Page 97 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Marvin’s nowhere, but Gail is at the coffee bar, and where Gail is, Marvin usually ends up. I wave to her, and she waves back. Rex gives her one of his rare and not entirely natural smiles. Grouchiness is his jam.

We choose the center cabana as the best place to keep an eye on the open-air dining space, the lounge couches, and the pool area. I settle into a plush lounger, perfectly shaded by the draped muslin that flaps lazily in the breeze.

Rex arranges his towel.

“You finally have the yachting vacation you always dreaded, huh?” I strip off my cover-up. I know exactly when his gaze settles on the ugly pair of scars that curl around on my hip. It’s always been like that—knowing the moment people spot them. He wouldn’t have seen them in the salt-lamp glow of the salon room, or when I wore a one-piece in the hot tub, but there’s no hiding them with a bikini in the daylight. The scars on my legs have faded, but the hip ones are larger. I had a tattoo artist decorate them with tiny flowers—more to claim the scars than to cover them.

People usually don’t say anything, but of course Rex isn’t like other people.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Bike meets car,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “I went right over the top of the car. My one time of flying and I don’t even remember it.” It’s a well-worn line of mine that I use to lighten the mood when the talk of the accident rolls around.

Rex doesn’t go for it. “Fuck,” he says.

“It was their fault. Texting. Of course.”

“Place in hell for those people,” he grumbles.

“Right?” I settle into the lounger.

I can feel his gaze on me. “And that’s when the motherfucker left you. Your old fiancé.”

I’m surprised for a moment…until I remember the duel of the breakup stories at dinner earlier in the trip. Rex didn’t seem like he was listening, but he was. And he put my story together.

“Good riddance,” I say. “I mean, if that’s how he’s gonna be?”

I’m smiling, but Rex isn’t. Then again, Rex never smiles, not truly, but he’s not even doing a fake smile.

“Really, it wasn’t dramatic as all that,” I say, because I don’t like to be seen as the victim. The incident was important to me. It helped to teach me to never arrange my life to where a man can ruin everything. To never be my mother.

Rex could ruin things if I let him. It’s what makes him so dangerous.

He turns on his side and reaches toward the scar—slowly, giving me time to stop him.

Like a fool, I don’t.

His fingertip alights on one of the flowers. He traces the tiny petals. “Flowers growing out of the destruction. A blessing in disguise?”

“Yes,” I say, enjoying how perceptive he is in spite of myself. “I wouldn’t erase that incident from my life, even if I could. Your kitten is such a scrapper.”

He traces another flower. This feels intimate—more intimate, even, than fucking. I want to make a joke to smooth out the seriousness of it all, but I can’t think of one. It makes me feel nervous. Exposed.

Finding the fun and humor in things is a survival technique I hammered out as a child, like the way the cuteness of baby animals helps ensure they get fed, or how the white feathers on certain winter birds help camoflage them in the snow.

But here I am, letting him see me.

“People usually think the tattoo is there to cover up the scar,” I say. The truth.

“People sometimes form opinions before they take the time to really look,” he says.

Is he saying he underestimated me? It’s kind of a compliment, and way too exciting. It’s bad excitement. Dangerous excitement.

I feel frightened, suddenly—too close to the flame that burnt me, much as I crave the warmth.

“Gaspy-face,” I say, ejecting his hand and grabbing some sunscreen. “Let those flowers serve as a metaphor for you, Rex. Maybe somehow, some way, you can turn the incredible hardship of having to sit in a cabana into a blessing in disguise, just like I did. This horrible hardship where you’re not at your computer. It may not seem possible…”

I hold out the sunscreen for him. He shakes his head, because he’s clothed and in the shade, but hopefully he’s accepted my clear communication that he’s strayed out of the bounds of our fake engagement vacation fling.

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