Page 55 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

It was from him that I learned that a cup-half-full outlook is way more fun than a cup-half-empty one and that laughter really is the best medicine. That’s why it’s so hard to know that he’s way across the country, in the house my mother died in, missing her. “I know it’s hard for you,” I add.

“She was a firecracker, your mother. I miss her every day. You don’t have to be sorry.” He sniffs, and we both fall silent.

“Hey,” I say, once our impromptu moment of silence in Sophia Sinclair’s memory passes. “At least she gave Fizzy something to do this week. I think he loves having a real mystery to solve.” We talk about Fizzy for a while. My father’s always been a huge fan, and he reads the blog religiously. “Tell him to hurry up and finish hisHidden Messages in Corporate Logosseries,” he quips after we chat about recent blog articles for a minute. “He’s got me on the edge of my seat, and if I’m not careful I’m going to fall straight off… and these days I don’t bounce like I used to.”

I laugh at the cheesy joke. A conversation with my dad would not be complete without at least one cheesy dad joke.

“Okay, I’ll tell him,” I promise. “And actually, I’m due to call him back anyways, so I should let you go. Thanks for talking, Dad.”

“Anytime, Buttercup. Anytime. Oh, and one more thing? While I’ve got you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll leave it up to you, what you want to do about that spring. Your grandparents have always said that they plan to leave their property in Silver Springs to you. It’s your inheritance on the line, so it’s your call whether you want to put up a fight or not. But I feel I have to say—watch out for that Minerva. Hankwas the brute force in that couple, but Minerva was always the brains. I have a feeling she cooked up half the schemes Hank got up to.”

“Got it, Dad. I will.”

When we get off the line, I flop back into the couch cushions, and they emit a soft, leathery sigh as they give way to my weight. My stomach chimes in with an angry growl.

Ah, right. Even starving artists need to eat now and then.

I’ve only sucked down two strong cups of coffee so far today, and my body’s now launching a protest. I feel jittery in addition to anxious and spooked—at the thought of Minerva—and I can’t stop biting my nails. Laughter’s the best medicine, but food’s a close second.

And dancing comes in third. I need to put on some loud music while I cook and move my body to a good, strong beat. That will help me get out some of this nervous energy.

As I scrounge through the fridge in the galley kitchen and pull out ingredients for an omelet, I call Fizzy to give him an update. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave a voicemail so long, that I get cut off twice before I can make it through the whole saga.

Then I whisk together eggs and milk and search the cupboard for a frying pan.

“What the heck kind of kitchen doesn't have a frying pan?” I gripe while standing on my tiptoes and peering past two pots, a casserole dish, and a large mixing bowl.

I let Bo outside hours ago, so I don’t even get a bark or whine in response. The thing about living in Damian’s mansion is there are two or three of everything.

This is not the only kitchen. There’s another one right upstairs.

So, I gather up omelet ingredients and stuff them in a paper bag. With the bag in one hand and my bowl of whisked egg and milk in the other, I head for the stairs.

Chapter 17

Damian

Over the past nine-and-a-half years, since moving back to Silver Springs full-time, I’ve developed a work-day routine. I answer emails first thing. That helps me put out fires and address any urgent communication with vendors, the shipping warehouses, and our processing plant. After that, I touch base with the managers of various departments. Then, lunch.

The prepared foods department at the local health food store puts out a decent array of packaged salads and sandwiches. My favorite combination is a large Greek salad and their turkey bacon club sandwich. I eat in my car. I used to eat at the tables in the cafe attached to the prepared foods department, but locals—specifically, single women—caught onto the fact that they could find me there. Today, however, I won’t be dining on lettuce, chickpeas, feta cheese and black olives behind the steering wheel of my SUV.

I’m going to eat lunch at home. Maybe I’ll take a full hour break before returning to the office. Or, who knows? Maybe an hour and a half, or two hours.Look at me, living on the edge.

Bella will be proud.

I smile as I nose my SUV next to Bella’s dilapidated Camry. There’s a pipe hanging down under the rear bumper, almost touching the pavement. I know nothing about cars, but that doesn’t look right. She did say something about a broken muffler…I step out into the sunshine. The warmth that spreads across my brow, cheeks, and shoulders feels especially wonderful today. Maybe this is how life feels, after spending the night with an interesting, beautiful, spirited woman in your arms. The leaves on the trees at the edge of the driveway look greener than usual. A chipmunk scurries across a boulder beneath the maple tree, and I feel a happy, light sensation in my chest, like suddenly I love chipmunks. The sight of the little critter makes me want to sing.

I’ve never wanted to sing at the sight of a chipmunk before. I squat down by the rear bumper of Bella’s car and touch the rusted metal pipe that’s poking out. It wiggles like a loose tooth would, just before it falls out. No, that’s definitely not right. But I wouldn’t know how to fix her muffler even if I wanted to. Maybe I could get her car towed to a nearby shop and have them fix it. Or maybe I should just buy her a new car. I stand up again and whistle as I head up the walkway. When Bo barrels toward me, I crouch down again and open my arms. He lunges at me, and his front paws hammer into my chest… and I love it. The impact makes me rock back on my heels and probably will leave dusty paw prints on my white shirt, and yet I’m smiling.

I rub his sides as he wags his tail. “For twenty-five pounds plus a whole lot of fur, you pack a punch, little guy.” He swipes his tongue up my cheek and wags some more.

Was that a kiss? I think that was a dog kiss. I’ve heard of them, but never actually experienced one. My cheek feels cool from the trail of slobber. I wait for the inevitable disgust to overcome me, but… it doesn’t. I keep rubbing Bo. He’s wigglinghis whole body and swiping his tail back and forth through the air because of me. He’s happy to see me, and I didn’t even do anything except show up. Maybe this is why so many people own dogs.

I give him one more pat on the head and then stand. As I turn the corner of the walkway that leads to the upper front door, I stop in my tracks. This view of the house includes the floor-to-ceiling windows in my kitchen, and I can see Bella in there. She’s standing near the stove, shimmying her hips to a beat I can’t hear. She’s in jean cut-offs and a tank top, and I’d wager a thousand bucks on the fact that she’s barefoot.

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