Page 47 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“Great. See you in a few.” I turn and do my best not to skip and dance my way down the path. Inwardly, though, I turn cartwheels all the way to the door.

A few minutes later, I’ve changed into comfy clothes and my flip-flops. Damian joins me in the yard, wearing a t-shirt, shorts,and sandals. “See? No costume,” he jokes. We take Bo out for a walk in the woods that feels downright magical.

Though Damian offers to microwave burritos for us (cilantro lime chicken, bean and rice, or southwestern spiced beef) or toast waffles (blueberry, blueberry, or blueberry) I insist on whipping up greasy grilled cheese instead.

It feels heavenly to munch on gooey cheese sandwiched between fluffy bread that’s been fried to a buttery crisp on the outer edges while talking art with him. At some point I realize that I don’t even mind licking my fingers clean in front of Damian, and once I even catch him doing the same.

“For me, the great impressionists are superstars,” I tell him. We’re in his kitchen, and I’m perched on a bar stool with my knee tucked up to my chest. “The way they saw the world… Like nothing was solid. Everything was made of light. It’s totally magical. Any old thing can become beautiful… a tree branch, a lily pad, an old boat. When I was studying in grad school, I’d go whole days trying to see the world like that.”

“ And how did it go?”

“It was incredible. Like taking off blinders. You know, it’s easy to think of all the objects around us as solid, boring, dead. But light i s transformative. It takes some practice, but it’s possible to see things like they did, I think. You start to feel weirdly connected like there’s nowhere you end and the thing you’re looking at begins. Because we’re always in a big soup of space and light, and this notion that everything’s separate isn’t necessarily true.”

He grabs two Bubbly Springs sodas from the fridge and holds them out to me. “I knew you’d get it. Want one of these ?”

I eye the cans and point to the cream soda. He hands it to me and then pops the top on his own. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“A surprise. It has to do with space and light like you’re talking about. You’ll like it. It’s up in the sitting area on the roof.”

“You have a sitting area on your roof?”

I want to know more about this rooftop. Like, what happens when it snows? But before I can ask, he takes hold of my hand and gives a gentle tug.

He leads me by the hand through his massive house. A parade of large paintings skims by us: big, blocky swaths of color; canvases speckled with wild splashes and splatters of paint; angular shapes and geometric forms outlined in black.

It’s a tour of his collection in Fast Forward.

Bo keeps pace with us, and the three of us emerge on the roof together. The sleek, contemporary rooftop deck has a giant, round firepit in the middle of it. Surrounding the firepit, there’s a U-shaped formation of puffy, white couches. They’re the kind of couches that make me immediately fantasize about spending an entire day curled up with a book. Or, curled up with a hunk.

One or the other.

Damian walks to the firepit and touches a spot beneath the rim. Flames leap up and cast a golden glow over the couches.

The sky above us forms a ceiling of black velvet, dusted with shimmery stars.

I’m so mesmerized by how cozy and pretty the sitting area is that at first, I don’t notice the wall that the couches are all arranged to face. It’s on the far side of the roof. Of course, there’s also a waist-high wall that borders the entire roof. Without that, it’d be dangerous up here, especially at night. But this section of the wall is taller: seven or eight feet. It’s painted a dark color.

At first, I think it’s there to support a movie screen. But then I take a closer look and see that there’s a huge painting hanging on it. The whole wall is like one giant frame.

Damian returns to my side. He tugs my hand again.

He leads me closer to the painting. As we pass the couches, he takes my soda and sets both of our drinks down on a side table. When we reach the far wall, he positions himself behind me, with his arms around my waist. “What do you think?” he whispers in my ear.

It’s almost too much. The feel of Damian’s strong, muscular body behind me, and his arms around me, holding me tight.

The sound of his deep whisper in my ear.

And this painting we’re looking at—it’s gorgeous. Wild, hazy blocks of light and dark fill the canvas, along with pools of metallic gold that reflect the firelight.

“I think—wow.” “It’s only like this at night,” he says. “This painting looks like nothing in broad daylight. But with a backdrop of stars…”

“And the flames…”

I feel him nod. His cheek grazes against mine. “Exactly. The gold comes alive. Paintings are always in relationships with us. It’s impossible to separate the art from the viewer. And it’s like you said, about the soup of space and light… It's important. The space between things is part of the equation.”

I turn, slowly, without breaking contact with him.

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