Page 95 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Tatiana hesitates before taking the smallest pastry. “Bold words from a man whose entire resort project hinges on following very precise regulatory guidelines.”

“That’s different,” I argue, selecting a pastry for myself. “Those rules serve a purpose.”

“And social rules don’t?” She raises an eyebrow, delicately taking a bite. “The currency at these events isn’t money, Dom. It’s perception.”

“Is that why you’re so good at this?” I gesture vaguely to the crowd. “You see the rules of the game clearly?”

“I see patterns,” she says simply. “In people, in numbers, in behavior. It’s just data.”

“You make human interaction sound so clinical.”

She lowers her voice, and I barely hear her above the music. “Says the man who put sex into a contract clause.”

I laugh at that. “Touché. Again.”

She sets aside her pastry. It’s only half eaten. “Besides, my stomach can’t take a meal before or during these events. Nerves, you know.”

“Nerves?” I’m taken aback. “I’ve always thought you had nerves ofsteel.”

“I’m a good actor,” she admits. “Dealing with people... has never been one of my strong suites. I prefer numbers. Spreadsheets.”

I study her in a newfound light. She’s nervous. She’s actually getsnervousat events like this. I would have never thought...

Which makes me wonder... she says she’s a good actor. What else is she pretending? What else is she hiding?

Could she feel something for me?

No. I don’t dare hope.

Like she said, she’s a good actor. She’spretendingto be my wife.

And like I said, she deserves better than me. Someone who can give her the attention she deserves. Someone who isn’t obsessed with his business... obsessed with signing billion dollar deals.

“When this is over,” she continues. “I’m looking forward to hiding away behind my desk again, with galas like this restricted to a once or twice a year thing.”

I slump slightly.

See? This is why it’s a fucking bad idea to hope.

“Yes, when it’s over,” I agree.

“Don’t sound so devastated,” she says, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent I can’t quite identify. She lowers her voice again so I can barely hear it above the music. “Soon you’ll be free to attend these events alone again, or with whatever supermodel catches your fancy.”

I lean close and whisper in response: “Is that what you think? That I’ll just move on to the next woman?”

“Won’t you?” She whispers back. Her eyes search mine, suddenly serious. “Isn’t thatyourpattern?”

Patterns. She sees patterns in people.

The question hits uncomfortably close to home. I take a sip of champagne to buy time, wondering why I care what she thinks of me.

“I don’t have a pattern,” I lie.

“Everyone has patterns, Dom.” She glances away, watching the crowd, then whispers: “Mine is apparently marrying billionaires in Vegas when I’m high.”

I laugh despite myself. “Plural? How many other billionaires have you married?”

“Just the one. So far.” She smiles, and fuck, something inside me shifts dangerously.

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