Page 28 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“My dream would be not having to go on this boat trip,” I say. “And now that I have to go, my dream would be to minimize any and all social interactions. I’d prefer to spend the trip in my cave. Alone.”

Usually people back off when I’m blunt like that, but Tabitha puts on a big frown, rosy lower lip pressed out in a big pout that I can only assume is her way of reflecting my attitude.

It’s not a reaction I appreciate.

“Let’s finish this. Your turn,” I bark. “Your dream.”

“Well, like I said, professionally, I have these ideas for building some kind of a style brand. Not fussy high style, but something that helps women express their own personalities. More of a service, I guess. Let’s just say I have ideas.” She stares into the middle distance. “Also, I wish that the building where I live could stay the same forever. It was sold recently and there’s a pretty credible rumor it might get torn down, and I would hate that. I love my neighbors, and my best girlfriends mostly live there. I want us all to stay there forever.”

“That’s your personal goal? To stay living in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen—on 45th Street—forever? And you’d condemn your friends to that, too?”

“What’s wrong with where we live?”

I give her a look. “It’s an undesirable address. To say the least.”

“Well, we desire it. We love it there. The women in that building are like a family.”

“This is your dream? That you and your friends would never have nice places to live? Never buy country homes or start families? You all stay living two blocks from Times Square?”

“It’s three blocks.”

I roll my eyes. “And how about this style brand? What’s the idea?”

She studies my face. “It’s kind of not worked out.”

“So you won’t tell me now?”

“No, I don’t think I will tell you now,” she says.

“You know, entrepreneurs fall all over themselves to tell me their business ideas.”

She shrugs. “Also, I want to lose twenty pounds.”

“Women,” I snort. “You’re hardly fat.”

She presses her hand to her chest. “Such flattery skills.”

“You’re not fat,” I growl. “Okay?”

She studies my face, assessing…what? Whether I think she’s attractive? Does she not look in a mirror? She’s not my type, but it would be apparent to anybody with half a brain cell that she’s attractive.

“My fiancé should be supporting my dream,” she says.

“Sorry, butmyfiancée would hardly be interested in a pointless weight-loss goal and clinging to a sad little apartment when she’ll soon be living in a palace.”

“But then what about her friends?” she asks.

“So I buy the building out from under the new owner and give it to you as a gift, and you can keep all your friends there.”

“The new owner refuses to sell,” she says. “Somebody has tried already.”

“Well, maybe I would force him to sell. Maybe I’m the asshole who would ruin him financially until he caves, and then I give my precious fiancée the keys.”

“Wow. Thank you,” she says with what sounds like gratitude. “I would love that.”

Something strange ripples through my chest. “Moving on,” I bark.

“Don’t worry, your kindness is a secret between us. You’re my brutish, gothic Heathcliff, the alpha male who shows his soft side only to me. Ooh, that’s good.” Here she does one of her upwards finger-pointing gestures. “Right there. That’s our couples dynamic.”

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