Page 50 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Fuck. I hadn’t even considered that angle. “What makes you say that?”

“I pulled weather data for the last five years.” She opens her laptop to show me a detailed spreadsheet. “Their construction schedule has major foundation work happening during what’s historically been the wettest months. It’s either naïve or deliberately misleading.”

I lean closer to examine her analysis, acutely aware of her scent as I do. Clean and subtly floral, professional yet feminine.

And dangerously distracting.

“This is good work,” I admit, straightening up. “Really good.”

“I know,” she says simply, closing her laptop and returning to her meal. “Now, about the investor strategy. What exactly are you looking for from me?”

“Direct insights,” I reply, taking a bite of my own food. “You’ve reviewed all the materials. If you were an investor with conservative tendencies, what would your concerns be about Serenity Shores?”

She considers this while taking another sip of wine. “Three main issues. Return timeline, environmental impact credentials, and your personal stability.” She says the last part with a pointed look.

I raise an eyebrow. “My personal stability?”

“Your reputation matters to these investors. The Vegas wedding threw them off balance. They’re wondering what other impulsive decisions you might make.”

“Hence our current arrangement,” I gesture between us with my fork.

“Exactly,” she nods. “But it’s not enough to simply appear married. You need to project stability in all aspects. These investors need to believe you’re a man who makes calculated decisions, not rash ones.”

“I am that man,” I insist. “Vegas was an anomaly.”

“Tell that to the marriage certificate with our names on it,” she counters.

I can’t help but laugh. “Fair point. So what do you suggest?”

“A narrative shift. Instead of focusing on damage control, position the resort as the culmination of years of strategic planning. Your magnum opus. The passion project you’ve been meticulously developing.”

Her business acumen continues to surprise me. Not just the analysis, but the strategic thinking. Twenty-six days from now, when our arrangement ends, I’m going to be losing a valuable asset.

Antoine bids farewell and leaves us alone in the penthouse, and we transition from dinner to work mode, spreading documents across the table as we refine the investor presentation. The wine loosens the tension between us slightly, making our collaboration easier.

“These projections need updating based on the rainfall data,” she says, reaching for a sheet of paper just as I do.

Our hands touch. A jolt of electricity passes between us. Neither of us pulls away immediately, both frozen in the unexpected contact.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see something flicker there. I immediately think about the next clause fulfillment, still ten days away. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I finally withdraw my hand.

“You take it,” I mutter, voice rougher than intended.

She clears her throat and takes the paper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in what seems like a nervous gesture. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her perfect composure since that night in her suite.

“Day four,” she says quietly, eyes on the document.

“What?”

“Of thirty,” she clarifies. “We’re on day four.”

The reminder of our countdown hangs between us, loaded with unspoken tension. Twenty-six more days of this strange dance. Twenty-six more days of living together, working together, pretending to be something we’re not.

And only ten days until I’m entitled to touch her again.

Only?Seems like an eternity, at the moment.

“Let’s focus on the presentation,” I say, pushing the thought away. But it lingers, distracting me as we work side by side into the evening. Our shoulders occasionally brush, creating sparks neither of us acknowledge.

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