Page 1 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Chapter 1

Tabitha

Rex’sangry baritone voice rumbles through the polished wood door that separates his majestic office from the lowly world of normal people.

I wince inwardly. You can only make out random words, but it’s clear that he’s both stunned and enraged at the incompetence of the mere mortals who surround him.

Amanda’s eyes widen. “Maybe today’s a bad day to bring me in there?” she squeaks.

I try for a breezy smile. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Everybody annoys and upsets Rex. Once you get to know him, you’ll see it’s just how he is.”

More yelling.

Amanda looks like she wants to melt into the wall. She tightens her grip on the handle of my rolling salon case, sparkly pink with polished silver hinges and hardware. I’ve been letting her wheel it into my clients’ offices as a visual aid to help prepare them for my absence, a way of passing my mobile stylist torch. Just for a few weeks, anyway.

Hopefully just a few weeks.

More angry rumbles.

I smile like it’s so amusing. “Oh,Rex!” I whisper.

She searches my face. Am I joking?

I was hoping she could have an okay interaction with him before being exposed to his terrifying, god-throwing-thunderbolts management style.

Too late now.

I pull her farther to the side just in time for a trio of men in suits to burst out and head down the lavishly carpeted hallway, down past the rows of offices—little glass boxes where Rex keeps his assistants. Most of the offices are darkened now, being that it’s eight on a Friday night.

We watch them head down the hall toward the empty area where more of Rex’s assistants toil each day.

They keep going, picking up speed as they enter the area where the assistants to Rex’s assistants toil. There’s probably a dungeon somewhere beyond that where those assistants’ assistants’ assistants work, and below that, a torture chamber would not be a shocker.

More grumbling from inside.

“He’s not a bad person,” I whisper. “It’s just his style.” Rex O’Rourke is an achingly gorgeous man with a large frame and sooty eyelashes, but he’s definitely scary—in a sort of gothic way, I like to think. He’s some kind of financial powerbroker, the head of Rex O’Rourke Capital.

“Erp,” she says, unconvinced.

My smile does not waver. No way will I let her wiggle out of this.

I employ two stylists, and Amanda’s my best. I need my best for Rex because there are very specific ways to shape his short beard and cut his hair, and I don’t like to think of somebody getting it wrong. You have to appreciate the handsome shape of his face; you also have to account for his habit of shoving his hands through his hair when he’s irritated, which is always, and which results in a dramatically swept-back style.

I kind of love when he does the irritated hands-through-his-hair thing. And his beautiful lips go frowny, and his hard energy fills the room, and people literally scurry for the hills like ocelots sensing a coming tidal wave.

And I’ll be busily setting up my mobile salon, and I know I shouldn’t find that amusing, and I definitely shouldn’t imagine pressing my hands against the velvet-smooth scruff on Rex’s cheeks and kissing his big frown.

Nevertheless.

I guess I’ve always had a bit of a crush on him. More than a crush. Rex loves to act like I’m the most annoying person in the universe, but the heart wants what it wants.

In spite of Rex’s seeming annoyance with me, I do feel we have a certain connection—that we’resimpatico—not that he’d ever acknowledge it any more than a roaring, angry lion would acknowledge that a little breeze feels nice.

No, Rex exists in a rarified realm of celebrities and billionaires, a sparkling stratosphere where you never have to wait in post office lines or claw price tags off of things and your quest for world domination might actually work.

I’ve been cutting his hair every Friday night at ten minutes after eight, which is when aftermarket trading closes, whatever that is. He can’t be bothered prior to that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that world domination is the only thing he cares about.

More yelling. Another suit, a woman this time, bursts out of the office. A man follows her, then another, moving quickly. Something must’ve happened because usually it’s quieter at this time of night. I like to think of it as our time, stupid as that may sound.

---