Page 23 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Now, as the garlic-and-onion mixture sautés on the stove, I wonder what Damian’s going to think when he sees that I’velet myself into his kitchen. He was so insistent that me and Bo wouldn’t “travel the route” back up the stairs.

I glance over at Bo. He’s sprawled on the floor in front of the stainless-steel refrigerator. At least, I think it’s a refrigerator. There’s something that looks like a computer screen on the front, so it might be a robot butler in sleep-mode, for all I know.

Damian might be a little disgruntled, finding me up here. But he’ll get over it when he realizes I’m only trying to do a nice, friendly thing by cooking him dinner.

I pop the oven open and check the meatballs that are baking within. They’re browning up nicely.

Now, all I need to do is purée two cans of stewed tomatoes, dice herbs, add seasonings to the sauce, and slice and warm the bread.

I’ve been eying the blender perched at a far corner of the countertop ever since I started cooking. The thing is sleek. About as modern as the hulking fridge. The base is black, without a button or dial in sight. But the little icons printed in silver on the black plastic must do something. Maybe they’re touch activated.

I dump both cans of skinless, whole tomatoes into the blender and fit the top back on. When I rest my fingertip on a little icon that looks like a tornado, the blender blades start to whir. I feel satisfied with myself as I watch the wet tomatoes transform into a unified purée. I hit a little silver square, and the blender stops.

My mind’s already the next steps of the process—chopping parsley—as I unfasten the lid and then free the blender from its base. With the blender in my hand I turn, and then nearly drop it straight on the floor as my stomach lurches up into my throat.

Damian is standing in the kitchen entryway.

When did he get in?

Probably while I was busy with the blender.

He doesn’t look happy.

Well, I knew it’d be this way.

“Hello, Bella. I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

“I’m whipping up that Thank-you Dinner that I promised.” I carry the tomato mixture to the stove.Do not take his frowny face personally, I coach myself, as I dump the puree into the skillet. Wet droplets of red splash up and onto the pristine range top.

“There is a kitchen downstairs, you know.”

“I know. This one’s way nicer. I won’t do this all the time, I promise. But you are going to love this meal.”

He sighs and walks toward the fridge.

“Hey, do you have any butter, by any chance? That’s one thing I forgot to grab. I should have made up a list or something, but I was too frazzled. Packing, moving… whew. It was a crazy weekend.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Are you always this friendly?” I counter.

“I am friendly when I am in the mood to socialize.”

“Which is when, exactly? Because I haven’t seen that side of you yet.”

He doesn’t answer.

I will not let his attitude get me down. “Butter?” I repeat.

“I don’t keep butter on hand.”

“You’re kidding me. How can you not have butter? Everyone keeps butter in the fridge.”

“I thought you were messing with me, when you said you’d intrude on my privacy to borrow butter. Didn’t you say you were teasing?”

“I was. But that was then, and this is now. And right now, I’m actually for-real asking you for butter.”

He looks at me like I’m some kind of spatula-wielding alien.

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