Page 43 of My Possessive Billionaire: Our Fake Marriage

“Sure,” he said, checking his watch. His face contorted into a frown. “Although I’m not aware of any restaurants open this late. Not any that I would find palatable.”

“What, you’re too good for Waffle House?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

Now he had me there. Not just that he made a good point, but he made me laugh, too.

“I’ll inform the chef,” he said, reaching for the house phone.

“Hey, hold up a bit.” I put my hand on top of his own. “Don’t call Chef. It’s like super late and he’s probably with his family.”

He gave me a long look. “How are we going to have dinner if I don’t call the chef?”

“Uh, duh, we’ll make it ourselves. It’ll be fun.”

He shook his head. I could see him sulling up and getting stubborn on me again. I felt a wave of anxiety come over me at the thought I’d set him off again.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is. It’s Chef’s job to cook for me when he is told to do so.”

I sighed, trying to come up with a way to get through to him. “Look, why don’t you try this—try thinking of Chef not just as a tool or a robot you can click and order around. Try to think of him as a human being.”

I slid off the desk, which hiked my skirt up a little. I noticedhis gaze dropping to my exposed thighs for the brief moment between when my feet touched the floor, and I pulled down the skirt.

He cocked an eyebrow as I walked around behind him and covered his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you find your humanity, Uncle Scrooge.”

He scoffed, but he didn’t pull my hands away. I took that as a victory.

“Now, for a moment, pretend like you aren’t Evan Jones, fabulously wealthy business mogul.”

“Okay, who am I? Conan the Barbarian? Is this a role-playing thing? Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder and tie you to the bed or something?”

“You’re supposed to be Chef, you horny bastard,” I said with a laugh. “Picture yourself as Chef. You’ve worked all day, literally, preparing three meals for your ultra-demanding, kind of a prick boss—”

“Hey,” he said, but I didn’t stop.

“Now you’ve finally put your kids to bed, and you’ve just laid down yourself. You snuggle up next to your wife and you prepare to fall into a well-deserved slumber.”

I could feel him sort of relaxing into the idea. Once I had him lulled into a false sense of security, I pulled my hands away.

“Ring ring!” I said loudly in his ear. “Ring ring! It’s your boss, calling you because he wants you to come and make him a super late dinner. So, you roll out of bed, put your clothes back on, drive back to the manor house—”

“Okay, okay, I get your point.”

He put the phone back down.

“Anyway, this is like a thing that married people do. They cooktogether.”

He glanced up at me sharply. I felt my cheeks burning.

“That is, we can turn this experience into something we can tell reporters. Maybe even an Instagram story or other social media post.”

Now I was really speaking his language. I believed his pupils turned into dollar signs for a moment, but it was really late, and I had eye strain.

“Maybe you’re right.” He rubbed his eyes for a moment, a rare sign of being a human being, and stood up. “I’m sure we can muddle through our own dinner somehow.”

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