Page 113 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

And us rushing out of there like fun, sexy thieves in the night. It felt like it was us against the world, and I know he felt it, too.

And yes, we have chemistry—white-hot, blow-up-the-lab-in-a-raging-inferno combustible chemistry.

And he’s unexpectedly deep in spite of that arrogant asshole surface.

But this can only ever be a fling. Because I know right down to my bones that when you think things with guys mean something, that’s when you’re in trouble.

That’s how you end up all alone at the TipTop, crying in a party dress. Or lying in a hospital bed with a broken engagement and crater-holes in your soul. It’s when you end up like my mom, alone with pills and pain.

Trusting a man with your heart is the fastest road to devastation.

I can’t forget that Rex hates to be trapped in any way—he said so himself. His reason for wanting a fortune is specifically to never be trapped like his parents—who could’ve made hate lists about each other, no doubt.

I should’ve grabbed the list when I had the chance so that I could whip it out and study it when I’m having feelings for him—black-and-white proof of what a disaster we would be.

And women probably never say no to Rex. How much of his attraction to me is simply because he can’t have me?

Still my traitorous heart beats like mad when his knock comes at my door.

“What?” I call out.

“I need to talk to you.”

I clutch my notebook to my chest. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I’m stronger in the morning. More purpose-driven. Less hedonistic.

“It can’t wait. You know it can’t.” His tone is full of emotion, and that makes the mushy part of me feel good. Devil kryptonite is liking the voice!

Get a grip, Tabitha!

He knocks again, just one time, though it’s more like a slap, as though he slapped his hand against the door and left it there, pressing it, his heart breaking, and I have this mental image of going to the door and slapping my hand to it on the other side, and it’ll be this romantic metaphor of two people from opposite worlds, never truly able to be together, except through massively hot vacation sex.

And then I pull my head out of my ass. “Your fake fiancée is officially closed for booty calls,” I blurt out.

“This isn’t that. I know you know it.”

“Um…not really?”

“Tabitha,” he growls. There’s a beat of silence and then, more softly, he says, “Tabitha.” He tried really hard to say my name gently the second time—I can tell. But I can still hear his grumpiness. I love the grumpiness.

I go and open the door.

His hair is mussed, gaze wild, pinned on me and me alone.

I have this sense of him as a beast in pain—a large mythical beast with an arrow in his flank, and he doesn’t have a way to get it out, so he just stands there in pain. Needing something. So fucking beautiful.

And I love him.

“What?” I force myself to say.

“You feel like kryptonite,” he says. “Because the feeling is strong. I didn’t understand—”

“This is the clarification you felt you needed to make?” I say lightly, trying to get him to stop being serious.

“Have you ever been in a dark room and the light comes on?” he asks. “Or a strong flashlight switches on, and it feels harsh? Because it’s so fucking bright after all of the darkness? Or when you’re freezing,” he says, “when warmth touches your skin, it feels like pain.”

“You need to stop talking like this. Do you remember what I said about Hollywood actors? Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, anyone?”

“It feels real to me,” he says.

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