Pretending I’m Yours (Forbidden Billionaires #3)

Chapter 12

chapter 12

MAYA

Best day ever.

Best. Day. Ever!

The words dance through my head as Anthony and I make our way through security and into the museum, which is every bit as jaw-droppingly beautiful as I remember from my last visit.

Like the observation deck, the museum is busy but not packed—I suspect a lot of the tourists are still sleeping off their Christmas festivities—and I’m grateful for the space to breath as we make our way through the lobby. The Great Hall echoes with footsteps and voices as Anthony flashes his membership card and we enter the Egyptian Wing.

A part of me wants to linger by the giant ebony sarcophagus and the ancient temple in the glass-walled room we pass through on our way to the Sculpture Patio. But I settle for a quick picture of the peaceful pool of water surrounding the temple, with the monument fuzzy in the background, before letting Anthony lead me onward.

We don’t have time for a lengthy visit today, but I promise myself I’ll come back again. Heck, maybe I’ll become a member when I move to the city. I love the idea of supporting the museum, assuming it isn’t too pricey.

I’m living large now, but once I start repairs to my building, money will be tight. But I plan on getting a part-time job to supplement my rental income. I have six years of property management experience, after all. Hopefully, the fact that my references will all be coming from family members won’t make that much of a difference.

I may have spent my entire career thus far working with my family, but I’ve grown our business and revenue by fifteen percent since I took over control of the portfolio three years ago. I’m a natural with rental property stuff, and I’m sure there are tons of owners in the city who would like to turn the day-to-day management of their investments over to a capable young woman willing to work for slightly less than their current company.

After all, I can live on forty dollars a week in groceries when I have to, and I’ve had to for most of the recent past in order to save up my down payment.

But today isn’t a day for pondering future frugality. Today is a day for basking in the luxurious feeling of being at a stunning museum with an even more stunning man, who has already made reservations to feed me fancy sandwiches.

If I wasn’t already falling for Anthony, I would be after today.

As things stand, I don’t know if my heart will ever be the same. As he guides me into the first period room—a stunning 16 th -century bedroom—it clenches in my chest, making me dizzy with the romantic wonder of it all.

“Wow.” I pause beside the velvet rope at the edge of the room, my fingers curling deeper into the crook of Anthony’s arm as I take in the ornate paneling and silk wallpaper. Electric “candles” flicker from the fireplace mantle, catching the gilt details in the furnishings and making them glow. “This is incredible. I love it so much. You’re a genius.”

“Thanks.” He laughs before kissing my forehead with a sweetness that sends my poor heart into another round of clenching and aching. I’m caught somewhere between joy and a bittersweet longing for something I’ll never have, but so grateful to be here with him that I don’t mind the hint of melancholy.

It’s kind of beautiful, actually.

Bittersweet feelings remind you that life is fleeting and all beautiful things come to an end.

So, you have to relish them now, embracing the beauty with everything in you and holding on tight for as long as it lasts.

“The craftsmanship is incredible,” I murmur, leaning over the rope to get a better look at the carved legs of the card table set up in the center of the room. “Can you imagine waking up in a room like this every morning? Living in this kind of beauty? Do you think it would ever become ordinary?”

“Maybe to some people,” he says. “But not for me, I don’t think. It’s been decades since I was a kid sharing a cramped room with two of my cousins, and I still wake up feeling grateful for the beautiful place I call home.”

I glance up at him, falling a little more in love with him. “I like that about you.”

He shifts his focus to my face, his gaze softening. “I like you, too. A lot. Even if you weren’t a client, I would still want to be here, sharing this with you. You’re a good one, Maya Swallows.”

My throat tightens, touched by his words. “You, too.”

“Not as good as you.” His smile fades as he nods to his left, and there’s a hint of pain in his voice as he asks, “Should we move on? Lots of things to see before four o’clock.”

“Absolutely.” I wonder what he’s thinking that made him sound so sad, but I’m not quite brave enough to ask.

But maybe by tonight I will be…

Crazy as it is, I already feel closer to Anthony than any man I’ve dated, and the feeling only grows as we wander the museum, indulging our mutual love of beautiful, creative things.

We explore English drawing rooms with heavy draperies and delicate teacups, Dutch parlors filled with blue and white porcelain, and an American Federalist-style bedroom that reminds me of a scene from Little Women. Finally, we head up to the second floor to wander through a Zen garden and a replica of an ancient Japanese home that makes me reconsider my aversion to minimalism.

Yes, I love knickknacks and sculpture and pretty things to look at while I’m having my morning coffee, but there’s something to be said for a blissfully uncluttered space.

“I feel more enlightened just walking through there,” I whisper as we move through the rounded doorway into a hallway filled with Japanese art and sculpture.

“Me, too,” Anthony says. “And hungrier. Ready for tea?”

I exhale a happy sigh. “Yes, please. I hope they have Lapsang Souchong. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” he says, shooting me a sideways look. “But most people don’t like the smokiness.”

“Not me, I love it. The smokier the better.”

He nods, his eyes flashing the way they do when he’s having a brilliant idea. “I know where I’m going to take you tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations when we get home.”

“Where?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, grinning smugly. “But you’re going to love it, no doubt in my mind.”

“Well, you’re batting a hundred so far.”

He arches a brow. “I hope you mean a thousand. A hundred wouldn’t be too great.”

I laugh as I confess, “Yes, a good batting number, whatever that is. I’m not a sports person. Can you tell?”

He puts an arm around me, hugging me against his side. “I had an inkling. But that’s fine by me. Artsy people are better than sporty people, anyway. I mean, I love catching a ball game or watching hockey with my cousins, but I never leave a sporting event feeling like I’ve grown as a person the way I do the opera or an afternoon here.”

I nod, marveling at the giant buddha that fills the final room in the Asian Art Wing. It’s at least twenty-five feet tall and exudes a sacred energy that lifts the hairs on my arms as we pass by on our way to the mezzanine. “I get that. Though I did enjoy watching Sully and Elaina play rugby in high school. I loved how fierce they were on the field.”

“Sully,” he echoes, his brow furrowing. “You mentioned her earlier, right? The photographer?”

“Yeah,” I say, amazed that he remembered. This man is actually paying attention, a thing nearly as sexy as the way his broad shoulders fill out a sweater. “We’ve been friends forever.”

“One of my friends is dating a woman named Sully,” he says. “I think it’s a nickname, but?—”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a nickname for my friend, too. Her real name is Gertrude, so we used to call her Gertie. But lately she’s liking ‘Sully’ better.” I laugh. “Which is also a nickname, short for Sullivan, her last name.” I blink faster, as I start to wonder… Could it even be possible? “Your friend’s name isn’t Weaver, is it?”

His face goes completely blank for a moment in a way I’ve never seen it before, but before I can wonder what the heck that’s all about, he smiles and shakes his head. “No, his name is Brian, but Weaver sounds familiar, too. Must be one of those days, when everything has a hint of déjà vu.” He motions to our right. “We’re in here. The Patrons Lounge.”

He reaches for the door, holding it open for me, and I forget about the strange moment as I take in the warm and welcoming space. The lounge is peaceful, all wood paneling and comfortable leather chairs, with small tables beside them holding tea trays for the patrons enjoying an afternoon treat. A fire crackles in a marble fireplace on the far side of the room, and to say I’m thrilled when the hostess leads us to a table right beside it, is an understatement.

I love a fire.

And I love that Anthony orders three different varieties of Lapsang Souchong so we can do a side-by-side taste test.

And I love cucumber sandwiches and scones and tiny macarons in pink and green and all the other treats on our tray.

But most of all, I love how easily the conversation flows between me and this amazing man. I love the way he looks at me like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, the way he steals a kiss after wiping a macaron crumb from my lip, and how perfect it feels to leave the museum on his arm, headed back to his place in the dim light of an early winter sunset.

I’m falling for my fake boyfriend, no doubt about it.

But with his hand wrapped possessively around my thigh as our cab heads back to the Village, filling my already humming body with anticipation for the night to come, I can’t bring myself to care.