Page 3 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“Well, he can effectively boss other people around, not me. Pass.”

“Before you ‘pass’ can you just hear me out? Yes, he’s a grouch. He’s difficult. But I think he’s a good guy, beneath it all. When he mentioned he’d be in the city this weekend I said you’d be happy to meet with him to discuss the opportunity. I hoped to be there to facilitate, but with this allergy attack—ah choo!—I don’t know that I’ll be able to make it.”

“Fizzy…” I groan and then check my watch. If I don’t leave in ten minutes, I’m going to be late for the most important meeting of my life. “No. You’re going to have to call him up and cancel.”

I plop down onto the bar stool near my friend and reach for one of the bottled waters he retrieved from the fridge. My frenzied state has left me parched.

As I twist the top off, Fizzy pulls a few glossy pages from his messenger bag and spreads them on the counter before me. “Don’t make a rash decision about this. Look—the guy is a true supporter of the arts.”

I lean in intending to read the magazine article.

It’s hard to focus on fine print, however, when a photo of a gorgeous guy is also staring me in the face.

Wow.

Damian Knight grew up to be smokin’ hot.

My eyes linger on the man’s dark, broody eyes, his chiseled jaw, and the way his muscular frame fills out his perfectly fitted designer suit. “Dang… I remember him as a skinny, gangly dude with a mop of dark hair.”

“He grew up to be quite the looker, didn’t he? The ladies in town know it, too. It’s almost funny how they run after him when he goes out for errands. I’ve seen him get nearly tackled in the checkout line at the market. Poor guy.”

“Boo hoo. He’s a total trust funder, and he looks like a male model straight off the pages of GQ. Life must besohard for him. Yeah,right.”

“I don’t know… His mother’s a nightmare. She wants him married off, like, yesterday. I think he’s had to put up quite a battle. It’s no wonder he’s such a recluse. I had a bear of a time trying to get a word with him. I felt just as bad as the single women in town when I cornered him at the bank.”

“You cornered him?”

“I wanted to get a good word in, about you. It wasn’t easy to set up this meeting, either. He ducked and dodged like a pro, but I managed to get the last word in before he could come up with yet another excuse.”

I tear my focus away from Damian’s stunning features and my eyes flit over the few other photos that accompany the text. There’s an image of his home, which he designed, apparently. The thing’s a huge, sprawling mass of cement and steel that looks more like a prison than a home, to me. Aware I’m running out of time, I skim the article next. It details Damian’s swiftly growing collection of abstract paintings and sculptures. I finish reading, then slug down the last of my water.

I pour a second bottle into Bo’s dish, and then top off his food bowl, too. “Look, I appreciate that you went to all that trouble. But—”

Fizzy holds up a hand. “Wait. Just stop right there. Please don’t insist that I cancel. Give it some thought.” He pulls his phone from his bag and taps the screen. “I’m forwarding you his contact info and the address where you’re supposed to meet him. Believe me when I say I went all out to get this. If you decide you want to cancel, you can call it off yourself.”

We chat for another few minutes as I make my final rounds, close up windows and kiss Bo on the top of the head to say goodbye.

“Wish me luck with Maxine,” I say to Fizzy, as I head for the door.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he says, as he gives me a peck on the cheek. “And really, your hair’s going to be fine, and that bag is amuchbetter accessory with that dress. I’m staying with Aunt Lydia in Queens tonight and I’m sure I’ll be snoozing before you wrap up your evening. I’m going to take two Benadryl and watch Netflix until I pass out. But give me a call in the morning so we can chat.”

He promises to lock up behind me, and then squeezes my hands and gives me one more encouraging kiss on the cheek.

Within minutes I’m out on the sidewalk, heading east toward the subway station that will take me Uptown toLe Petit Lapin.

I should be running through the points I want to get across to Maxine while we nibble slices of baguette and brandy-marinated pheasant, or whatever it is that people order at fancy French restaurants these days.

Instead, I can’t get the photo of Damian Knight out of my mind.

Chapter 2

Bella

One of these forks must be for the salad. Probably the smallest one. Or is that the dessert fork? My hand hovers over the array of utensils, and I feel my cheeks flush.

Thankfully, Maxine doesn’t pay my hesitation any mind. She plucks up a fork and digs into her own plate of balsamic-dressing glazed spinach leaves.

“Actually, Bella,” she says, after munching and patting her lips with a white cloth napkin, “I’ve had my eye on your work ever since I saw it on display at the New York University benefit dinner, several years ago.”

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