Page 33 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

There’s that smell again. Her shampoo, or lotion, or something. The scent makes me weak at the knees. Floral and fruity. Today I catch a hint of peach that I hadn’t noticed before.

When she looks back at me, I realize I’m standing too close. There are only twelve inches between us.

Her eyes are large and luminous. “You sure have been a stranger this week,” she notes.

How am I supposed to keep up?

One minute, we’re talking about glass. That’s a safe topic of conversation. Now, just like she’s playing hopscotch, she’s jumped to territory that feels prickly.

She blinks her dark fringe of lashes and waits.

And what am I supposed to say? I’ve been avoiding her.

I don’t know why, exactly, but that’s the truth.

Now she’s here. Right in front of me. And I can’t avoid looking at her as she lifts the corner of her mouth in a quick grin that takes my breath away. “Let me guess. You’ve been busy with work stuff, plus dealing with that mother of yours. And Addison?”

“Thankfully it’s been quiet on that front. Our little show on Monday must have done the trick—temporarily. I expect them both to launch a strong rebuttal tomorrow evening at dinner. You said you got my note?”

She nods, then looks down and puts her leg out, like she’s a ballerina striking a pose. “I was thinking about wearing something like this.” She sweeps her hand down her front. “Formal enough? Yes? No?”

“No! By formal I mean—”

She laughs. “I’m kidding! I have the perfect dress and I’ll be ready by six.”

Her laughter makes my heart hurt. It’s a beautiful sound. Gentle and light, like a bubbling brook.

The sound fades as she peers behind me, at yet another stack of boxes. This particular pile is arranged in a corner of the room, but not up against the wall like the others. “What’s in those?” she asks.

“More of the stuff I packed up from the Historical Society displays.”

“Like…?”

“I don’t remember everything.”

“Try.”

“Well, there was a whole table of hand-held farming implements from the 1800s. A display on canning. Another about the production of clothing at textile mills, post-World War Two.”

“All that?” She tucks her brow in as she studies the boxes. “Man, you’ve been busy.”

“I have. This morning I wrapped framed photos and packaged them over there.” I point to another stack of boxes. “Last week, I was knee-deep in documents. Wills, letters, journals… It’ll all get cleaned up soon when the volunteers come by to start the move.”

Now she lifts a nail and nibbles the end. “And, when’s that?” She shakes her cup again, but the ice is nearly gone and all I hear is a soft swishy sound of melted ice water.

“Is something wrong? You seem antsy.”

“Me? No. I’m fine.”

Bo, who’s been busy sniffing around the perimeter of the room, joins us. I feel his cool nose nudge my hand.

I ignore him.

He does it again. So, I open my hand and run it over his head, down between his ears, and over his back.

He seems to like the attention because he presses his body against me. He’s warm and soft, and for some reason, I don’t even mind that he’s probably shedding all over my designer pants.

“Can I look at some of the stuff you packed?” Bella asks as she breaks away from me and Bo.

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