Page 24 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“ Never mind, I’ll drizzle olive oil over the bread instead. This should be ready in, like, twenty minutes. Half hour, tops.”

“Fine.”

Fine? What kind of response is that?

‘Thank you’ is more like it.But I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this job. I told Fizzy that I didn’t want to work for a grump, but then everything went sideways and, here I am. And we kissed….

My eyes flit over Damian’s muscular chest and broad shoulders. He’s undone a few buttons at his neck and loosened his tie, which is crazy attractive in an unexpected way. And there’s that chiseled, strong jawline. Those full lips…

No! I can’t look at his lips! That will only make me think of—

It’s too late. My mind supplies me with a technicolor memory of what he looked like as he swooped in, gathered me in his arms, and fused his lips to mine.

I blink, dazed, and try to pull myself out of the sudden daydream.

While I’ve been off in la-la kissy land, he’s yanked his tie a little looser. Now he drops his briefcase near the counter and stalks toward the fridge. He glowers down at snoozing Bo, and then steps pointedly around him.

When he opens the fridge, I catch sight of rows and rows of beverages. Mostly Bubbly Springs soda, plus one shelf of bottled water and beer.

He pulls out a bottle of water.

“I wouldn’t object to one of those,” I tell him.

He crosses to the stove with a second bottle in his hand. I see him surveying the countertops as he walks, and I follow his gaze to try to see the place from his perspective. It’s not pretty: Egg-streaked mixing bowl, piles of flour, open container of breadcrumbs, meat packaging, two cutting boards, and various other ingredients and utensils are strewn across the previously spotless polished granite.

The furrows in his brow get deeper and deeper with every step. “What happened to my blender?”

“I used it for the tomatoes. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Did you use every single bowl in this kitchen?”

“Oh, nowhere close. Not even half. Hey, question for you.”

He hands me the bottle. “Shoot.”

“Is that your beverage refrigerator or something? And if it is, where do you keep your, you know, regular fridge?”

Maybe having multiple refrigerators is another rich-person thing I’m not familiar with, like a remote control that operates the window blinds, or a dog bowl that refills automatically on a timer. I’ve seen the infomercials. I know about these things.

He looks over his shoulder at the refrigerator. “What, that?”

“Yeah. It’s full of soda, water, and beer. You must keep your food somewhere.”

When he looks back at me, his cheeks are ever-so-slightly tinged with pink. He takes a hurried sip of his water. Then he swallows, sucks air through his nose, and blurts out, “I’m not much for cooking.”

“Wait, what?”

“I don’t cook.”

“Oh. So, you have a chef or something?”

“No, no. I hate having strangers in my home.”

Ouch. I look down at the water bottle and fumble with the top.

“No offense,” he adds.

“None taken.”Offense taken!I think, as I take a long swig of cold, refreshing water.

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