Page 58 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Rex’s eyes darken.

My pulse speeds.

This isn’t for show anymore. The show is running away with us.

Slowly—ever so slowly—he slides his finger down, down the hard plate of my breastbone, down to the point where my breasts are pressed together, courtesy of a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra. His finger presses down between my breasts, plunging down between them, tracing a bold line, cool and alive, through the place where they squish together.

And I’m panting. And my eyes fall to his warm, kissable lips, framed in a field of whiskery goodness.

His finger has made it down beyond my breasts only to be halted by the V-shaped base of my bodice. He hooks his finger around it, and slowly he pulls me to him, pulls me close until our lips are near, like he might kiss me again.

We’re gazing into each other’s eyes and there are no more games; there’s just this unspoken need between us, as if we’re sharing one reckless, lust-soaked brain.

His eyes are warm, and I know he knows. And he knows I know.

And we’re breathing together, and right then, I’ve never felt closer to a person. It’s scary, but I also love it. I want to lose myself in him.

We’re about to fall together—to grasp hands and fall.

“Get a room!” Clark’s face bursts into our reality like ice water, shattering the spell. He claps his hands onto each of our shoulders. “You two! My god!” he says, playing his part.

Rex releases me, all of the warmth draining out of his gaze, until he’s cold, surly Rex again.

I stiffen, come to my senses. What was I thinking?

We’d forgotten ourselves. But not anymore.

“And the Academy Award goes to,” Clark mumbles under his breath.

“Oh, I think we should share it,” Rex says coolly, watching my eyes. “Don’t you?”

I swallow, straightening up with this horrible sense of loss. “A pair of sterling performances,” I say.

“Absolutely,” he says.

And in this way, we redefine what just happened as a performance. Nothing but a show. Nothing to see here. Please move along.

Chapter 8

Tabitha

Our wildly overheatedinterlude seems to have chastened Rex—he plays the perfect gentleman as we head back to our cabin with Clark. We disappear into our respective bedrooms.

It really is for the best. Strong feelings like the ones that I have for Rex are the kind you should never give into.

Over the following days, wemake appearances for meals and other mandatory events, we turn up for every show we think Gail will attend, and we try to get in pictures together.

If the event is long or the lights are out, like for a movie, for example, Rex leaves me with Clark so that he can do his Very Important Work, and I text Rex to come back when I sense that the lights are about to come back up.

There are no more almost kisses. No more sexy touches.

If there’s the occasional sizzle between Rex and me, he doesn’t seem to notice, and I act like I don’t. And when the random touch melts me inside, or when one of his scowly faces gives me a pesky little zing of excitement, I stuff it back down into the place from whence it came, and he does, too.

Or maybe it all was an act. I don’t entirely trust myself to know.

Most of the time, Rex and Clark are in their war room in front of three monitors with numbers that flash across constantly, and I keep to my room, streaming shows, playing Tomb Raider, and reading on the little deck off our cabin.

I also text Jada a lot, possibly too much. Now and then, she warns me to be careful with Rex—she knows about my crush on him, though I don’t confess to her how it’s spiraling out of control. Jada would worry if she knew—not just about how one-sided anything with Rex and me would be; she also knows about Jacob.

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