Page 37 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“You’re not hanging out on any of the decks, ever,” he says. “I’m keeping you busy.”

“You’re keeping me busy while you work in your office? That is some multitasking mojo right there!”

He frowns, unamused.

“Maybe I’m exhausted by your enthusiastic lovemaking,” I suggest. “So I sleep it off while you work. Is that what you want them to think?”

“I don’t give a shit what they think. You exist in that room until I decide to trot you out. End of story. Questions?”

“What’s a launch toast?”

He pushes off the doorframe and grabs his suitcase. “It’s a ridiculous and boring tradition where we all go up on the main deck and stand together and drink champagne and watch as the boat pulls away from the pier at an excruciatingly slow pace. It’s a tradition in yachting that you always toast the launch.”

“Is this a dress-up thing?”

“No, you’re good.”

“Okay,” I say.

“You’re going to change anyway, aren’t you?” he grumbles.

“I feel like my character would change. She wants to make a good impression.”

He turns and goes into his bedroom. I wander into mine and heave my giant suitcase onto the bed and start unpacking and hanging up my clothes. I suppose it’s best that Rex was all growly about no housekeeping coming in here except when we specifically request it, being that we’re in separate rooms. That is not fiancée-ish at all.

I change into one of my favorite outfits that the shopper got for me: a black halter-top jumpsuit with gaucho-length flared pants. It’s not my style, but it’s elegant yet casual and vaguely sailor-ish.

I emerge from my posh prison to find Rex in a linen jacket, noodling on his phone. He looks up when I come out and seems to stiffen with this whole stormy expression.

“Behold the gaucho,” I say. “It looks like a skirt, but it’s pants!” I twirl around.

“It’ll do,” he grumbles. “Let’s go.”

We head down to the main lounge deck, which is draped with white and blue banners, and there are bouquets of white flowers spilling out from everywhere. Several dozen people stand around in small clusters up and down the dockside of the yacht, some standing at the railing, watching the dockworkers do whatever they do. Waiters circulate among them bearing trays of champagne glasses.

Other people are bunched around the bar or cluster at the far side watching clumps of kids racing around on some sort of games court.

I spot Gail near the bow of the ship. She has white hair and fun blue glasses and a button nose, and she’s built like a tank—not overweight so much as strong and vital.

Rex turns to me.“I think it goes without saying that you cannot get drunk.”

I take his arm and smile. “Dude, a little faith.”

We linger around while she receives people like the queen of the yacht. Eventually we head over. Gail smiles when she sees us coming.

“Rex!” She clasps his hand warmly in both of hers—she’s definitely not the air kisses kind. Then she pulls back and inspects me. “And you must be Tabitha!”

I smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Driscoll.”

“Gail, please.” She takes my right hand in both of hers and squeezes. Even in her seventies, she has an outdoorsy look—sun-weathered skin, rosy cheeks, a smattering of freckles. And she really does seem to be happy that Rex has come on the yacht, or maybe she likes that he has a fiancée.

“Your yacht is lovely,” I say. “We really are so grateful that you’ve invited us. We’ve been so looking forward to it—you have no idea.” I gaze up at Rex. “It’s hard to get this guy out of the office.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Gail says.

“Right?” I say. “There’s definitely no talking to him before the closing bell. The way he sometimes looks at those monitors, you’d think he’s trying to melt them with his mind.”

Gail laughs. “Oh, I know the look. I know it well.”

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