Page 27 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“I don’t want to come across as ungrateful. I love my parents. I really do. And I’m thankful for the privileges I had, growing up. Like I said, they want the best for me.”

Oh my gosh. He’sthoughtful.And sensitive. Behind the anti-peopling, I-hate-houseguests grump, there’s a big, gushy, sensitive heart. He goes on. “It was helpful, I think, for me to go away to college and then graduate school. I had some time to explore the world on my own terms. It was good to get away for a while… Out from under their umbrella. Fly the coop. But when I returned to Silver Springs, around twenty-five or twenty-six, to work for my father, it all confronted me again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their demands. Their plans for me. Their hopes. Rather than fight it, I gave in. It was easier I suppose. And maybe I hoped that they were right... That they really did know what was best for me. When my mother set me up with Addison, I made the best of it. I even tried to convince myself that Addison and I were a good pair. And when Addison proposed moving in together, I agreed. It was a natural next step. A mistake, too. I’m thankful we never got married. That would have made breaking up much more difficult.”

“So, the breakup…?”

“I ended things. I took off for Europe—I needed to get away. When I came back, she was already living in Cherry Creek. But six months ago, she moved back to town. That’s stirred the whole thing up again.”

“Got it.”

Our forks clink as we both eat for a minute. For my part, I’m turning over every statement, looking for the story that’s there between the lines. “So, when you moved in together and it was so awful, were you the problem, or was she?”

He reaches for more bread. “That question doesn’t make sense. In a relationship, it’s a question of compatibility. Living with her made it clear—we weren’t compatible. And now I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for one evening.” He sets the bread on the edge of his plate. “It’s my turn. I have one for you.”

“Okay.”

“This arrangement… the role you're playing. Is it going to upset someone, back in the city? A boyfriend? I’ve been thinking about it today. Worrying, actually.”

“Worrying?” I tilt my head.

He nods. “If you have a boyfriend, this acting role isn’t appropriate. I’ll have to reconsider. I could find someone else to fill the role.”

For the second time that night, I feel stung by his words. He’s saying he could find adifferentwoman to pretend-hug and pretend-kiss him.

I’m just an actress, playing the part. Anyone could do it.

Ouch.

But I narrow my eyes and study him and realize that beneath the veiled threat to replace me as his fake girlfriend, there’s a question that he wants answered: He wants to know if I have a boyfriend.

He wants to know if I’m single.

Available.

So maybe I don’t need to take the comment about how replaceable I am at face value. Before answering him, I munch on a bite of bread.

He fidgets as he waits for me to speak. First, he touches his wine glass again, then he lifts the bread and puts it down. Finally, he says, “I keep picturing a hipster with a man bun. The kind of guy you’d see at a coffee shop ordering a complicated drink and then scurrying off to work on his screenplay.”

I have to laugh. “That’s quite a picture you’ve painted. But, no, I don’t have a bun-adorned, cappuccino-drinking, screenplay-writing boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend, period. I haven’t been in a relationship in ages.”

That last bit was probably too much information.

Damian stops fidgeting. He looks extremely relieved, actually.

We fall back to eating. Forks tap against ceramic. I sip my wine. Over by the refrigerator, Bo gives a happy sigh.

I’m about to give myself credit for how great this meal is going, when Damian picks up the thread of conversation and yanks it in an unexpected direction. “I can tell, based on your portfolio, that you’ve been very busy with your art over the past several years. It doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t had time for relationships. Your style is so layered; your art must take every ounce of spare energy you have. I hope that working on this abstract piece isn’t going to throw you for too much of a loop.”

I almost choke on my wine. “A loop? Ah—er. No, no. No loop. I’m fine.”

“It’s a drastic change from your usual style.”

“Sure, but…” What can I say, that won’t be a bold-faced lie?

I don’t want to sit here and lie straight to Damian’s face.

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