Page 69 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

“Busy picking your girlfriend up from jail,” Addison says merrily, as she sashays toward the door. This whole string of events really has put a new spring in her step.

I ignore the comment. “I don’t think I’ll make it… I have to prepare for the museum opening.”

“Nonsense.” My mother pulls at my collar before trailing toward the door behind Addison. “You’ll meet him at the greens at three. Dinner at our house afterward. How do you like the new clubs?”

“They’re fine.”

How can I win?

I can’t.

So, I might as well just say what she wants me to say so that she’ll leave. She smiles.

“Good. They were terribly expensive, so it’s nice to know you’re enjoying them. We knew you would. And, speaking of this museum of yours, are you absolutely sure you want to go through with it?”

“We’ve gone over this before. Yes. I’m sure.”

“Ah, well, we all have to have our silly hobbies, don’t we? I remember when your father started to collect model trains, after that ridiculous midlife crisis he suffered. I kept throwing them in the waste bin; he kept digging them out. Finally, I had the housekeeper take the whole collection to the dump in Delta and that was that.”

She pulls open the door as she and Addison twitter over my father’s loss. Then she leads the way out onto the driveway. Before I can close the door on the two of them, she hooks her elbow through Addison’s and delivers more. “Damian, if you’rereally going to go through with this museum opening of yours, you’ll need a date for the event. Addison will go with you. I’m sure she can get the time off from work.” She tilts her head toward her companion.

Addison beams. “Of course! I’ll put in a request for the date.”

“That’s settled, then.” My mother’s clearly pleased about adding another win to her list for the day. She already cornered me into golf on Sunday, and dinner, too. This is her third victory.

Addison wriggles free of her grasp and digs her phone out of her designer purse—which, I notice, is an exact replica of my mother’s. Today, Addison is even wearing giant, globular pearls that drag her earlobes down.

Heaven, help me.She taps her phone with her manicured nails. “Pumpkin, what’s the date, exactly? End of August, the same night as the Founders Festival, right? For the life of me I can’t remember when that silly event happens. I’ve never gone, anyway. Seems to be a bunch of fuss about nothing.”

I barely register her words.

As I watch her talking, ll I can think about is Bella. I stand in the doorway, looking out into the blazing mid-morning summer sun at my mother and Addison, and wonder what Bella is thinking. Where do we stand? I miss her already.

She left without saying goodbye…

I thought I loved Bella. I really did.

I never named the emotion, but it was right there, lighting up every moment I shared with her. I felt fuzzy and warm around her, and that falling sensation… that was love. It was dangerous and terrifying and invigorating.

I know I have to deal with my mother and Addison so that I can have time and space to think about Bella. So, feeling distracted, I rattle off the museum opening date and then promise to pick Addison up at her house on Mountain Laurel Lane that evening at four o'clock.

When they leave, I close the door behind me and try not to dwell on the fact that Addison Feldman will be on my arm when I open the doors to the museum, I’ve poured my heart and soul into for a very long time now.

I’ve looked forward to the opening date for two years: ever since I purchased the entire textile factory building. I’ve always felt that art should be shared. It’s the morally right thing to do. I’ve collected for years, always intending to put the works on display at some point.

I’ve enjoyed cleaning the museum space and imagining where each piece will hang. I’ve even invited some very big-name art critics, who have promised to attend and write about the event.

It was supposed to be a rewarding evening. One I’d look back on and remember fondly for years to come. But now it’s falling apart. I won’t have the unique piece I’ve already promised the press…andI’ll have Addison there with me, calling me ‘Pumpkin’ and never leaving my side.

Ugh.

I rub my temple as I stride through the sitting room—which smells like a combination of two very strong perfumes, and not a good combination, either. I hike up a flight of wrought-iron stairs to the west catwalk. The glassed-in extended breezeway drops me off in my office. Once seated in my high-backed leather chair, I turn in a slow circle and look out on the lawn and woods below. I tap my fingertips together as I try to gather my thoughts.

Practical steps. That’s what I have to focus on.

If I let my thoughts wander to Bella, and how stupid I was to open up to her as much as I did, I’ll want to crawl back into bed and weep.

That is not an option.

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