Page 118 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“You’re totally selective about which parts of this caper you take seriously,” she says. “You don’t think it’s completely bizarre that Marvin was out there?”

“Nope.” I keep walking. We head past the hub toward more modest shops and down to the place I found. The front is dusty and sad, half enclosed in iron bars, but I’ve done my research. Appearances can be deceiving.

“It says it’s closed,” she says hopefully.

“Not for us.” I pull her inside. A young man with a white towel over his arm greets us and leads us out back into an enchanted dining area, a scattering of tables literally in the sand on a beach under a thatched roof.

Strings of brightly colored lights and shells and seaglass treasures are hung all around the place, the rhythmic surge of waves in and out of the turquoise blue bay sounding out just beyond.

Tabitha turns, taking it all in, speechless.

I’m soaking up the beauty of the place through her eyes. I have four more days with her, and it won’t be enough.

Clark suggested one of two five-star restaurants on this island, but they were too stuffy for Tabitha. I reached out to the right people and stumbled upon this. Imaginative and beautiful and fancy-free, like her. I rented the entire thing out for the night. Clark doesn’t know Tabitha the way I do.

“This is magical,” she says finally. “How did you find it?”

“Grim relentlessness,” I say.

She turns, secrets and fun in her smile.

There’s one table set. The waiter brings a scotch and a Hot Pink Barbie. She puts her hands onto her hips, her tone accusing. “Did you call ahead?”

“Of course.” I pull out a chair, and she sits. “And the best part…” I kick off my shoes.

She kicks off her shoes and wiggles her shiny polished toes in the soft, warm sand, and then, graceful as can be, she crosses her legs and takes a sip of her drink. “When you said best place, I imagined fancy. This is so much better.”

I take the seat across from her. “Fancy is overrated.”

“So overrated!” she says.

The waiter tells us the menu. There are only a few items, and they change every day. Everything, according to my sources, is excellent. We order several courses.

“So how many did you end up getting?” I nod at the small bag of postcards on the table.

“Ten. Check this one.” She shows me one with a seahorse carrying a mailbag. “This is for my friend Noelle. She’s a mail carrier.” She shows me another one. She has an elaborate explanation for why she picked each one; most of them have to do with inside jokes or incidents with her friends, and each one is like a window into her life. She put an enormous amount of thought into her selections.

“Your friends are lucky,” I say. “To have you in their lives.”

“I’m lucky. We’re like a family in that building,” she says.

“You said you were worried about this building buyer? Kicking you all out? You really think that’s going to happen?”

“I'm hoping it’s just rumors. It would be devastating if we all had to move.”

“Don’t you ever imagine yourself creating a family and needing a bigger place?”

She gives me a breezy wave. “The whole settling down with a marriage and kids? Not for me.”

“But the marriage thingwasfor you once, right? You said you were engaged—right out of college.”

“Eons ago.”

“And now you’ve sworn off relationships,” I say. “What happened?”

She gives me a look. “If only you had the questionnaire…”

“Would that have been on there?”

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