Page 73 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Fuck!” Rex says, sliding his fingers across the laptop keyboard, checking for water. “Dry.”

“Wet.” Clark’s got his laptop tipped upside down. He peels off a keyboard cover. Rex goes for some towels.

I start gathering up the papers, trying to keep the general order of them, when my eyes are drawn to a little sheet of paper that’s paper-clipped to the inside of a leather folder that had fallen down in a spread-open position.

Before I think that it isn’t something I should be reading, my mind registers three things simultaneously: One, a gold insignia with the name Rex O’Rourke at the top.

Two, an underlined heading written in Rex’s characteristic scrawl: REX HATES.

And then a series of items:Bubbly personality. Into soap operas—thinks they’re profound. Pathetically impoverished. Laughs at anything. I grab the folder, heart pounding, clutching it, reading down every one of the items listed.

Clark’s voice. “What are you doing?”

Stupidly positive attitude. Fashion choices: colorful hair streaks, sparkles, Hello Kitty shit. Narrates her expressions and reactions to things. Turns popular songs into songs about her pet and thinks other people might actually find that amusing.

I blink, mind spinning. Is it some kind of joke?Why would Rex make a list like this?

I look up, feeling a weak smile playing upon my lips, because I need it to be a joke so badly. I need, need, need it.

Then I meet Clark’s horrified gaze. And I know it’s not a joke.

My heart pounds like mad. “W-what is this?”

Clark and Rex are both staring at me now.

“I made it,” Clark blurts.

“Oh really?Youmade it?” I yank the list from the paperclip that holds it to the folder and stand. “In Rex’s handwriting on Rex’s personal stationery? You’re saying you made it?”

“I made it,” Rex says. “Seriously, it’s nothing.” He moves to take it away, but I pull it out of range.

Trying to keep my voice from shaking, I say, “Why don’t you tell me about it and I’ll decide if it’s nothing.”

“It’s not what it seems,” Rex says.

“It’s nothing,” Clark says, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” I bite out, staring at Clark. Because right then, I’m remembering his weird expression every time I wondered aloud why Rex would’ve picked me. His weird look when I confessed to him that I didn’t even think Rex liked me.

God, I felt so lucky, so special. I turn to Rex. “Did you pick me for this job because I’m hateful to you?”

“You’re not hateful to me,” Rex says.

My blood whooshes in my ears. “That’s not the question,” I say.

“It’s the important question,” Rex says.

“Oh my god, that’s a yes!” I say. “I always wondered why you picked me.” I hold up the small paper in my trembling hand. “I thought it was such an honor to be picked by you. You have no idea what an honor. But you picked me because of this. Because I satisfy your hate list.”

“I don’t hate you,” Rex says.

“Well, it says here you do. Or at least you hate everything about me, which is basically the same thing. I mean, how much more clear could it be? It says ‘Rex Hates’ followed by a colon. In your handwriting, on your stationery. I don’t feel the need for a witness affidavit that you created it.”

“Tabitha,” Rex says.

“I don’t want to hear it.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears—raw, somehow. “What I don’t understand is why you would want somebody who is so hateful, so repellent to you, to spend this time with you. Narrating my expressions and reactions and all that.” I think of all the times I saidrageyorsadface. I actually thought it was fun and humorous, like we were in something together. But I was only being hateful to him. “Joke’s-on-me face,” I whisper hotly.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let me explain—”

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