7. Seven
Seven
Ainsley
M y phone vibrates as I catch up on my guilty pleasure of trashy TV—tonight it’s The Real Housewives of Atlanta . I blindly reach for it, wondering if it’s Reid with edits for me to go over before he runs my story. Instead, it’s a text from an unknown number, and it immediately sets me on edge.
Unknown: What are you up to, Muffin?
I read the text again, knowing who it’s from but wanting to make him think I don’t. I thought I was in the clear for a while because our performance for Harlowe at the café convinced her she didn’t need to set him up, despite her insistence that I join him at the events she’s planned.
Me: Wrong number.
Unknown: Definitely the right number. You put it in yourself.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: I like you playing hard to get.
Me: Tell me before I block you.
Unknown: You get one guess, you overly caffeinated, cranky little spitfire. I told you a third sweet cream iced coffee would get you wound up too tightly.
I groan and drop my phone. He’s just as annoying in text as he is in person. I wanted to halt any communication by playing ignorant, hoping he thought I’d given him a fake number. Of course, that's not my luck. I pick it back up and quickly save the number in my contacts. At least now I’ll know when he texts or calls and can ignore him properly.
Me: Payton. You obnoxious, persistent prick.
Annoying Payton: You’re such a smart girl. Now what are we going to do about you being so wound up? You’re just as testy in text as you are in person. At least you’re consistent.
Me: “We” won’t be doing anything. Leave me alone.
Annoying Payton: I can’t, you’re my girlfriend now. We have to get our story straight.
Me: *Fake* girlfriend. We created a story already. Now get out of my inbox unless you need me to play along with your idiotic sham for some reason.
The rapid-fire texting stops. I stare at my phone, wondering if calling him out on his bluff just worked. Maybe he’ll leave me alone until he needs a girlfriend for an event. My phone vibrates with an incoming call and Payton’s name flashes on the screen. I drop the phone onto the couch and look at it in shock.
“You relentless asshole,” I mutter as I stare at the vibrating phone. I pick it back up and swipe at the screen. “Why are you calling me?” I snap.
“It’s after eight. Is the caffeine still in your system from this morning, or do you drink coffee all day and let it mess with your circadian rhythm?” he asks by way of greeting.
Why is he like this? He's such a nerd, saying everything he thinks and wanting to crack me open for some reason.
“I stop drinking coffee at noon so it doesn’t mess with my sleep,” I grumble, not sure why I’m answering him honestly. “Why do you care?”
“I want to know if you’re naturally grumpy or if the coffee makes you that way.”
“ You make me that way.” I sigh, stretching out on the couch for what is destined to be a long, drawn-out verbal sparring match of our wits. It’s almost fun to shut down his every attempt to figure me out.
“I’m sure I do. It must be because I smile too much, right?” he asks, and I can hear the damn smile in his words.
“Absolutely. You’re weird for smiling so much.”
I can picture it, the way his full lips curl up at the corners, enhancing the little divot in his chin, his stunning blue eyes sparkling in challenge at me. I blink to clear the far too vivid picture from my mind and let the smile fall from my own lips, not sure how it got there, to begin with.
My phone chimes with a FaceTime request from him. I’m in my pajamas, a black crop top that says I heart Gossip, and cotton shorts, my hair piled on top of my head, and no makeup, not that I wear much regularly, but I definitely wasn’t planning on anyone seeing me like this other than my roommate, Della, if she happens to get home before I go to bed.
“I don’t want to see your stupid face right now,” I tell him.
“But I want to see yours. Just accept it, Muffin,” he teases.
I sigh and swipe on the FaceTime request, and it connects. His ocean-blue eyes and blindingly white smile greet me. A hint of dark stubble along his strong jaw catches my attention and makes my mouth water because the phone is close enough to show the detail. He’s reclining, holding his phone propped in front of him, looking as relaxed as anyone can, and I’m a ball of nerves in contrast. I glower to hide my deep perusal of his features.
“Happy?” I grumble.
“Very,” he purrs in great satisfaction. “Thank you, Muffin.”
“Why are you calling me that?” I snap, the pet name grating on my nerves nearly as much as the fact that his voice does something to melt the iceberg of my soul that I need very much to stay frozen where he’s concerned. He’s a threat, and I don’t need my life complicated by him stirring up hormones and feelings because he’s indecently charming, fucking hot, and has a smile that could drop even panties held up by a chastity belt with a padlock on them.
“You didn’t like me using your name at the café, so I came up with something else. You had a muffin on the table with you, so I went with that. Not very original, but it’s cute and I bet it drives you crazy because you probably hate anything cute.”
Damn. How can he be so spot-on with his analysis of me this quickly? I do hate it because it’s cute. “You were using my full name earlier, which is what I didn’t like. Just call me Ainsley, like a normal person. You don’t have to use my full name or something after a food I was eating.”
“What if I like muffins? What if they’re my favorite food and I can't resist them? What if Muffin is the most endearing thing I could’ve come up with?” he asks, pulling his phone closer to his face, more serious with every word.
My mouth goes dry the closer the phone gets to his deep ocean eyes, those perfect lips of his, and the dimples that come out to play every once in a while. I don’t know where to focus, every bit of his face is delicious and worthy of being devoured at close range. I swallow twice before I can unstick my tongue to form words.
“You’re lying,” I say hoarsely. I clear my throat and continue in a stronger voice. “No one likes muffins that much. They're the cheap, less tasty cousin to cupcakes. You took an easy way out.”
He laughs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. “You’re right, they’re not even my favorite baked good. Peach pie with vanilla ice cream is.” He shakes his head, smiling again. “Fuck, you’re such a spitfire. What’s your favorite dessert? ”
I silently stare him down through the phone screen as I lick my dry lips. I don’t want to give him that particular answer. I want to be contrary and say something else, but instead, the truth finally comes out. “Peach pie, but with the crumble topping because it’s superior to a normal crust,” I admit, tearing my eyes away from the screen when his face grows serious, head tilting to the side.
“Really?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. Are you done now? I was busy before you decided to barge into my night with your incessant questions.”
Payton shifts and I realize he’s now lying on his stomach, head propped on one arm. “Oh, I’m just getting started. You look pretty comfy. What were you so busy doing before I barged into your evening?” His eyes twinkle with mischief like he knows I’m lying.
I can’t tell him I was binge-watching my favorite trashy reality TV show and scrolling gossip online. “Why do you care?” I ask instead.
“Call me curious. How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-five,” I answer honestly, instead of with the snarky remark of old enough that almost slipped out. That could’ve been construed as combative and innuendo, and he doesn’t need any encouragement in that area after his flirty banter at the café earlier.
“Why are you working at the Gazette when you’re talented enough to be somewhere much better?”
I bristle and narrow my eyes at him. “What’s with all the questions? I thought that was my job.”
“I read some of your stories today. Your writing is excellent. It’s compelling, has heart, and tells the story in a unique way, no matter what you’re reporting on. You could work anywhere, but you’re at the fucking Gazette, a second-rate paper, assigned shitty stories about strip mall openings when you could be somewhere that would actually challenge you. Why?”
My chest swells with pride at his compliments and my defenses snap up at the same time. “That’s really none of your business.”
“I thought we were becoming friends, and that’s something a friend would ask.”
I scoff and sit up so I can direct my ire at him properly. “We’re not friends. You’re an annoying man who won’t leave me alone. It was a stroke of bad luck that you sat down next to me today and felt entitled to my time and attention because you managed to fix my crappy work laptop. That doesn’t make us friends. It makes me indebted to you. That’s different.”
Payton sits up, mirroring my movements on his end of the call. I notice for the first time that he’s shirtless, his tan skin rolling over his muscled shoulders and chest as his face grows serious. My mouth dries out again. Holy shit, he’s built under the suits he’s photographed in and was hiding under the casual button-down he was wearing today at the café. I felt those muscles against me, but to see them is something else.
“Why won’t you be my friend, Spitfire?”
“Why do you insist on calling me stupid nicknames?” I fire off.
I bang my head back against the couch and close my eyes tightly instead of focusing on his defined pecs and broad shoulders and the way it looks like he’s looming over me as I lean back. I’m resolutely ignoring the things that image and the idea of him above me like this does to my dormant libido, which is starting to respond to this antagonistic man when it should stay the hell out of this conversation.
“Because of that, right there, Ainsley. ”
Oh, shit. He’s thinking of fucking me on a couch, too? I lift my head and warily meet his eyes again to keep myself from looking at the smooth expanse of skin below his neck. For once, he’s not smiling, he’s dead serious, and his intensely blue eyes bore into me through the screen.
“Because of what ?” I ask hesitantly, keeping a frown on my face to discourage any sexual thoughts on his side of the call.
“You actually show true emotion and let the real you peek through when you’re exasperated. The real emotion, good or bad, is better than this prickly persona that you’re trying on for size like it’ll fit one day. It doesn’t suit you.”
I bite my lip, my nostrils flaring as I huff out a breath, relieved he wasn’t thinking about sex but frustrated he’s so damn good at reading me when I’m normally so much better at projecting whatever I want people to see. I can’t respond to his comment without giving him exactly what he wants—a heated denial that would serve to prove his point, or me admitting he’s right, which would also prove his point. I just shake my head.
“Why did you text me tonight?” I ask instead. I pull my knees up and rest my arms on top.
“I wanted to see what you’re up to.”
I give him an incredulous look. “You don’t have a life, do you? First, you spent your Saturday morning at the Unicorn Café bothering me and meeting your sister-in-law, and now you’re spending your Saturday night calling a stranger because you have nothing better to do.” A genuine smile lifts my cheeks. “And here I thought fancy billionaire businessmen had more important things to do with their time.” I laugh. It feels good to be making fun of him, finally, after he’s been laughing at me for the majority of our exchanges today.
“Ah, that’s better. Just keep laughing, Spitfire, even if it’s at my expense. ”
My laughter dies. Is he serious? He’s still smiling, which is something, and he doesn’t look pissed. “It’s true, isn’t it? You don’t have a life,” I say, gentler.
“I have my work and my boats on the coast and at the lake. But you’re completely right. I haven’t given myself much of a life over the last year and a half. Today was the first Saturday I didn't spend working at least part of the day in…damn, I don't know how long it’s been. I texted you because it gave me something to do other than turn back to work.”
My face softens at his admission, but I don’t let him off that easily. “You really have to get a life. How depressing. God, I wouldn’t want to end up like you in ten years.”
“You were working today, so you’re already on your way to becoming me,” he says, arching a dark eyebrow.
“That’s not the same thing,” I protest. “I had a last-minute story to write. I don't work every weekend.”
“And what were you up to tonight? Looks like you’re home, just like me. Again, your odds aren’t looking good. You’re definitely going to end up a workaholic without a life at thirty-five just like me.” His smile is devilish, popping the slightest hint of dimples into his cheeks that are far too enticing and I hate the way they look. They’re lickable, and that’s ridiculous on a grown man without a life. Payton is ridiculous.
“I’m not home every Saturday night. I have a life.”
“You’re just being contrary now. Prove you have a life. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What? No. I don’t date. Why would you even ask me that? I don’t have to prove anything to you,” I snap, my defenses rising higher as I grow flustered. “You’re annoying. Has anyone ever told you that, or does everyone try to kiss your ass because you have more money than God and they want to ride your coattails or get something out of you? ”
He laughs. “Fuck, I like you. I’m going to keep you around. Can you say more mean things to me?”
My mouth pops open in shock, not at all expecting that response. Is he serious? Is that why he’s been so persistent today? Should I have fawned over him instead, and he wouldn’t have paid me a second thought?
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, not sure how to take his comments. He’s not normal. There’s no way to anticipate his next move or comment, and that freaks me the hell out.
“You’re doing a decent job of creating a list of what’s wrong with me. I’m weird for smiling so much. I'm annoying. I don’t have a life. I have a stupid face. I’m sure given time, the list will grow.”
I feel a twinge of remorse for being such a bitch to him. “The list would grow slower if you left me alone like I asked.”
“Where’s the fun in that? And why? You’ve engaged with me every time I’ve talked to you. You secretly like it, even if you want to hate it or hate me, for whatever reason. You would’ve shut me down and not answered if you didn’t want to talk to me.”
I blink incredulously at his last words and my cheeks heat with outrage. “You told me if I didn’t answer your calls or texts, you'd show up at my house or work.” I fume, realizing I had a choice.
I could have ignored him, but then I wouldn’t have had the chance to get to know more about Olympus and his family. Not that he’s been very forthcoming on any details. He’s been more intent on asking me questions and digging into my history than allowing me any opportunity to get to know what makes him tick or how Olympus runs internally. Goddammit, I’ve let him distract me so thoroughly, that I’m not even doing my job right!
“Only when I plan on calling in my fake girlfriend favor,” he explains patiently, bringing me back to our conversation.
“How am I supposed to know when that’ll be?” Exasperation has my brows climbing higher.
“I’ll tell you. But we’ll need to know each other really well before we appear publicly as a couple to pull this off convincingly. So consider this me starting our friendship. Be my friend, Ainsley.”
“Are you so hard up for friends that you have to resort to asking women who don’t even like you to be your friends?” I sputter.
“Ah, but I think you do like me. You’re just telling yourself you don’t. Why else would you have stayed on the phone with me for this long? You enjoy sparring with me intellectually. I stimulate you. It’s giving you the release you need because you’re wound so tight. You like all the verbal back and forth and the mental gymnastics of saying I’m annoying and you hate how smiley I am while you bend over backward to make me smile more. It’s cute.”
“You’re impossible,” I spit as I look for a way to refute everything he’s said. Am I enjoying this? I mean, maybe, a little bit. But it’s not stimulating me or giving me a release. Goddamn, that sounds way too sexual. “This isn’t going to work. I can't pretend to date you when I don't even like you.”
“Of course you can. That makes it even better. There’s no risk of actually falling for me when you don't like me. It’s perfect. I just need you to show up in public with me and look like we get along so Harlowe will buy it. You did great this morning. Give me six months of that so she thinks it’s serious enough that she’ll let her guard down.”
“Six months? Hell no, that’s way too long. I just met you today. There’s no way I’m tying myself to you for that long. You could be a sociopath.” I rub my forehead as I wonder how I got here. I’m arguing with a billionaire about the length of time I’m going to fake date him. This can’t be my life.
“I’m not a sociopath. I was tested when I was younger. It turns out I’m just a genius. And you agree, but for less time? Three months. Ninety-day fiancée style.”
“What the actual fuck? No. This is insane. No fiancée talk.” I shake my head and look back at the screen where Payton appears far too calm and collected. “You were tested to see if you were a sociopath? Were you a weird kid? There are levels here that I need to know about. Did you have trouble connecting, or did you kill small animals? I have so many questions.”
He smirks and levels those gorgeous blue eyes at me. “I was too literal and had trouble connecting. I was smarter than my peers and I electrocuted Zander once when we were kids. My mom wanted to make sure I didn’t do it on purpose and made it look accidental. To be fair, kids can’t be sociopaths, which would actually be a diagnosis of Antisocial Personality Disorder, but they can have Conduct Disorder. You have to meet certain criteria. They asked me a lot of questions and we looked at pictures of facial expressions, checked to see if I understood empathy, and stuff like that. I didn’t have that either. Besides, I really like animals. I would never kill them. My favorite animals are dolphins and sea turtles. What are yours?”
“Octopuses and seahorses,” I mutter, holding my head. This fucking man.
“We both chose marine animals. I love that for us. So ninety days work?”
My head warps at his persistent back and forth. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I whisper, pinching my temples between my fingers.
“I’m glad you agree. I’ll work out the details of our fake relationship and get them drawn up in a contract. This is our little secret. No one else can know it’s fake, so we have to sell it well. Now I’ll say good night to my amazing fake girlfriend. Sleep tight and talk to you tomorrow, Muffin.”
He ends the call before I can get another word in. I’m left holding my phone, my mouth gaping in shock. He’s really the genius mastermind I thought, manipulating every situation to his advantage and leaving others three steps behind. My overwhelmed mind spins for hours after, wondering how life could have turned upside down so thoroughly in a matter of hours from one chance encounter with the billionaire I’m now somehow tied to, as a fake girlfriend for ninety days .