Page 28 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“I do okay with change,” I say. “I’ve had to deal with so much of it over the years. Moving to the west coast out of the blue, then moving back east. One school than another. This job, that job… Nothing’s been stable for me. I’m flexible.”

“Flexible,” he repeats. “That’s a good quality, I think. Not one I can claim for myself, but one I admire. Did you get the document I sent, with my requirements for the piece?”

I’d seen the thing come into my inbox that afternoon when I was sketching out landscape compositions in colored pencil. I didn’t open the message, though. “Oh, um… yeah. I did see that.”

“What do you think?”

“I think… I think…”

What do I think?I think I’m in hot water. This cozy little dinner—plus that crazy kiss we shared this morning—lulled me into believing the water was luke-warm. Bathwater temperature at most. But now it feels scalding hot.

“I think it’s going to take me a little while to wrap my head around the details of this work,” I stammer. “I mean, I’m flexible, but not made of elastic. I have to get my feet on the ground, you know? The good news is that I ordered supplies today and they’re supposed to arrive tomorrow. Can you believe how fast online shopping is these days? It’s like, you click a button and things show up at your door, like magic.”

“I guess I never thought of it like that.”

“Well, think about it. Mind blowing.” I pop the last bite of spaghetti into my mouth and busy myself with chewing.

Damian looks as though he’s thinking. Maybe about the incredible speed of online shopping. Hopefully he’s not mulling over my progress.

Afraid of what the next question will be, I jump up to my feet and carry my now-empty plate to the sink.

He won’t be able to pepper me with questions if I’m busy whipping this kitchen back to shape. I run the tap water full blast and get busy scrubbing pots, pans, and mixing bowls.

By the time Bo and I head back downstairs, Damian’s kitchen is well on its way to recovery. Damian promised to finish the clean-up. He seemed about as happy to say goodnight as I was. I trek down the stairs at a fast clip and let Bo into the guest suite before me. Then I close the door, lock it, lean my back against it and close my eyes.

Maybe he was so eager to send us off for the night because he picked up on my guilt about the painting. I’m sure he picked up on some funkiness, actually. He’s plenty of things—cranky, eccentric, and uptight come to mind—but he’s definitely not dumb.

He must suspect something’s up with this work he’s commissioned. But he agreed to give me privacy, and I know he’ll hold up his end of the bargain, if I hold up mine. Because that’s another thing I sense about him: he’s not a man to go back on his word.

Chapter 10

Bella

Being in Silver Springs feels like traveling back in time.

Every time I leave Damian’s house to venture into town, it’s like diving through a wormhole and coming out in the past. Since I spent my childhood and most of my teens running around these streets, every building, rock, and tree brings up a memory in me.

My grandparents still own a plot of land on the north side of town. They don’t live on it anymore, but whenever I drive by the fence and see the fields beyond, I can remember what it was like to weed Nana’s Garden with her, or help my Pop Pop haul burlap sacks of beets from the greenhouse to the root cellar.

And every time I drive by the apartment my folks rented and raised me in, on the corner of First Street and Archibald, I remember hanging upside down from the maple tree out front. I used to love seeing the world flip-flopped: Sky beneath a ceiling of green grass.

Today, as I cruise down North Street, I peek at the buildings and think about times past.

There’s the sandwich shop where Fizzy and I got our first jobs together. We had a food fight once in the back kitchen. Would’ve gotten away with it, too, if not for the fact that our manager found a pickle slice stuck to a blade on the ceiling fan.

I spot my old elementary school. So many memories skitter through my mind at the sight of the swing set and jungle gym in the playground area: scraped knees, secret handshakes, and getting dizzy on a lopsided tire swing. And there’s Knitter’s Corner, where my mom used to go every November to pick up yarn for a winter knitting project.

If I wasn’t on my way to meet Fizzy for coffee, I’d stop in and see if the woman who used to own it, Sandy Cochran, is still perched on a stool behind the counter, busy crafting her next sweater.

But as it is, I’m on a schedule. Popping into Knitter’s Corner will have to wait.

At a blinking red light, I stop. The sight of a big, black SUV to my left makes me do a double take. It’s newer and nicer looking than most of the other vehicles on the street.

Sure enough, I take a closer look and recognize the license plate. It’s Damian’s.

I peer out at the two and three-story brick buildings along the curb. There’s a closed textile factory, a few abandoned storefronts, and a little butcher shop that sells cured meats. Damian doesn’t have a fridge full of spiced pork sausage, so what’s he doing on this block?

The car behind me honks, so I step on the gas. A few minutes later, I reach the café where I’ve arranged to meet Fizzy.

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