Page 71 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

I’ve left her waiting long enough. With women like Maxine, it’s best to respond promptly.

I should have called her back right after listening to her message yesterday. But I couldn’t bring myself to make the call. It’s going to feel like sticking a sword into my stomach when I tell her that I can’t follow through with the show.

In an attempt to distract myself, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my texts. I should double-check the address of the temp agency I’m about to visit, anyway. I have a message from them in here somewhere. Just as I find the info I’m looking for, a new message comes in. Goosebumps prickle on my arms. It’s from Fizzy.

It’s a link.

The link has my name in it, and the wordsSilver Springs Museum of Modern Artall jammed together like it’s all part of one title. That’s impossible, though. My artwasgoing to hang in that museum, if I actually painted the abstract piece Damian asked for. But since I didn’t, I don’t see why my name should ever show up in the press about Damian’s new museum.

The goosebumps travel up to the back of my neck when I click the link and see my name right there in the article’s title, next to the museum name. The piece is a press release, published by an online news source two hours ago.

I feel queasy as I scan the text. It’s a brief article that gets right to the point: the upcoming museum opening will feature new art from “rising talent” Bella Sinclair. Me.

There’s been a mistake.

The subway lurches to a stop. When the doors open with a ‘hiss’ I stumble off, carried along by the crowd and totally lost in thought. As I make it up to the street, I pull up Damian’s number on my phone. I haven’t talked to him since I left his house two weeks ago.

I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me, but I have to tell him about this mistake. It’s his museum. He should know if the press is putting out incorrect info. So, I suck up my fear, dial his number, and then listen to his voicemail recording which is curt and cool.

Maybe it’s the way he sounds on the recording that makes me hang up without leaving a message. How is it that he’s such a nice guy when you get to know him, but he sounds like a total jerk, on his voicemail recording?

He really was nice to me. Nice, warm, vulnerable, and sweet.

And I screwed everything up.

I shove my phone down into my purse. It’s probably good that I chickened out before leaving a message. What would I say, if he called me back? I don’t yet have the money that I have to repay him, which is embarrassing.

I spent that down payment on groceries and dog food—and I’mstillspending it on groceries and dog food. And until I get a job, it’s the only thing in my bank account, so I can’t even give him what I have.

It’s not only the fact that I owe him money, though. There’s also the much bigger issue of the spring to consider. I’m going to have to contact a lawyer soon.

With my thoughts on the spring, I paw through my purse until I feel the padded, paper-filled envelope. I squeeze it for reassurance. It’s become a nervous tick of mine, squeezing this envelope to make sure it’s there, and no witchy women or their ‘courageous’ lawyers have managed to steal it away from me.

I’ll contact a lawyer of my own, soon. I’m sure that pursuing ownership of the spring will require all sorts of meetings, maybe even some that Damian will attend.

The next time I see him it might be in a room swarming with lawyers—his family’s, versus mine.

I almost walk past the building where the temp agency is located, but a familiar face exiting through the revolving doors stops me. Jacob, a young guy I’d worked with in the past, waves at me.

By the time I reach him, he’s lighting up a cigarette. He blows a puff of smoke out into the space between us. “Hey, you! Haven’t seen you in weeks. You back for more fun?”

“Ha.Fun. Yeah, right. I can’t exactly call any of these jobs fun.” I motion to the paperwork in his free hand. “Are you putting in an application, or did you just sign a contract?”

“Signed a contract.” He sandwiches his cigarette between his lips so he can fold the papers. With his lips still pinched together, he adds, “Lawnmower factory Upstate. I’m customer service, for two months. It’s slim picking right now, girl. What’re you after?”

“Anything, as long as it’s not going back to admin work for that tile company. That was so boring, I wanted to die. I’ll mop bathroom floors. Nanny the brattiest of kids.”

“You have experience in janitorial?”

“Nope.”

“Nannying?”

“Nope.”

He claps my shoulder. “They’re gonna put you back on with the tile company, I bet. You know how they like repeat placements. Saves them a whole heap of paperwork.”

He’s right. I know he’s right.

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