Page 81 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“There’s nobody like her,” I say.

I can feel Gail’s eyes on me. “I’ll admit, I found it unbelievable that you were suddenly engaged like that,” she says. “To your hairstylist, of all people. But now I get it.”

I want her to say more. I want her to tell me the story of Tabitha and me the way she sees it.

“She likes the termhairdresser,” I explain. “She told me that when we first met. It’s just like her to prefer the quirky, old-fashioned term. It’s sometimes used in a belittling way, but Tabitha makes it hers.”

Gail seems to like that, but just then, she’s pulled away, and I’m back in the hell of my own company.

Of course Tabitha would be amazing at business. But she didn’t trust me enough to tell me her idea.

The noise around Tabitha heightens. The girls are making jokes. Tabitha does one of her poses, comically off balance. “Sadface!” she declares.

One of the younger Driscolls does a little pose that’s very Tabitha-ish and says, “Shockface!”

Washington and his friend have gravitated back over to talk currency plays. It’s good to pay attention to the younger guys—especially this Washington kid; he could be somebody someday, but I’m only half there. I’m inexplicably desperate to…I don’t know what. Run ten miles. Flip a few tables. Turn the world inside out.

Or maybe just get back to that place where Tabitha’s staring up at me, drugged with pleasure. And our hands are on each other, and it’s almost as if we’re breathing together.

I need to win her back, but it’s too late.

Or is it? I’ve done the impossible before. I crawled out of that shithole bar I grew up in. I avoided making every mistake my parents made. I earned a billion dollars without having set foot in college and beat out rivals who had every advantage over me.

I can win back Tabitha’s affection. I have to. For once I’m on fire with a goal that has nothing to do with my carefully mapped-out business objectives. But right now it’s the only goal I care about.

I’m thinking about something she said before—how people in relationships bond by being enthusiastic about things the other person enjoys. I can do that.

I watch her, thinking about what she enjoys. Hello Kitty stuff. Soap opera intrigues. Hair and fashion. Animals. The color pink. Sparkles and sweets.

I decide to go for the low-hanging fruit first—sweets. A small peace offering in the form of one of those foofy pink drinks she likes. I take my leave of my acolytes and head to the bar. Unfortunately, it’s a new bartender who doesn’t remember the concoction Tabitha’s been drinking on the trip.

“Just make something really special, with cherries and whatever else. Pink and sweet. No straw,” I add, because she always remembers to say that.

He whips it up, and I head over to her with it. A few more people are around her including Gail herself. Good.

I walk up, taking care not to touch her or startle her in any way, because she is mad, after all. “Kitten,” I say. “I took the liberty of ordering you your favorite.”

She blinks at the drink. “Thank you,” she says, taking it, sounding pleasantly surprised.

One of the guys groans. “What is that?”

Tabitha smiles, because sweet pink shit is her jam. “Something delicious,” she says.

Warmth ripples through my chest. Success is about knowing what people want and delivering. So few people get that.

She takes a sip and swallows. I watch the progress of it down her smooth throat, imagining her feeling grateful, thinking again about how she felt against that door.

She looks up at me with a slight pink moustache above her upper lip. She plasters on a smile and says, “Mmm.”

My belly twists. She’s fooling these people, but she isn’t fooling me—she hates it, and she’s trying her best to hide it.

I messed this up. Royally.

She schools her features and beams at me, ever the pro.

“You’re actually gonna drink that?” one of the men asks.Even Gail’s attention is on us now.

“Of course!” she exclaims. She has no choice—it’ll look weird if her fiancé didn’t even get her drink right. I said it was her favorite, after all. Wouldn’t I know?

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