Page 30 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Yeah, I know,” she says, “but please keep insultingly repeating it like I’m gonna be barging in on you every two seconds.”

“So are we done?”

She straightens with an expression that says,definitely not. It’s amazing how I can read all of her thoughts. Has nobody ever taught Tabitha how to do a poker face?

“What now?” I demand.

“Well, we are leaving one thing out. Two things. No! Three things. First, we need a gesture. Like, you tap me on the nose when you’re especially proud of me.”

“My gesture is silent approval. Next.”

“Can I tap you on your nose?”

“Do you value your finger?” I ask.

She beams at me, as though that was an incredibly clever thing to say.

“Maybe I’ll tap my own nose when I’m proud of you,” she says.

“Don’t,” I warn.

She grins like a Cheshire cat, and my heart pounds. I’m not used to people grinning when I give commands.

“Which brings me to this finger.” She holds up her left hand. Points to a finger. “Rings. We need a pit stop at a jewelers.”

“Oh, right. Clark grabbed something…Hold on.” I grab my satchel, pull out the velvet bag, and toss it to her.

She catches it. “Oh, my. That is so romantic.” She empties the ring onto her palm. And gasps.

“Only the best for my fiancée,” I say.

“Clark picked it out,” she says. “Right?”

“Probably somebody from reception. They said we can get a sizer if need be,” I say.

She slips it on and holds out her hand. “No need.” She turns her hand this way and that. The ring sparkles in the low light of the cabin. It’s not at all her style; even I can see that. A large rock in a simple setting. Tabitha would want more pizzazz, but her nails make up for it—they’re pink and blindingly sparkly, not at all in keeping with her classic wardrobe.

Did my personal shopper overlook the detail of her fingernails? Or more likely this is her small rebellion against the boredom of good taste. She probably went out shopping for the sparkliest nail polish known to humankind to plaster on.

But what am I thinking? This woman would already own the sparkliest nail polish known to humankind. She’d have ten versions of it on a chaotic shelf. I imagine her going through the colors, one by one, wearing the witchy little squint she wears when she’s amusing herself. She loves to stir the pot. She can’t help herself.

“Wow. Okay, then,” she says, tucking her hands in her lap.

“Now can I go to work?”

She does her playful wince. “One last thing. Very important,” she adds. “Fake engagement 101. But you’re not going to like it.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” I say wearily.

“We need a practice kiss.”

My gaze falls to her lips and my mind goes blank. “Did you not read the contract?” I bite out. “This relationship is to be purely platonic.”

“Oh, I know. And before you think I’m jonesing to kiss you, please know, I’m just trying to do a professional job at this, and the kiss is important. Because I can tell you right now, when people do the fake engagement ploy and get busted, it’s often because they’re forced to do a first kiss in front of suspicious people, because everybody can tell a first kiss. Or, if they are pulling it off, a shaky first kiss ruins everything. Raises people’s suspicions like nothing else.”

“Have you been involved in other fake engagement situations?” I ask.

“No, but, you know, it’s a thing. Trust me.”

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