The Last Eligible Billionaire(77)

“And I have Hayes’s credit card, and it would make Begonia’s day to know that you’re doing dishes in Versace,” Keisha adds. “You could go TikTok famous.”

Hy gapes at all of us.

I want to tell her no, that she can’t have a dress, that this isn’t what Hayes meant, that I don’t want to waste his money, or use him for his money, but I can’t.

The amount of joy this would bring her?

And knowing it’s pennies to Hayes?

The man bought me a temporary art studio in his home, sent a private jet for Hyacinth, and Winnie texted me that she’s booking Hy’s whole family for a two-week all-expenses-paid, no-limits, exclusive-access-pass trip to Razzle Dazzle Village and wanted to check allergies, Hy’s due date, and if they prefer cotton, linen, silk, or flannel sheets.

Hayes won’t object to a dress.

And if he does, I’ll pay him back, no matter how long it takes.

I nod to her. “Hayes would want you to. I want you to. Keisha’s right. You’d rock the dishes in Versace.” I couldn’t pick a Versace out of a dress line-up if my pottery wheel depended on it.

“I have died and gone to heaven,” Hyacinth whispers.

I want to agree with her.

But I think I’m hitting overwhelm for the day.

The crowd, and the pampering, and Hyacinth being here—it’s all amazing.

More than I could’ve hoped for.

But it’s also not real.

I mean, yes, my sister is real. The spa was real. The clothing, the dresses, hanging out with Keisha, the reporters—they’re all real.

But this dating-a-billionaire lifestyle?

That isn’t real.

And I don’t want a billionaire.

I don’t want a fake relationship. I don’t want a fake fiancé.

Right now, I want the man who slept with me under the stars, who went diving under the covers to kiss the hummingbird tattoo on my hip, who smiles just for me, who makes me feel like I’m perfect the way I am and that I deserve to be loved for all of me, not just the convenient parts or the socially acceptable parts or the non-annoying parts.

I want the man who makes me believe that two people really can love each other the way love is supposed to be.

But he’s not mine.

It’s all fake.

And despite making more promises this morning that I would, I don’t want to do it anymore.

“Begonia?” Hyacinth asks.

I beam at her. “You’re going to be the most gorgeous diaper-changer in the world.”

“We’re totes getting you the seamstress package so you can have the dress refitted after…” Keisha waves at Hyacinth’s belly. “Well, after.”

I make myself crack up at the look on Keisha’s face.

Hyacinth squints at me.

She knows I’m faking it.

But she doesn’t press.

She will later. But for now, I point to the anemic display of dresses, which I assume is merely a front for the good stuff somewhere else.

That’s how it seems to work in this world. “Let’s go have some fun.”





30





Hayes



The office is so hectic, I miss dinner with Begonia and Hyacinth in Manhattan, and even with their late night, I’m home after they are. Friday morning, I’m up before the sun, headed back to Albany, before Begonia’s awake.

I miss her.

Despite sleeping next to her all night, I feel as though I haven’t seen her in weeks.

It’s only been three days since we slept under the moon and stars, but it seems like an eternity. The text message updates she sent while shopping with Keisha and Hyacinth weren’t enough. I want to see the light in her eyes and watch her glow as she tells me the story of her day, in bed or over coffee, or in bed with coffee, or while sitting under the stars on a picnic blanket in the hills, and then I want to kiss her and strip her and seduce her until she’s screaming my name for all the world to hear.

It’s a sure sign this is more than the fake relationship she’s signed up for, and it’s a sure sign I should cut my losses, tear up our contract, and get out now.

But when I arrive home at six Friday evening, early enough to get ready for the Windsor Charity Gala tonight, there’s no cut your losses at the top of my mind.

Only dear god, she’s beautiful.

She and Hyacinth are both in the sitting room in my quarters—easily fixed this morning from the accident early this week once I gave orders to the designer and contractors to only accept Begonia’s opinion—each in robes that I suspect they picked up at the spa yesterday, both of them having their hair done.

Begonia’s entire face shines like a full moon on a clear night when she spots me. “Hayes! You’re home! Guess what? I made a bowl that looks like a bowl this morning.”

I do not deserve this woman and her sunshine. I know for a fact that packages have begun arriving for her, gifts from companies hoping the world’s last eligible billionaire’s girlfriend will get caught wearing or using their products in public—and yes, I do mean diamonds, pearls, high-end fashion, and more electronics than you can find at a computer show—yet the first thing she squeals about is making a clay bowl.

How anyone could not adore her is utterly beyond me.