Page 70 of Faking it with the Billionaire
He’s supposed to be my fiancé, but it’s all an act, and I’m not sure how long I can keep up this charade.
Don’t get me wrong. The money is golden right now. Having worked for nearly two months with Greyson, I’ve got a hefty balance in my checking account.
I haven’t thought far ahead about what I’ll do with the full million dollars after we part ways. And I don’t believe that it’s cursed. That’s complete superstition.
The women have designer shoes and handbags. Their makeup is spot on, and their hair looks like it took all morning for a professional to do it before attending the food drive.
I feel out of place other than the jersey I’m wearing. The outside air is fresh and cool. It’s still early, and while the sun is up, it hasn’t battered the day with its warmth.
Wearing Kyler’s jersey is like a warm bear hug. If I could sleep in it and he wouldn’t make fun of me, I totally would.
But he’s going to expect the jersey back when we get home.
I’m just borrowing it, and it’s covered in his scent. I swear if he bottled it up like a fragrance, he’d be the wealthiest man in the world.
But knowing Kyler, he’d want to give it all away because he’s undeserving of it—or so he says.
I don’t believe him, at least the undeserving part. I believe he’d give it all to charity, but I don’t think he should. Donating is nice, but not at the expense of giving away your entire wealth.
That’s insanity.
Or I’m just seeing it from a different perspective because I haven’t accumulated the wealth that Mr. Greyson has acquired. I’ve never been able to toss money at engagements and galas to help people. There’s something freeing and strangely hot in his generosity and philanthropy.
Although at what expense?
“Emerson, you came,” Kate says, and she’s wearing that fake smile that she had when she handed me the invitation. She’s cute and tall, and I can’t make out almost any of her body because she’s swimming in her husband’s jersey. She also has dynamite legs because she is showing them off by not wearing any pants.
“Of course, thank you for inviting me.”
I’m quickly introduced to the other hockey wives, and it’s a polite interrogation as they ask me a hundred and one questions about how Kyler and I met and what I think about him playing professional hockey.
“You don’t just marry your man,” Ava says. “Your life will become living and breathing everything that is hockey. You’re marrying him and the sport.” She’s Parker Montgomery’s wife, whom I’ve yet to meet off the ice. I caught a glimpse of him during the game, and he was good, but so was the entire team.
It’s not like I know much else about the sport other than they toss a puck around and hit it into the goal. But I’m careful not to spoil that secret with the wives.
I spend the next hour chatting with the wives as we pack together boxes for the food drive and handing them out. There’s a press crew who stops by for a few minutes to get photos for their article.
They’re writing down everyone’s name, making sure to get the correct spelling, when Kyler comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around me. His breath tickles my neck as he nuzzles my skin, sending warm tingles all throughout my body.
“I like the jersey on you,” Kyler whispers loud enough for the other hockey wives to hear.
I imagine he’s doing it on purpose, putting on a show for everyone.
The woman with the press snaps a few extra pictures of the two of us, smiling brightly like we’ve just made her day.
Wonderful.
Except, I don’t feel ecstatic because I’m concerned that our picture will be the highlight at the top of the article. The last thing I want is for these other wives to get jealous or start a catfight.
“Smile for the camera,” Ava says with a grin and steps out of the shot.
Kyler spins me around in his arms and dips me back, kissing me passionately, taking my breath away.
I hear thesnap, snap, snapof the camera watching the two of us. There’s no such thing as a private moment when your fake fiancé is a professional hockey player.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, glancing at Ava.
The photographer steps back, checking her work with the digital camera before heading away, clearly done for the day. She got the shot she needed.
