Page 42 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“He’s acting suspiciously,” I say. “Like he’s up to something and just a little paranoid.”

“Well, if that’s true, he picked the wrong side of the family to fake out,” Clark says.

“That’s what I told her,” Rex says.

I shrug. “So it’s not a fake heir thing. But it’s something.”

“Starts with anHand rhymes with corndog,” Rex says.

“Horndog?” Clark frowns. “Let’s hope not.”

“No. Won’t look right if I tolerate some random nephew giving her energy,” Rex says. “Hitting on my fucking fiancée.”

“It’s not a horndog thing,” I say. “I would know. A woman knows.”

But they just talk over me, like I wouldn’t know. “You’d have to push back at some point,” Clark says. “And Gail won’t like that.”

Rex grumble-swears.

People cheer and raise their glasses. The yacht has broken away from the shore, towed by one of the two tender boats that go everywhere with it, because even a yacht has underlings. Another Driscoll wanders up, and the talk turns to some merger. It seems that everybody wants Rex’s thoughts on financial events.

I’m left to my own devices, namely staring at the shore and the receding rows of pleasure boats and lesser yachts, lined up along the pier like shiny little soldiers at the edge of the sparkling water.

A gorgeous blonde woman comes up next to me, leaning over the railing. I recognize her from Clark’s cheat sheet as Serena Driscoll. The giant Driscoll face and the puppy-dog Driscoll eyes definitely work for Serena. She’s a South Carolina cousin, not one of the main Driscoll kids, and not one of the Driscoll decision makers, but a Driscoll all the same.

“So you’re engaged to Rex?” she asks with a pretty southern twang.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m Tabitha Evans.” I hold out my hand.

She hesitates, then takes it. “Serena Driscoll.”

“So nice to meet you,” I say. “You know Rex?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, not elaborating, which I definitely take as, they slept together. My heart pounds. “And how…did you two meet?” she asks.

“I was his hairdresser,” I say, wishing I’d worked out our story.

“Hairdresser.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “Wait, you’re not kidding?”

“No.” I shrug off the jab. “I’ve been doing his hair for years so—”

“Y’all are telling me Rex O’Rourke is marrying hishairdresser?”

“Yes,” I say. “Why?”

She smirks and looks out at the shore. “Just…unusual.”

“Not to us,” I say. “We spent a lot of time together, and we fell in love, and now we’re engaged, so…”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Men like Rex…” She pauses.

I wait, though her meaning is clear—men like Rex don’t marry women like me.

She turns to me, lips pressed smugly together. Slowly she shakes her headno. As ifthatweren’t clear enough, she adds, “You’re not his type, is all.”

---