Page 29 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Bo leads the way over to our friend and then stands in front of him, tail wagging.

“What, you think now that you live back in town, I’m going to start carrying treats for you or something?” Fizzy asks, as he stares down at him.

Bo wiggles. Yes, that’s exactly what he thinks.

Fizzy grins and reaches into his pocket. “Smart dog. I hope you like bacon. These are gourmet and they’re supposed to be delicious. Or so the packaging proclaims.”

“He loves bacon.” I take a seat and then wrangle Bo back my way by hugging him to my legs. “Just because he gave you a treat doesn’t mean you can pant in his face for the next hour,” I tell my pup, as I scratch behind his ears.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back in town for a while,” Fizzy says happily, as he pulls out another treat and leans down to set it before Bo. “It’s been boring here without you. I tried not to complain, but I missed you.”

“I missed being here. It’s weird—being back. There are so many details that didn’t change. Like, the other day I had to grab a gallon of milk from Fletcher’s, and our handprints are still right there on that third step.”

Fizzy laughs. “Remember how furious Fletcher was with us? I don’t see the problem. We were making his front stoop more interesting if you ask me.” He pushes the lighter of the iced coffee s toward me. “One shot of vanilla, one Splenda, and a dollop of cream.”

“You are an angel.” I suck down a mouthful of the sweet, creamy drink.

“It comes at a cost. I’m not showering you and Bo with gifts for nothing. I want the latest from up on the hill. The scoop, the whole scoop, and nothing but the scoop.”

“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”

“I’m dying to know how it’s going in the Fortress of Solitude, with King of the Grumps.”

“I told you how it’s going.”

“Text message updates do not a story make. I need you to flesh out the bare bones you’ve provided. Give me details.”

It’s been five days since I moved into Damian’s mansion. Every day, I’ve texted Fizzy to tell him the latest. Tuesday, when a Roomba vacuum cleaner started humming upstairs and Bo started up with his security-alert bark, I freaked out so bad I almost called the cops. On Wednesday, Bo ate grass during our walk and barfed on the perfectly white comforter on the guest bed. Thursday was catastrophe-free.

“This morning was okay,” I report to Fizzy. “I managed to get my canvas stretched and it’s hanging on the wall in the billiards room. I have the entire composition planned out, and I started blocking in the trees and—

He waves to stop me.

“I don’t need to know about the painting. You get talking about art, and you won’t stop. I need to know about King of the Grumps! Have you kissed him again?”

“That wasn’t a real kiss. And no. I haven’t seen him since Monday night.”

“How is it possible that you’re living in his house, and you haven’t seen him?”

I shift onto one hip and fish into the back pocket of my jeans. “Bo and I are keeping to ourselves. We use the downstairs door. I figure if Damian wants to visit us, he will.” I extract a folded paper from my pocket and set it in front of Fizzy. “I did find this on the downstairs door this morning, though.” He unfolds it and reads aloud.

“Bella. I’d like you to accompany me to dinner tomorrow evening at my mother’s. Be ready by six o’clock. Formal attire. Including shoes.”

He raises his brows and glances up from the paper. “He thinks he has to tell you to wear shoes?”

I shrug.

Fizzy sets the note aside. He clasps his hands together and studies me. “So, this play-acting thing. How much of it is acting, and how much is real?”

“All of it is acting.” I wrap my lips around the straw and suck down coffee, to ward off the smile that’s mischievously welling up inside me.

Fizzy narrows his eyes. “There is so much more to this than you’re letting on. You can not fool me, Bella Sinclair. I’ve known you since before we knew how to hold scissors. You have a thing for him.”

I set the drink aside and lean back. I tilt my chin up and speak as though to the sky. “Ah! I do! I think I do… but I can’t.”

When I look back at Fizzy, he’s smirking. “Yes, you can. You’re a warm-blooded woman and he—to use your words—looks like a model straight off the pages of GQ. I think that’s how you put it.”

“I said that?”

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