Page 133 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Like a lot of people, Webster Schultz took notice of how effectively I smoothed out the valley so many of us found ourselves in after the Bellcore disaster. I’ll be handing Gail back her funds with a slight gain next week, which is quite a feat. It’s not enough to keep her business out of Wydover’s hands, unfortunately. Wydover still has it all wrapped up, thanks to his willingness to play dirty with Marvin’s help—not that I can prove anything.

But what I can prove to Gail is that I’m a man she can rely on no matter what.

If only I could prove it to Tabitha.

I’ve been following her on Instagram. She’s had her head down, true to her word, working tirelessly on her business. She’s starting small, with a pop-up storefront. If she’d been able to accept Gail’s investment and involvement, she’d be positioned to ten-X her efforts, but I have no doubt she’ll do brilliantly without Gail.

“I haven’t given up on Driscoll,” I say. “Wydover will screw up, and she’ll come back to me. It might be two years from now, it might be ten years from now, but I won’t give up.” I put up my hands, Tabitha style, as if to frame my words. “I am the fucking jaguar, waiting in the bush. I am the wind, whistling at Wydover’s back when he’s walking alone at night.”

Ivan snorts.

“Challenges always have energized you,” Clark says. “My money’s on you.”

I line up the beveled edge of my tumbler with the edge of the napkin.

“I want you to challenge your inability to master the extended metaphor,” Ivan says. “Be the jaguar or the wind. You don’t get to be both.”

The instant he says that, my mind goes back to Tabitha yet again. Back to the way she’d count wrong when laying out reasons for things. The way she’d say there are three reasons for a thing but only come up with two, or she’d have four. And I’d give her such shit. How did I ever find her annoying?

“You’re the jaguar, waiting in the bush, silently padding behind him when he walks alone at night,” Ivan says. “How about that?”

“Whatever, Shakespeare.”

“I like him as thewind,” Clark says.

“Can we drop this?” I bite out.

“Somebody needs to get laid,” Ivan says, angling his gaze at the table of three women nearby who have been looking over in our direction.

“I know, I saw them,” I say. “Not interested, but you go ahead.”

“The blonde in red?” Ivan presses. “She’s just your type. Don’t tell me you’ve already had her. You know that ridiculous one-fuck rule of yours is going to end up with you running out of eligible women, right?”

“I’m just not interested,” I say.

Clark’s eyeing me now.

“What’s going on? Something’s going on with you,” Ivan says.

“Because I don’t want to sleep with every supermodel on two legs?”

“Um, yeah?” Ivan says.

I shoot him a look. I was never that much of a manwhore, was I? But then, I suppose I was. Pre-yacht me seems like a different life, a different brain. The goals I had before feel empty. Devoid warmth. Meaning.

Part of me wishes I could rewind to a time where good returns and a faceless fuck were all I needed to be happy.

I sip my drink, savoring the burn. At least the burn feels like something real. “Anyway, I’m still technically engaged. No public dates until we break it off in three months.”

“Doesn’t have to be public,” Ivan says.

“Not interested,” I say, maybe too forcefully.

Clark’s gaze sharpens. “Have you tried to talk to her?”

“Wait. Who?” Ivan says. “What’d I miss?”

Clark raises his brows.

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