, better yet, stay inside your homes.

Armed with my expertise in the field of Gloria Fields —pun totally intended— I boldly proclaim that Sonya Lynx blew her socks off.

Not a lot of people do that; hell, even some models or designers can't name certain styles nor talk about fabrics as eloquently as the woman has done. The number of times my mother's lips quirked at the corners was substantial proof that Sony has passed the test with flying colors.

I still am nervous about my mother's feedback, as she and I hadn't talked about Sonya yet. Still nervous if she still thinks it's a charade.

Shaking my head, I focus on the positive side of things. On Sonya.

Another thing that I appreciate about her: I don't even know half of the names she's mentioned, but she's never made me feel like an outcast or an idiot. She'll always pull me into the conversation and explain what she's talking about.

Which is good because my own mother tends to be snappy when I ask her about what she does.

Sitting down with a can of beer on my trusty leather couch, I relive the day's events with a smile. As much as I enjoy crunching numbers and working with spreadsheets...not daily, but yeah, you get the point; learning about appliques and dyeing techniques are more exciting.

I am not sure what I can use the knowledge for, but it's nice to have an understanding of what my mother loves about the world of fashion and why she's willing to spend nights in her office, rarely stopping to eat or even sleep.

The TV is buzzing about some football games, but the commentators and the cheers of the audience are just white noise at this moment. Cold malt beer trickles down my throat one gulp after another.

I think about Sonya Lynx and the way she glows when she talks about clothes and design. She has this fire in her eyes that burns brighter when asked and challenged about her opinions.

Her expressiveness doesn't end with her pretty face; her rich dark arms and hands would move around as she debates in favor of her favorite indie brand. The movement causes her black-blue hair to dance along her shoulders and torso.

Those midnight blue-black locks look like satin under the warm glow of daylight coming from the huge and wide arched windows. And the overhead restaurant lights.

All throughout lunch, my fingers itched to run themselves through it. Those same fingers twitch, and I sigh, standing up to get another beer from the kitchen.

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