Page 25 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“I’m an Aries,” she says. “And I see that you’re a Libra. Makes sense.”

“I don’t do astrology,” I say.

“Also makes sense,” she says. “Look, neither of us have siblings. Do we bond over being only children?”

“I’m guessing you have an opinion on that.”

“We would, right?” she says. “How did you feel about being an only child?”

“It was what was,” I say.

“Personally, I would’ve loved to have a sister or brother. I would’ve given anything for it.”

“I suppose I would’ve liked a brother,” I say.

“Not a sister?”

“Not where I grew up.”

She waits, but if she thinks I’m providing more details than that, she’s crazy.

“Fine. You grew up in South Boston.” She looks up. “Though I have to say, you don’t at all sound it.”

“I don’t,” I say simply. She waits for me to elaborate. Also not going to happen.

“Oh-kay,” she says. “And as you see, I grew up partly in upstate New York, partly in Manhattan. You guys never moved?”

“Next,” I say.

“My folks were divorced when I was nine,” she says.

“I wish mine would’ve divorced.”

“Why?”

“As my fiancée, you would know that I don’t talk about my past.”

“Okay, well, divorce sucks, in case you were wondering,” she says. “But if there was a kid-of-divorce Olympics? I would kick ass. I got to be a pro at the whole fun daughter gig.” She sits back and crosses her legs. “I could make my dad such a sympathetic bachelor, like you can’t believe how sort of fun, yet fetchingly needy I could make us seem. And how many dates I was able to help him land. Imagine Hugh Grant with a fun little orphan girl. In coffee shops and at grocery stores? I was the boss of those scenarios.”

She gazes out the window at the clouds below. She has that humorous squint she gets, but there’s something sad about her now. Of all the words I associate with Tabitha Evans,sadis never one of them.

When she turns back to me, she’s smiling, though. “I can’t tell you how many times I pretended I didn’t know how to put on nail polish so that his latest girlfriend could help me. Eventually he couldn’t live without me.”

“What happened to your mom?” I ask before I think better of elongating this interview.

“Pain pill addiction.” She does her one-eye-closed wince. “She came by it honestly. She got burnt in a fire, and it turned out she’d married a jerk who wasn’t a fan of the sickness part ofin sickness and in health. She took up the hobby of watching game shows and soap operas in a dark bedroom twenty-four hours a day. Not the best hobby ever. Personally, I would’ve preferred she’d gone for knitting.”

She tears a corner off her cocktail napkin. She’s been favoring her left hand. Exactly how bad is her wrist? I fight the urge to reach out to her, to take a look at her wrist or something. “I’m sorry,” I say simply.

“But Dad lived on Central Park in a gorgeous sunny place near everything wonderful.” She crosses her arms and fixes me with a happy-go-lucky gleam. “I guess it balanced out.”

“Ah,” I say, unsure what to make of that.

“You haven’t met Mom yet. She’s upstate. Assisted living and you know…” She waves her hand. “I go there a lot, but I haven’t brought you yet. You’ve met Dad, but you don’t think much of him. You see him as a bit of a jerk, like, not the best dad ever, and sometimes you even get that growly tone when you talk about him. Myself, I take it in stride, and it’s something you truly admire about me. Your kitten is such a scrapper.”

Before I can respond, she’s onto the rest of the backgrounder, laughing at Clark’s questions. I suppose she is a scrapper. Most people would be deeply scarred by the tragic little family story she just told, but she really does seem to take it in stride. And she doesn’t seem bothered by her wrist, but it has to be affecting her livelihood. Is that why she accepted this role?

Suddenly we’re done with Clark’s questions and it’s time for her questionnaire. She sends me a link to the doc she made. I scan through it. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

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