Page 1 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Chapter 1

Bella

Go ahead. Meet the artist you most admire in the world at a ridiculously fancy restaurant Uptown,I told myself.Pitch your idea for a show at her gallery. You can handle the pressure.

And Iwashandling it.

My nerves.

My fears.

My expectations.

Until… oh, about an hour ago.

For the past sixty minutes, I’ve been coming apart at the seams.

Now, I’m hopping on one foot in front of the full-length mirror propped in the corner of my studio apartment, trying to tug a spike-heeled shoe over my very uncooperative toes.

I hate heels.

This pair pinches, and I grimace as I wrench it over my poor piggies. I’m wearing a wrinkled black dress, and my hair is dripping wet. The wrinkles I can handle. They’ll smooth out as I walk to the subway station, three blocks away.

But my hair?

I cringe as I lean in closer to the mirror and examine the mess of black waves that I’ve pulled over my shoulder. I wish I’d had the foresight to buy a hairdryer. My old one shorted out a month ago and I haven’t yet replaced it.

“I have two options,” I mutter, as I run my fingers along the mess, trying to wick away some water. “Either chop it off or let it air dry like this.”

Bo, my border collie, flicks his blue eyes my way. He’s lounging on my bed as though he’s some sort of ancient Greek king, about to be hand-fed grapes. As our eyes connect, he flaps his tail up and down a couple of times. It makes a soft thumping sound against my worn comforter.

Thanks for the encouragement, Bo.

Chopping my hair off at this exact moment wouldn’t be the wisest decision. The last time I gave myself a haircut, a woman on the subway locked eyes with me and made me voice a solemn oath that I’d never attempt to give myself bangs again.

Air dry it is.

I wobble over to the garment rack propped against one wall and slide out the plastic bin I keep nestled beneath hanging sweaters and pants. I’ve told myself many times that I don’t need a closet, and that this vintage rack will do, but when it comes right down to it…nope.

I nearly fall headfirst into the bin as I rummage through the pile of clutches, pocketbooks, and slouchy shoulder bags. I yank out a little canvas pocketbook with a few daisies printed on the front. It’s not even close to a match with my plain black dress, but the sound of a knock at the door makes me forget all about my suddenly higher-than-usual style standards.

“Shh!” I press my finger to my lip and give Bo a stern stare before he can utter his first round of barks.

Then I tip-toe toward the peephole and peer out.

Oh, thank the heavens. It’s not my landlord.

I yank open the door.

My guest raises his dirty-blond eyebrow and delivers a stern look at the pocketbook in my hands. The look reminds me of the one I just gave my dog.

“Thatbag, withthatdress? Really, Bella? Have I taught you nothing?”

Pheneous Fitzgerald, or Fizzy, as everyone calls him, is the best-dressed person I’ve ever met. And it’s always been like that. I remember our first day of kindergarten together. I peered down the row of cubby holes where we were supposed to stuff our lunch boxes and noted his little round spectacles, starched white shirt, and a tiny bow tie.

And he’s still rocking that style, to this day.

I give an unhappy sigh as I usher him in and close the door behind us. “I almost had a heart attack, Fizzy. I thought you were my landlord for a sec.”

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