Page 45 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Nope. Just nope.

Nope nope NOPE!

I won’t let myself.

He’s exactly the type that would leave you at the altar if you let yourself fall for him. To think otherwise is to live in a fantasy world.

My phone chimes with a text from Dom. Speak of the devil.

Initial Serenity Shores contractor proposals sent to your email. Review by tomorrow if you’re accepting the consulting role.

No “please.” No “thank you.” Not even a “good morning” after I had his dick in my mouth not so long ago. Typical.

I text back:Will review today. Sending contract terms for the consulting work this afternoon.

His response comes immediately:Contract? You already signed one.

I actually laugh out loud at that. Does he really think I’ll do this without more compensation? I start to type:The contract is for marriage and sexual services...

I quickly delete that. It’s not wise to send unsecure texts detailing your temporary marriage. So instead I go with:Existing contract isn’t for resort consulting.

There’s a pause, then:Fine. Send terms.

That’s right. This isn’t amateur hour. You want my brain? You pay for it separately from my other... services.

I open my laptop to quickly draft a consulting agreement before work. The standard hourly rate I’ve researched for this type of work is eye-watering, but I figure if anyone can afford it, it’s him. Besides, I’m worth every penny.

I send off the consulting agreement. My phone dings five minutes later.

Hourly rate acceptable.

Jesus. He really wants me to work on this that badly? I almost don’t know what to think. Surely he has an army of people who could work on this for him? Why me? Is it because he...

No. He just values my services. Like Christopher does. Yes, this is entirely professional.

I glance at the clock. I need to get moving. Christopher expects me at the office by 9, and it’s already 7:45. I’m just about to head for the shower when my phone rings again.

It’s Mom.

Shit.

I take a deep breath before answering. “Hi, Mom.”

“Tatiana Nicole Cole! When were you going to tell me you got married?” Her voice is a mixture of hurt and excitement.

Double shit. The news has clearly made it to their small Minnesota town.

She was never a big social media person. Mom still prints out Google Map directions and thinks “going viral” means someone coughed without covering their mouth. I’d been clinging to the desperate hope that my matrimonial disaster would somehow sail over her small-town radar.

So much for my brilliant “ignore it and it’ll go away” strategy.

“I was planning to call you today, actually,” I lie smoothly. “Everything happened so quickly.”

“Mrs. Petersen showed me the article online. My daughter married to Dominic Rossi! The billionaire! When did you even meet him? You never mentioned dating anyone!”

Because I wasn’t. Until I woke up married to one after a drug-induced blackout in Vegas. But that’s not exactly Parent-Approved Life Choices 101.

“We’ve known each other through work for a while,” I say, sticking to the PR-approved script Camilla drilled into us. “He’s friends with Christopher. We’ve been keeping things private.”

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