Page 132 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

He tips his head, giving me a playful look. “But you’re also enjoying seeing me a little bit, right?”

I shake my head and look away. The sky is still bright with the last streaks of orange.

“Come out. It’s just a cocktail.”

“It never will be just a cocktail with us. Going out is how we kill what we had with a thousand bloody little cuts.”

“And they say I’m dark and dramatic.”

A smile tugs at my lips, but I purse them instead. “Rex. I’m asking you to respect my decision.”

“I won’t stop wanting you.”

I suck in a deep breath. “I’m not going to answer the intercom again. I’m blocking your number. I won’t take your gifts. Jada will sign for them and not tell me about them.”

“I won’t stop,” he says. I’m not sure whether he means the gifts or about wanting to date.

I tell him goodbye. I make it sound final while my heart twists. I force myself to go into the lobby and march to the elevator and not watch him walk away.

I know I did the right thing, but sometimes late at night I wake up in my bed and think,what if?What if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life?

Second-guessing yourself late at night is even worse hell.

On the upside, I have the bonus money that Rex deposited in my bank—the double bonus, thanks to the hate list—and several weeks left on my wrist-healing sabbatical from haircutting.

I make the time off count by throwing myself into the new business. I start working on a pop-up—the proof-of-concept run that Gail and I had brainstormed. I’d never think this big if it weren’t for Gail.

I write up a business plan and start researching investors, but nobody will be like Gail. I miss her advice, her excitement.

Not half as much as I miss Rex. Life on that yacht, seen in the rearview mirror, looks more and more like a beautiful dream.

And there’s this tiny voice growing louder and louder. It’s wondering whether maybe that dream is worth taking a risk for. Maybe. Just maybe.

Sometimes I think it’s the little voice that always wants me to have English toffee.

But sometimes I wonder if it’s not the smartest, bravest part of me.

Chapter 24

Rex

Clark and Ivan sitin silence as the man in the thousand-dollar suit and the near-million-dollar watch shakes my hand. “My people will send details,” the man says.

“Looking forward to it,” I reply.

The three of us watch him stroll away from our booth, off through the plush, dimly lit space, past the well-heeled patrons mingling at the bar; it’s nearly half a minute before they start giving me shit.

“Wasn’t that Webster Schultz? Inviting you to his home for dinner?” Ivan says. “Does he realize you’re just a townie who still eats with his hands?”

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Somebody needs to tell him to hide his silverwareandhis daughters,” Ivan says.

Clark laughs.

As my oldest friends, Clark and Ivan get to give me shit. Clark’s been with me forever in business, and Ivan came up in the trenches with me. We were in the same boat coming to Manhattan—the wrong connections, the wrong education, the wrong clothes. I haven’t seen him in the two weeks since the trip. It seems like a lifetime.

“Webster Schultz is wondering about your next play, but he doesn’t quite want to tell you that,” Clark notes, ever his perceptive self. “Magic Eight Ball says, you got your fuck-you power without landing Gail’s account.”

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