Page 101 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Soooo…” I fumble back to the conversation, the last known area. “You don’t believe me? That there aren’t other girls like me?” I demand. “If you want a shot at a repeat performance of the salon, you’ll need to show a little respect.”

The smile lingers deliciously, and then, little by little, it fades. It fades into something dark and dangerous that I also very much like.

Low and grumbly, he says, “I know there aren’t other girls like you.”

“Uh-huh.” I lie back down, determined to ignore him.

He makes me want things I shouldn’t want.

He settles two warm fingers on my sun-drenched thigh and strokes them down toward my knee. He moves his fingers slowly—lazily, even—as if to say, here I am, touching you wherever.

This slow finger-stroke thing is something that he enjoys doing, which I also very much enjoy.

Slowly he trails his finger, down, down, down.

Rex’s finger is an English country lord out on a walk of his lands, surveying all that he owns. Except way hotter—there will be no farming or cottage-building for Rex’s finger. Rex’s finger is interested only in dirty, dirty pleasure. His finger reverses course, heads away from my knee, back up into more tender lands, back up in the direction of my eager target.

“Definitely aren’t other girls like you,” he says.

My pulse kicks up. I was just fooling around when I gave him shit for thatgirls like youthing, but right now he’s serious. The idea that I’m somehow different or special to him is a powerful drug, intoxicating and illicit. And dangerous. An overdose will kill me.

I sit up and nod at the bev area. “Gail looks like she’s done with her serious convo.” I stand, dislodging his finger. “And you know what I have? A comb and a baggie. For the DNA!” I grab my bag.

“Somebody’s prepared.”

I smile, enjoying the appreciation in his gaze. “At least one of us has to keep our eyes on the prize.” I stand and pull my cover-up over myself and sling my little shoulder purse across my chest.

“Don’t let Marvin see,” he jokes.

“Right?” I spin around and head across the burnished brown deck, heart still pounding like mad.

Definitely aren’t other girls like you.

It’s a lie, of course. That line has been a lie from the beginning of time. Prince Charming doesn’t truly want Cinderella for who she is—that’s a dangerous fiction for girls to believe. Prince Charming only wants pretty Cinderella at the ball. He wants fun Cinderella. He doesn’t care about washerwoman Cinderella and he certainly wouldn’t go scouring the countryside for her. And if he did do that, once he finds her mopping floors, he’ll be out of there so fast, on his way to find a new pretty girl to have fun with at the ball.

Gail’s talking to a few people. The circle opens to let me in. One of the girls is showing Gail a YouTube clip on her phone. It’s a humorous singing group, which is, admittedly, funny. We’re laughing. The high school girls find other clips. People love showing Gail things. Gail has a way of making you feel special.

Gail asks them to show me one that I missed, and I act excited. I am, a little bit, but mostly I’m feeling weird, because I’m here for Gail’s hair. I don’t like fooling her, but if Marvin’s a fake, she needs to know!

It would be so crazy if the fake nephew thing turned out to be true. There are a lot of other explanations, but what if? The man is up to something, that’s for sure.

Gail’s talking about tomorrow’s breakfast now. I’m trying to find an excuse to comb her hair—I was thinking about doing a style suggestion, but now Gail’s asking the girls if they want to be in a focus group.

“Somebody’s doing a focus group?” I ask, studying her hair, still working on my excuse.

“Yeah, you,” Gail says. “If you like.”

“I am?” I ask.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to reveal her idea,” one of the girls says. “But we promise we won’t steal it or tell about it.”

“Ideas are a dime a dozen,” Gail says. “Any idiot can work up an idea; it’s the execution that makes the difference.”

I grin. I love when she talks like that. “I’m not truly thinking about executing on it at this point,” I say.

Gail wants to do it anyway. She’s giving the girls just enough to make them excited. They’re practically begging for the chance to give their opinion.

“So are we on for the group?” Gail asks me, gaze warm. And I feel this crazy longing. It’s not just the idea, it’s having this older, wiser woman be interested in me and want to help me and to tell me things.

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