Page 11 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Nora:Your father will be in the office this afternoon to drop off the new clubs he bought you at the Lexington estate sale. I’m sure you’ll make it to tee time this Sunday, after missing last weekend. We’ll do dinner at our place afterward, and I’ve invited Addison.”

The message goes on, but I’ve seen enough.

I will not stoop to destroying a perfectly good phone. I’m not a child in the midst of a temper tantrum. But I also don’t have toread the next two paragraphs of her text. I can already feel my blood pressure spiking, and I don’t want to pop a blood vessel.

A vague throbbing begins in my temple.

Addison.

My mother invited my ex-girlfriend, Addison Feldman, to dinner.

On a good day, I can ward off my mother-induced head pains until at least noon by avoiding her, but, apparently, today is not a good day.

The hot shower I took moments ago filled the master bathroom with a cloud of steam. My muscles still feel sore, thanks to the six-mile trail run I got in earlier this morning.

I tighten my towel around my waist, step out into my bedroom, and veer left into my walk-in closet. On either side of me, the shelves and racks display my garments. Suit jackets, button-down shirts, slacks, ties. My shoes line the wall on the far end.

I towel off, then pull on briefs and a pair of slate-gray slacks.

How is it that I’m a grown man, and my mother thinks she has the right to arrange my life?

It’s incredibly frustrating to have a mother as meddlesome as mine.

Frustrating, and tiresome.

It’s like I’m constantly at war.

And, lately, it’s been a losing battle.

Ever since Addison Feldman returned to Silver Springs six months ago, my mother’s dragged her along to every single event I’ve attended. I had to sit next to Addison at the holiday pops concert. The Historical Society Fundraiser dinner. The Krupnick wedding—even though I went stag, without a date. Still, my mother managed to shoe-horn Addison into the seating charts, conveniently right next to me.

And now, dinner. Sunday evening. I’m dreading it already.

As I button my shirt, a new worry surfaces. It’s Monday. Bella Sinclair and that boyfriend of hers, Bo—which isn’t even a proper name, in my opinion—will be here sometime today.

She didn’t even give me the courtesy of telling me when they would arrive--Morning? Afternoon? Evening?

She should have given me an approximation, at least. But no, instead, she sprang the whole thing on me, mentioned “Bo” and got off the line in a hurry.

I’m used to getting the last word. I hang up on people on a regular basis. But others don’t do that to me. That’s my thing.

She used my own tactic against me.

I don’t like it.

And I don’t want to meet Bo. He’s probably one of those hipster types. I picture a man bun and a mustache, waxed at the tips. A button-up tweed vest that smells of body odor and rust-orange corduroys, worn ironically, of course.

My blood pressure is rising again.

I shouldn’t have agreed. But I was soaking in the jacuzzi, and—I admit—probably thinking too much about the way that cute dimple popped up on her cheek out of nowhere when she smiled. It was the candlelight. It was too flattering. It made her look angelic, and that got the best of me. I wasn’t thinking clearly. That’s the problem.

But now, in the stark daylight of a Monday morning that started badly and continues to get worse, I’m aware that I made a mistake.

A terrible mistake.

A mistake I may pay for, for a long, long time. The entire summer, even.

At least she and this Bo character aren’t here yet. I have my privacy. My solitude. Peace of mind.

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