The Last Eligible Billionaire(28)

“He could’ve made such a great service dog, but he doesn’t take orders well.” She’s talking faster, like she’s grateful for the subject change. “He knows how to do all the things, but it’s like he’s missing that part of his brain where he understands that he’s supposed to do it when people tell him to, instead of when he wants to. And he went through three owners who thought it was cute at first and then couldn’t live with him, and so I adopted him because he deserves to be loved for who he is, flaws and all, and so do I, so we make a good pair. Especially now that I’ve figured out how to Marshmallow-proof my apartment.”

Ah. Of course. She’s worried about leaving her dog. “The animal will survive without you for a weekend. I have competent staff who can arrive within a day to learn his eccentricities before we depart. And we need to keep up appearances.”

She bites her lip and looks down at the dirt road. “I don’t actually have a passport. That’s the other issue.”

“I’ll make a phone call.”

“That’s cheating.”

“I live in a world where my every public move is under scrutiny, where I’m judged based on the fantasy world of the films my family puts out into the world rather than on the world we actually live in, where people befriend me for every reason except enjoying my company, and where my acquaintances are just as likely to double-cross me as they are to follow through on their promises. So if the other side of that coin is that I can make a phone call to have a passport application expedited, then I’ll make the damn phone call.”

She gives me another of those looks that I’m coming to dread. “You’re very suspicious of the world and its intentions.”

“Welcome to my life, Ms. Fairchild.”

“So why do you trust me?”

“I don’t so much trust you as I trust that I can destroy you if I need to.”

The damn woman doesn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she studies me as if she’s trying to peer into my soul and decide if I have it in me to crush a high school art teacher who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Having been labeled the weird one from a young age simply because I wasn’t what anyone thought I should be, having spent my entire life feeling like I don’t conform to my family’s expectations, taking years to grow into my too-serious, too-angular, awkward face and body while everyone else in my family just seemed to fit, and knowing how very vulnerable it can make a person to be on the wrong end of a rejection at exactly the wrong time—the truth is, I couldn’t intentionally hurt her.

I don’t enjoy hurting people any more than I enjoy being a dick. And I enjoy it even less when being an asshole is necessary.

Like now.

I refuse to feel guilty about it—this is my estate, and I didn’t wish for this situation any more than she did—but I’m realizing I’m not angry with Begonia.

I’m angry with the world, and I’m taking it out her.

To be fair, I take it out on everyone, but in this instance, I can acknowledge it’s not her fault.

She’ll realize I’m right about Paris once we get there. And I’ll make sure she has a nice time.

I have to.

The world will be watching.

“I’ll find a sitter for Marshmallow and go to Paris with you,” she finally says, “but only on one condition.”

“You’re mistaken if you think you have room for negotiation, Ms. Fairchild.”

“I’ll find a sitter for Marshmallow and go to Paris with you,” she repeats, “and in return, I want you to have sex with me.”

I draw to an abrupt halt while the dog tries to keep going, leading to him yanking on the damn bike handle while I gape at Begonia.

She peers back expectantly like she hasn’t asked for a larger favor than my bank account.

“There it is,” I mutter. “We’ll be ending this relationship the minute we get back to—”

“Quit being a pompous ass who thinks this is about me taking advantage of you and listen.” It’s the schoolteacher voice, which, unfortunately, despite all the reasons it shouldn’t, causes blood to flow south to my cock again.

“You don’t have to kiss me, you don’t have to look at me, we don’t have to have the lights on, and we can keep touching to a minimum,” she says. “There will definitely be multiple forms of birth control in place, and I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign, agreeing to whatever you need me to agree to in the event of something unexpected happening.”

I make a noise, but she keeps talking.

“I just—I haven’t slept with anyone since Chad, and I want to move on. Physically. I need to take that leap, and I’m not quite afraid of it, but I haven’t been putting myself out there either, and you’re here, and we’re pretending to be dating, and you’ve already seen me naked, and your mother caught us in bed together, and I wouldn’t even care if you wanted to call me by someone else’s name to make it palatable enough for you, so—”

This time, when I make another unintelligible noise, she pauses.

But only for a moment.

“Never mind. Never mind. Forget I said anything. This is a terrible idea. I’m done talking. Fine. We’ll go to Paris. I’ll ask Kristine for someone here on the island who’s good with strong-willed and over-trained dogs, and I’ll go pop my post-divorce cherry with some lovely fisherman in the village once our two weeks of fake-dating is over.”