Page 67 of My Possessive Billionaire: Our Fake Marriage

“He probably is, but don’t worry. Those shredded tires are a pretty good surface to land on.”

“What if he breaks his neck?”

Too late for me to do anything about it, Stan jumped off the structure. He flapped his arms on the way down, then landed in a crouch on the shredded tires. He sprang right back up to his feet, flapping his arms anew.

“See? He’s fine.”

“I swear that he gets this insane risk-taking from you. You or your side of the family. No way would someone on my side of the family be this rash.”

“You say rash, I say brave.”

“You say potato, I say potat-toe,” I said with a snicker. “I’m not worried, if you want to know the truth. I somehow know it’s all going to work out for us.”

“Yeah,” Evan said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Me, too.”

I leaned into his warm embrace and sighed in contentment. We watched our son play, whooping and hollering fit to wake the dead. I had no idea how he got so much energy. He made me tired just watching him play.

Then, my son noticed that Evan had arrived. He dropped the feathers and squealed with delight.

“Daddy!”

Stan ran over and threw himself into a hug round Evan’s legs. Evan almost dropped the tray, but I rescued it in the nick of time.

“Mommy!”

Stan hugged me next, throwing himself into my lap.

I hugged my son back, and then Evan knelt down and hugged us both. Life was perfect, and I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Amanda

6 months later

Iclosed my eyes so that the perky makeup girl could doll me up a little bit more. I already wore so many layers of cosmetics I felt like a clown. Yet I knew better than to complain. Her job was to make me look good in front of a camera, and there would be a lot of people watching.

I found the whole experience amusing, if you want to know the truth, because when I was pretending to be Evan’s fake wife I was regularly doused with large amounts of makeup. Not to mention things like clothespins holding my garments tightly across mymidsection to as not to show so much as a single wrinkle.

I supposed that after living a couple of years relatively free of the media spotlight I was a bit apprehensive about going back under it. I knew it was for a worthy cause, though. I mean, causes don’t come much worthier than saving the freaking planet.

So, I sat there and endured while she patted a bit more foundation here, a little lip gloss there, and fussed with my eyelash extensions until I wanted to scream.

“You have such great skin,” the perky girl said, a smile etched on her impish little face. “I hardly have to do any work at all.”

I couldn’t stop a chuckle before it bubbled out of my throat.

“If you call this hardly any work at all, I’d hate to see what you do to people who you think don’t have great skin.”

She cackled to herself and relaxed as if we were old friends. I took a moment to survey the room. I sat in a dressing room old enough to be stained with cigarette smoke on the wallpaper, and new enough to have the landline phone jacks painted over. Except for the vanity and the makeup mirror, the room was rather dimly lit. Not far away, I heard Stan’s cackle, followed by Ramone shushing him to silence.

“It’s all right, honey,” the makeup girl said, giving Ramone the eye. “He’s not bothering me.”

“We don’t’ want to interrupt you making your Mommy prettier, do we Stan?” Ramone asked.

Stan looked up at Ramone and giggled with the high-pitched energy that only a toddler can muster.

In my mind, I was thinking ‘go ahead and interrupt her, my ass is falling asleep after sitting in this chair for so long.’ I didn’t say that out loud, though. I didn’t want to hurt the makeup girl’s feelings.

“Oh, I can’t make her any prettier than God already has,” the make-up girl said with a smile. “All I can do is make sure that thecamera captures the essence of her beauty.”

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