Page 78 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“He can have them all if he wants them.”

Bo, clearly pleased his name is featured in this exchange, raises a paw, and gives a giddy, excited whine.

“Then, yes,” I say, as a fresh round of tears obscures my vision.

I think I’m nodding. I’m not sure. I do know that I’ve extended my left hand. Even in my overwhelmed state, I managed to remember that engagement rings go on left index fingers.

“Yes?” Damian asks like he’s a pilot or something, following procedure and confirming that we’re about to take off.

“Yes!” I choke out, as I do more of my bobble-head toy nods. I raise my trembling right hand to my lips to stifle a sob or snort or whatever sound was about to come through my constricted throat.

The ring feels cool as Damian slides it over my finger. Around us, clapping starts up and then gets louder and louder as it resounds off the walls.

Camera’s flash. In my peripheral vision, I see that Damian’s father is smiling. His mother Nora isn’t, but she’s not shouting out protests, either, which I feel grateful for.

“Give us a kiss!” a camera-wielding member of the press calls out. “Not here, though,” a second photographer calls. “In front of the painting!”

The next thing I know, Damian and I are being ushered to the floor space in front of my painting. When he takes me in his arms and kisses me, the flashes that light up the room around us look like dozens of shooting stars.

Epilogue

Damian

Our walk-in closet has an entire wall lined with shoes. Half are mine, half are Bella’s.

And yet, here she is again, painting barefoot.

I chuckle and shake my head as I watch her rock her shoulders to the music that fills her sunny art studio. Then she lifts the brush in her hand and trails it across the canvas mounted on the wall before her.

When she notices me, she stops dancing and painting and eyes me, and the plate of food in my hand.

“What’s this?” she asks while using a remote to turn down the music.

“Lunch. You must be starving. You’ve been at it for hours.”

“I have? I feel like you just left for your run with Bo.” She looks down and lights up when she catches sight of Bo, at my side. He’s my constant companion when Bella spends the day in her studio like this. She’s been working a lot lately, which makes sense since she’s gearing up for her big upcoming show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Bo trots over to his Mamma and gives her leg a nudge with his nose. I carry her plate to a table nearby. “We left for that trail run at eight. It’s almost noon now.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” Her paintbrush clinks against glass as she swishes it into a jar of water. Then she wanders toward the table, wiping her hands on her cutoff jeans as she walks. “Oh, yummy. What did you make?”

“Salad, tomato soup, and grilled cheese.”

“You spoil me.”

“It’s my favorite hobby, spoiling you. Second best? Spoiling this guy.” I lean down to rub Bo’s head.

Bella laughs as she wraps her arms around my waist. “What’s your third favorite hobby? No—let me guess. Golf.”

I laugh, too, because the statement’s so absurd.

She giggles. “No…? I thought for sure it was growing on you.”

“It’s gone from feeling like a horrible waste of time to moderately tolerable,” I admit.

The change probably has to do with my relationship with my father, which has steadily improved over the past twelve months, since I proposed to Bella.

Somehow, having her in the family gave him new life. He likes her. And I’m sure he likes the fact that his own mother, my Grandma Minerva, really was humbled when folks in town found out about the way she and my Grandfather Hank treated the Sinclairs all those years ago. Bella was right—my grandmother really did need to be taken down a peg.

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