Page 8 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Right,” I say.

“I told her how upset you are about what they wrote. How untrue it is, especially that bit about a different girl every night. And…” He pauses ominously, then, “Your fiancée is even more upset.”

I nearly spit out my coffee. “My fiancée?”

Clark winces.

“You didn’t really say that,” I try.

“I panicked. She was unhappy about that article, and she had that Gail Driscoll stare—she needed to hear something that showed they got you wrong, and I just blurted it out.”

I suck in a breath. “Me with afiancée? Who would buy that?”

“Gail did. She was happy to hear it. She likes you, Rex, and she needed to hear something like that. She wants to believe in you.”

“But it’s not true,” I say. “I don’t have a fiancée, and I never would.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said it, but I needed to come up with something,” he continues. “And then once I said it, I had to go with it. So, you’re engaged. Deeply in love. You can’t wait to start a family. You’re keeping it under wraps for now. Shielding your fiancée from the media and all of that. You’re very protective of her because she’s not the kind of girl you usually go for. She’s changed your world, and it’s been amazing to see. Gail ate it up.”

I gape at him. “You know Gail hates any kind of dishonesty.” It’s one of the few things Gail Driscoll and I have in common.

“I know,” Clark says. “But you should’ve seen how she lit up.”

“You couldn’t have explained the exaggerations in the piece?”

“She needed something positive. I went with my intuition.”

“So you made up a fiancée of all things? Hey, why stop there?” I bite out. “You should also let her know I’ve been fashioning tiny mobility-assistive devices for underprivileged three-legged kittens. I mean, a fiancée?”

Clark has good instincts about people, but I don’t like this. I’m upfront with what I am. In business, I’m the asshole who gets results. In romance, I’m the asshole who’ll show you a good time. Nothing more.

That’s always been good enough.

I go to the window. Clark knows I want that account with every fiber of my being.

“You’ve had no public dinners or pictures with a woman since Thanksgiving weekend. And now it’s almost March,” he says. “It’s perfect. You met somebody in early December. She’s different. Hates the public eye and all that.”

I watch the snow clouds roll in off the water, thinking miserably of being away from my operations and my team for two weeks.

“You’ve been eating and sleeping this algorithm lately,” he continues. “The timeline works perfectly.”

“Fine. I’ll go on the yacht. Work remotely. Put in a few hours on deck chairs. Show up for dinners and whatever bullshit they’ve got planned. Maybe in a few months we put out a press release where my fiancée broke it off.”

Clark sucks in a deep breath. “So…right. That was my original thought.”

Washis original thought? I turn to find him regarding me warily. “What?”

“Gail invited your fiancée,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“She wants your fiancée to come,” he says.

I blink, disbelieving. “Did you tell hermy fiancéeis busy?”

“Well.” Again he winces. “I felt like she’d smell the lie if I said that. So I told her I’d check, but I thought she’d be excited.”

“Are you shitting me?”

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