Page 51 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

There’s more laughter as she demonstrates the faces she’d make. She has the table in the palm of her fun-loving hand.

Somebody else starts telling a Valentine’s breakup story. It’s amusing enough, but nobody has the mastery of Tabitha, and nobody gets the laughs Tabitha got. I feel perversely proud of that.

There are more stories. This is apparently the humorous story table.

Tabitha has yet another tragicomic tale, this one about her college sweetheart breaking off their engagement while she was in a hospital after a bicycle accident. She makes one of her funny wince faces and delivers a wry aside that gets more laughs.

She then recreates a conversation that ends with her calling him a douche and a funny line about her ruptured spleen. The girls are nearly falling out of their chairs with laughter.

I pause in my texting, frowning. Tabitha knows how to tell a story to get a laugh—it’s a talent of hers, one that’s coming in handy on this trip, but when I actually think about the stories she’s telling, they’re not funny at all. What kind of father lets a twelve-year-old girl sit alone in a Midtown restaurant on her birthday? And what type of motherfucker breaks off an engagement while his fiancée is in the hospital? The more I ruminate over these tales of hers, the angrier I feel. These are two men from her past who definitely need to be hit, and I would be more than happy to oblige.

More than happy.

Eventually the stories end, and so does my secret phone checking, because Nala is taking shots for lord knows what social media outlet. There’s nothing worse than being caught looking at your phone in party pictures.

Naturally, Tabitha’s posing with maximum enthusiasm, and Nala is clicking away.

Whereas most women care about looking good in pictures, Tabitha goes for a comedic effect. Her new PR soulmate is eating it up, and they’re feeding off each other.

Inspired by Tabitha’s antics, the cousins and Gail’s teenaged granddaughters start silently gesturing across the table at Tabitha, who gestures back at them. Soon, they’re all making faces and striking poses to suggest they’re in an animated and highly dramatic conversation.

The whole table has become an over-actors anonymous meeting, making my pulse race with the sheer fuckery of it.

I refuse to join in, much as my tablemates are trying to get me to. I stir my drink, feeling awkward. I never did know what to do with people being playful. I grab the program, unhappy to see there will be singing children. Of course I can barely think at this point.

When everybody’s finally finished laughing at their own ridiculous antics and the spotlight is off of us, I give her a look.

“What?” she says.

“Maybe turn things down from eleven?”

Hurt flashes across her eyes. “I’m not on eleven.”

“Good god,” I grumble. I check my phone under the table, monitoring Tokyo. Am I being an asshole? Yes. And I don’t want her to turn down from eleven. I don’t know what I want. I just feel…uncomfortably stirred up.

Right then, I feel her stiffen. I look up and see that Marvin has settled down on the other side of her.

I grit my teeth.

“Uh-oh,” she says to Marvin, and she points to the place card, which saysCharles McKenzie, one of the distant cousins. Thank goodness for that. Marvin is the last person I want next to Tabitha.

“I think that’s for this place.” Marvin moves Charles’s place card to the other side of him.

It’s not right. Marvin is definitely in Charles’s place.

My pulse ratchets up murderously. What is this guy up to?

The cousins and granddaughters have fallen to chatting with PR Nala and the designer on the other end of the table, oblivious to the utter weirdness and the fact that one of them has two place cards, thanks to Marvin.

“But…where’s your place card?” Tabitha asks innocently.

Ignoring her, Marvin pulls out his phone.

I lean forward. Trying to keep the edge out of my voice, I ask, “What are you doing, Marvin?”

He keeps his weasel eyes on the phone. “Hold on.” He’s texting.

Tabitha turns to me, eyes wide.

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