Page 2 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

My gaze drops to Amanda’s white-knuckled grip. If her hands are shaking, she’ll screw up Rex’s haircut for sure.

I’d be the one to cut his hair this evening, but my wrist is immobilized in a brace thanks to a repetitive stress injury that’s on track to destroy my life. I’m supposed to take six weeks off. If it’s not better by then, another six. I don’t know how I’ll pay rent. I barely have rent for this month.

I can’t think about that.

Amanda stiffens as Rex’s growl sounds through the now-partially-open door. Growling his words. Another unfortunate underling is still in there.

“The trick with Rex is to relate to him with a sense of fun,” I whisper. “Fun is your suit of armor. And never let him see you sweat. Never let him smell blood in the water.”

She grips the case harder. “Oh-kay.”

“Seriously, no matter what, always show that you’re having fun,” I say.

“But I’m not naturally fun like you are,” she says.

I want to tell her that I’m not naturally fun, either, but she wouldn’t believe it. I’ve learned to be fun. Being the funnest person ever and never letting people see me sweat is my life strategy, and it’s served me well. Especially with Rex.

Rex is an investment guy. Maybe hedge funds—I’m never really clear. He’s some kind of celebrity in the business world. They put his picture on the front of magazines a lot. Not any kind of magazine I’d ever buy, but the Patek Philippe watch bros seem to grab up anything with his picture on it like the last Doritos at a party full of stoners.

And sometimes when you go to news websites to get the latest on the royal babies, there’ll be a sidebar with other news stories to click on and you’ll see his name alongside blurbs about what stocks he’s buying and selling, what he thinks about this or that market. People always seem to be reacting to what he says, whether it’s to agree or disagree. Basically, any statement that comes out of Rex O’Rourke’s mouth is athing.

When you’re walking around in his posh, eco-friendly headquarters—a converted warehouse complex—you see his signature on signage everywhere. His signature is the literal logo of Rex O’Rourke Capital, as though it’s his promise. Rex O’Rourke is a monster, but if you sign on the dotted line, he’ll be your monster.

“Just walk in there with your head held high and find the fun,” I say. “You’re having fun, and he’s all hatey, and that’s on him. It’s the only way to deal with somebody like Rex.”

“Okay.” She nervously bites her lip.

“It’s true. Surly men like Rex always have a dark and painful secret and zero fun in their lives.”

“How do you know?” Amanda narrows her eyes. “Did you get that from your soap opera?”

“Well…yeah,” I admit. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

I have a soap-opera themed Instagram account. I find soap operas incredibly soothing. Sometimes when I can’t go to sleep at night, I think about my favorite characters. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, needless to say. A wrist injury is a scary thing when you’re a hairdresser.

“The only way to deal with a man like Rex is to put on a smile, lace up your sparkly boots, and ignore his growls. Think of him as a lion with a thorn in his paw. It’s not about you. He just has a big ol’ thorn in his paw,” I say.

The way Amanda stares at me, you’d think I’d grown my own lion’s paws, and maybe even a big, fluffy mane.

I do feel that Rex carries a kind of dark weight—it’s something that I keep in mind when he acts like he hates my jokes or makes frustrated sounds when I stroll in wearing my awesome outfits. Personally, I think it’s good for him to be exposed to somebody who is an imaginative dresser. The man seriously lives the life of a gothic villain in a lonely castle, though his gruff style of human interaction doesn’t seem to hurt him in the womanizing department at all, if gossip sites are anything to go by.

I sometimes examine the pictures of him that appear online, partly to see how the style holds up in the wild, though I can’t help but notice that the rail-thin models and socialites he appears with dress in a completely boring way. A lot of earth tones—mostly black. Totally funereal. Like they think fun colors might hurt his eyes or something.

According to reports, Rex O’Rourke never sleeps with the same woman twice. Even so, women line up around the block for a crack at him. A recent Sunday feature paints him as quite the Casanova. Is he amazing and dramatic in bed with all of these women? Is that what’s going on?

More grumbled words.

“I don’t think I can do it,” Amanda whispers.

“I wouldn’t have brought you to take my place with him if I didn’t think you could do it,” I say, taking a firmer tone now. “You got this.”

“It’s kind of amazing that he likes you,” she whispers. “It seems like he wouldn’t like somebody with a fun attitude.”

“Likes me? Are you kidding? He hatesme, too. It’s possible he hates me even more than he hates everyone else.”

“What?” Amanda is freaking now. It’s eight after. Two minutes to haircut time. “He hates you?”

“I completely annoy him. He’s an utter asshole to me. I don’t let him get to me, but yeah, he is not a fan.”

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