Page 107 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

A whole glorious day stretched out before me with nothing to do but sip coffee in my pajamas and maybe catch up on whatever romance novel everyone won’t shut up about. The kind of peaceful solitude that used to feel like heaven after a packed work week.

But today, I voluntarily left that sanctity behind to brunch with Jess and Sabrina at some ridiculously trendy spot in SoHo where the avocado toast is cooked in duck fat. Sounds disgusting, I know. But it tastes divine.

And honestly, I’m actually grateful for the distraction. It’s an excuse to be somewhere else other than near Dom.

Speaking of which, I’m still thinking about what he did to me last night in bed...

Don’t go there, Tatiana! This is exactly why you need distance. Because apparently multiple orgasms turn your brain to mush.

I went to work yesterday as well, a Saturday of all days, again mostly to get away. Dom’s consulting work has wound down to a degree, so that left only Christopher’s office. When I got there, it wasn’t as if I got a lot done, though. I mostly rearranged the same spreadsheet fifteen different ways while thinking about Dom’s hands.

Anyway, my point is, I’m trying my hardest not to get further attached to Dom. To make this last phase of our agreement just physical. A transaction with benefits. Five more days of fantastic sex and then a clean break.

I’m not sure it’s working.

At all.

“So,” Jess says, examining her mimosa like it contains the secrets of the universe, “how’s married life treating you? Any plans for a proper honeymoon after all this PR madness dies down?”

I nearly choke on my overpriced coffee. If she only knew there’s exactly five days left on our countdown clock.

I exchange a conspiratorial glance with Sabrina. “We’re... taking things one day at a time,” I manage, which might be the understatement of the century.

One day at a time until our legally binding agreement expires and we go our separate ways. Talk about modern romance.

“I saw that glance,” Jess says, a mischievous glint in her eye. She looks at Sabrina. “What are you two keeping from me?”

“Nothing!” I say.

Nichols and Franks sit at a nearby table, pretending to be engrossed in their phones while actually scanning everyone who walks through the door. I’ve gotten used to their presence, which is probably a sign that my life has taken a decidedly weird turn.

Jess shrugs. “Whatever. Your husband is so hot it should be illegal.” She stirs her drink with unnecessary vigor. “Like, does he just smolder at you across the breakfast table? Does he brood sexily while brushing his teeth?”

“Jess!” Sabrina intervenes, though I catch her subtle glance of curiosity.

“What? I’m living vicariously through my friend who somehow bagged New York’s most eligible bachelor without telling any of us she was even dating him.”

I stare into my coffee cup, suddenly finding the swirl of cream fascinating. There’s so much I could say: how Dom’s hands feel against my skin, how the weight of him pressing me into the mattress makes me forget everything else, how even though I leave his bed every night, part of me wants so desperately to stay.

But those things feel too raw, too real to share over Instagram-worthy brunch plates.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally.

Jess rolls her eyes. “God, you’re no fun. Fine, keep your billionaire sex secrets.”

“Trust me, if I had any good secrets, you two would be the first to know,” I lie smoothly, stabbing a piece of avocado toast with unnecessary force. “Besides, we’re still figuring things out ourselves.”

Figuring out how to pretend we were never married once our thirty-day countdown hits zero, that is.

Sabrina gives me that look, the one that says she can practically read the thoughts I’m desperately trying to keep behind my carefully constructed wall of nonchalance. That woman is too perceptive for her own good.

“Well, when you figure it out, I expect details,” Jess says, flagging down the waiter for another mimosa. “Specifically: is the size of his... empire... proportional to his net worth?”

“Jess!” Sabrina and I exclaim in unison, though I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

“What? It’s a legitimate question.”

I glance over at Nichols and Franks, who are pretending very hard not to hear our conversation. Poor guys. Their security training probably didn’t include protocols for filtering out graphic sex euphemisms at boozy brunches.

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