Page 5 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

She brought up that final painting, and I nodded my head like I was one of those bobble-headed toys, glued to a car dashboard.“Yes, I can definitely do that.”

Can I really manage to create a new painting, twice the size of anything I’ve done in my career, over the next couple of months?

The answer—the real answer—hits me like a ton of bricks.

No. I can’t possibly pull that off.

I don’t have the canvas, the paints, or the time. I work two jobs these days and barely scrape by on that. I can’t paint.

Unless…

I yank my cell phone out of my pocket and open Fizzy’s text. There’s Damian Knight’s number, along with the address for some place called the Hidden Garden on East 60th Street. Ibite my lip and hesitate for a brief moment before tapping the number.

I lift my phone to my ear and listen to it ring.

“This is Damian.” The deep voice on the other end of the line sends a shiver down my spine. It has a gravely, croaky quality to it. I feel a little breathless as I picture the handsome man attached to the deep, resonant voice.

I clutch my cell and try to steady my breathing. “Hi, um… It’s Bella Sinclair here. My friend Fizzy gave me your number. I’m supposed to meet you at nine...?”

“That’s right.”

I twist a lock of hair as I turn and squint down the sidewalk. I catch sight of a street sign and make a few calculations. “I’m on the other end of Central Park and I’m running behind schedule. I might be a little late. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Without another word, he hangs up.

Sheesh. What a grouch.

But he’s a grouch with cash in his bank account—cash that he wants to hand out to an artist. With a potential pay day on my mind, I pick up my pace. Damian didn’t sound happy about waiting, and East 60th is miles away.

Chapter 3

Damian

I shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting. It’s already nine, and the artist woman I’m supposed to meet is nowhere in sight. If not for the pushiness of that spectacle-wearing man at the bank…

What was his name again? Something idiotic. Fuzzy. Floppy. Fizzy, that’s it. Another local character whom I’ve managed to avoid over the years. He owns a blog, I’ve heard. I’ve had several requests from him for interviews over the years, but of course, I’ve declined.

I do my best not to socialize with Silver Springs locals.

He cornered me, at the bank. I’d gone in to make a simple deposit, and there he was, lurking near the ATM. He lunged at me, boxed me into the alcove near the cash machine, and practically wouldn’t let me leave until I’d agreed to meet with this friend of his, Bella Sinclair.

My neck and upper back ache from the four-hour drive into the city that I’d endured that afternoon. Usually, these jaunts of mine into Manhattan are my escape from work, small-town life, and my mother.

I like to drive in on a Friday afternoon, hole up in my luxury penthouse suite, and enjoy a full forty-eight hours without thinking about soda, employees, or the latest social engagement my mother’s cooking up.

I should be at my penthouse now. In the jacuzzi tub, soaking my aching back, listening to some soothing music.

Instead, I’m here at the Hidden Garden, sitting in a stiff chair, waiting for a woman who should’ve been here—I lower my eyes to my wristwatch—nine minutes ago.

I groan inwardly, and then sip my whisky on the rocks. The private club where I reserved a table has both an interior space and an outdoor patio. I’m seated in the latter, amidst a tangle of vines and flowers that crawl up the trellises on all sides. Candles dance on the tabletops and white lights zigzag overhead.

The sky above is getting darker by the minute, and I note a few new stars that poke out of the velvety sky.

A glance at my watch informs me that Bella is now eleven minutes late.

I’ll give her one more minute, and then I’ll leave.

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