Page 70 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

I need to focus on small, practical action steps.

Email the art critiques. That’s what I’ll do. I have to explain that the opening show will be slightly different than I promised.

I stir the computer to life with a wriggle of the mouse. Then I click on the web browser and pull up my emails. Sebastian Blake, from theNew York Times. Regina Conway, fromThe Washington Post. Elenore Richmond, ofModern Art Today.

I continue clicking on the names of my contacts until there are fifteen addresses stacked in the email recipient section.

Then I hover my fingertips above the keyboard. And I sit.

And sit,

And sit.

Waiting for words to come. But I can’t concentrate on composing this blasted email when my thoughts keep turning to her. Bella.

How it felt, to kiss her under the moon and stars, in my driveway. How she looked in the glow of the firelight, up on the roof. The way she felt in my arms when we fell asleep on the couch as the sun inched toward the horizon line.

My fingers stray from the keyboard and reach for the mouse. I click open a new tab and type in “Fizzy + Pie + Minerva Knight.”

I can’t seem to get it out of my mind: how Bella latched onto the fact that my grandmother delivered a pie to me on Saturday afternoon. She even texted the fact to her friend Fizzy, right before leaving on the ‘mission’ that resulted in her arrest. What was that all about?

My nose inches toward the monitor as I eagerly scan the results. Now the email to art critics is forgotten, and all I can think is:What was Bella up to—really?It’s easier to focus on that mystery than the painting currently hanging in the downstairs room. The painting isn’t bad. Far from it. It’s actually incredibly beautiful and alive, even with those two figure-sizedsmudges in the middle. But it’s not abstract, so in one way, Bella did scam me.

She took my money without ever even starting the painting I requested.

It feels better to focus on her mysterious behavior than the fact that she ripped me off.

I skim past a few sponsored results that have to do with products that have the word “Fizzy” in them. And there it is, right below the sponsored items:“Fun Facts with Fizzy: Fact #351—Grandmothers Who Deliver Pie Also Steal From Sock drawers.”

The title is missing my grandmother’s name, but I have no doubt it’s exactly what I need to read if I want to know what Bella was really up to yesterday afternoon.

I click on the article.

“Here’s a fun fact, folks: It is possible that when grandmothers deliver pie, they may not be merely delivering pie. Take it from me. I know. I have first-hand evidence of this fun little fact. Believe it or not, some grandmothers have hidden, secret agendas. They may, in truth, deliver said pie as an excuse to get access to very important documents that are tucked away in dresser drawers: specifically sock and underwear drawers. Let me start from the beginning (and if you’re lost at this point, I recommend you go back and read “Fun Facts # 167, 168, 304, and 306.)

Well, that’s me. I am lost. What is he talking about, secret agendas and important documents? I lean back in my chair and scratch my head as I spin in another slow, lazy circle.

By the time I’m facing the computer again, I’ve come to a conclusion: I’m going to go back and read every darn blog article this guy’s written, even if it takes me three weeks to do so.

I was right. There’s more to the story when it comes to Bella’s strange behavior. And maybe, if I do some research, I can fill in the pieces I’m missing.

Chapter 23

Bella

The problem with subways is that riding them gives a person way too much time to think. At least when I’m driving my own car or walking, I have to pay some attention to what’s going on around me. But here on the subway, a driver’s in charge of stopping, starting, and navigating, and all I have to do is sit here with my hands on my lap, trying desperately not to think about the things I don’t want to think about. Like the fact that for two weeks now, ever since leaving Damian’s, Bo and I have been staying with an old waitressing friend, Marion, and her Chihuahua, Sasha—in a studio apartment.

Two women.

Two dogs.

One room.

The math absolutely does not work out, and the fact that Bo and Sasha have decided they’re mortal enemies doesn’t help things.

I also don’t want to think about the voicemail that Maxine Finch left me yesterday afternoon: “Bella, just checking in withyou to make sure you’re on track with your big new painting for your show. I still have you tentatively in the books for that third and fourth week of October, and once I know this final, central piece is well on the way to completion, I’ll nail down the dates and start to get some marketing material out.”

I have to call her back. This afternoon. Right after I get done with this trip to the temp agency.

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