Page 64 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

I stare at my laptop screen, trying to concentrate on the Costa Rica resort documentation I’ve meticulously prepared for him. The numbers and bullet points blur together as my mind replays his hands on my thighs, his mouth between my legs, the way he—

“Nope.” I say it out loud, as if that might actually stop my thoughts. “We are not doing this right now.”

My phone pings with a text from Dom.

Still working on that vendor brief?

I roll my eyes. Like he doesn’t know exactly what I’m doing at 9 PM on a Wednesday night in his penthouse.Yes. I’ll have the finalized version for your approval in 20.

His response is almost immediate:No need. Coming home. Wait for me.

Coming home.

Not “returning to the penthouse” or “heading back now.”

Coming home.

As if this is actuallymyhome. As if we’re actually married in any way that counts.

Don’t read into it. It’s just a figure of speech. This man left literal bite marks on your inner thigh last night and then basically sprinted from your bedroom like it was on fire.

I check my appearance in the reflection of my laptop screen. Hair’s a mess. I pull it into a neat bun, then immediately take it down again.

“What are you doing?” I mutter to myself. “He’s seen you naked. And orgasming. A messy bun is hardly going to shatter the illusion of competence at this point.”

I make myself focus on the task at hand. The vendor contract requires Dom’s final approval, and I’ve created a concise one-page summary with the three best options clearly outlined, complete with pros and cons in neat bullet points. It’s a masterpiece of efficiency. The kind of thing that would make my Business Administration professors weep with pride.

The front door opens twenty minutes later, and my heart rate inexplicably doubles.

It’s just Dom. Your temporary husband. Your business associate.

The guy who made you scream his name last night.

“Evening,” he says, shrugging off his suit jacket as he enters. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s been in meetings all day. “How’s the vendor brief coming?”

“Finished.” I hand him the tablet with my pristine document displayed. “Three options, ranked by cost-efficiency and sustainability metrics. The first option gives us the best balance of—”

“No.” He doesn’t even look at the screen.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, no, I don’t want to review it like this.” He tosses his jacket over a chair and loosens his tie. “Come with me.”

He strides toward his home office without checking if I’m following. I’m tempted to stay put out of pure stubbornness, but curiosity wins out.

At least that’s what we’re calling it. Curiosity. Not the fact that his ass looks incredible in those pants.

His office is a designer’s wet dream (if not mine). Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, a sleek desk, and a massive whiteboard covering one wall. He’s already uncapping a marker when I enter.

“I need to think this through differently,” he says, drawing what appears to be the rough layout of the resort. “The vendor choice impacts the overall sustainability narrative.”

I cross my arms. “That’s why I prepared a comprehensive analysis with all sustainability metrics clearly listed in column three.”

He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “If we go with traditional suppliers for the structural elements, but showcase innovation in the visible aspects...”

For the next twenty minutes, I watch him pace, sketch, erase, and mutter to himself. My neat, organized approach to problem-solving is being trampled by his chaotic, big-picture brainstorming, and it’s driving me absolutely insane.

“Dom, if you’d just look at the document—”

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