Page 74 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“But apparently,” I continue, “you don’t hate me enough not to make the moves on me when you’re in the mood. Did you have to close your eyes and think of your precious Tokyo?”

Clark gives him a dark look.

Rex finally succeeds in snatching the paper from my fingers. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then? You don’t hate me all that much? You find me tolerable enough now to promote me from hateable fake fiancée to fuck buddy-slash-fake fiancée? Check it out, folks, a two-for-one! Is that maybe what it’s like? Uhhh!”I storm off into my room and slam the door.

I sink onto my bed, arms wrapped around myself, mind whirling.

I’d thought I was special. I’d thought that he’d seen some little spark of something in me. And god, the way he’d kissed me, the way he touched me.

But he can barely stand me.

Six more days on this yacht.

Withhim.

I can’t hug myself hard enough to erase the hole in me, but I seem to be trying.

“Tabitha,” he says from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

I get this little pang of something sweet and sickly, like some part of him has taken root in me and wants to let him in. How pathetic is that? The hate list has killed every nice feeling in me, but somehow my stupid crush on him has survived. “Go away.”

“I’m coming in.”

I glare at the door. Slowly he creaks it open and then he’s standing there, inky brows drawn together, so intense and serious. “I don’t hate you. Far from it.”

“Your list would beg to differ.”

Clark’s at the door behind him. “I’m gonna go make apologies for you guys for croquet.”

I stand. “I said I’d be there. I’ll be there.”

Rex looks concerned. “You don’t have to—”

“Nothing’s different,” I snap. “I don’t need you to like me. I just need you to pay me for the job I signed on for. The job I’m doing amazingly at in spite of these bullshit work conditions.” I storm to my bathroom and swipe on some lipstick, proud that I’m not crying. Not one tear did I shed, and not one tear will I shed.

They’re all trapped in my chest, my throat—sad little prisoners he’ll never get to see.

I swing past him, past Clark, who’s mumbling how he’ll handle whatever business thing is up, heading for the door. I head out the walkway and stomp toward the front of the yacht, fingering my little Smuckers pendant.

Rex catches up to me. “Tabitha.”

“We don’t have to like each other to pull this off. End of story,” I say in a low voice as we pass by other people’s dark cabin windows. “The fact that I’m a horrifying individual to you makes it cleaner somehow—”

“You’re not horrifying—”

“Just stop,” I bite out.

I always make things fun, even when people are assholes. I’m the fun girl everybody wants around—it’s been who I am ever since I was a little girl. Ever since the fire.

So it’s weird to be all-out angry at a guy, but with Rex, it feels pure and real. Good, even.

“Tabitha—”

“Not horrifying,” I say, crossing the mini-lounge area. I spin around at the top of the stairway that takes us down to the third-floor party deck. “Would it be cool with you if I put that on my website as a customer testimonial?” I raise my hands in the air in front of us, as if to frame the thought. “Not horrifying! So says billionaire clientRexO’Rourke.” I smile, game face fully intact. “Not horrifying is one of the most important features of a hairdresser, did you know that? Most people don’t realize that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “And you’re wrong about the list.”

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