“I took a sketch class in college. At some point, I realized sculptures come out better with less of a struggle during the process if I just thought about them as a series of sketches. Say I was sculpting a warrior god...I’d sketch his head, his torso, both arms and legs. Building the pieces would be easy. Just a matter of blending.”
He nods, never taking his eyes off me.
“Well, I also realized that my best concepts were a combination of things I’d seen, and that might be harder to remember later. So I started keeping a sketchbook at all times, and Austin joked I was Sketch Paige with the sketchbook. It’s as lame as it sounds.”
“How come I’ve never seen you with a sketchbook?”
“Work takes time, and I don’t have the proper equipment anymore. The stuff I do now doesn’t require elaborate sketches when the pieces are so small.”
I pick up my shake and take a gulp, welcoming the chocolate nirvana distraction.
“Do you still care about that guy?” he asks me suddenly.
I almost spit milkshake.
“No freaking way. Of course not. He was a jerk and I know it now. But he basically told me I was just a placeholder. That still stings sometimes. Makes me wonder if...no, forget it.”
I don’t have to say more.
The way he’s nodding in bitter solidarity surprises me.
It’s a gesture that says he knows my dilemma perfectly.
SOS! It’s been a week since he kissed me, and I still can’t think about anything else! I text Brina.
The emojis come in ahead of her text.
Tears of joy smiley. Pitchfork. Black cat?
I grin because she’s always been hilariously superstitious.
And he hasn’t tried kissing you again? she sends. Maybe it’s your turn.
With a small gasp, I type back, Ha. You’re on fire tonight. That’s so not happening.
Brina: Has he said anything?
Not really. He’s a tyrant bosshole at work every day. We usually get home around nine, and once we’re in the penthouse, he’s a different man. I thought he might be flirting once or twice, but he’s probably just being nice since we’re stuck together pretending we’re one big happy couple. We’re spending the weekend at his place on Lake Michigan. I’ve got “quarters” there too.
I shouldn’t be so annoyed at having my own luxury rooms rent-free from a billionaire. But when you’re daydreaming nonstop about that shrieking hot billionaire’s lips...
Why? Brina asks.
I don’t know. I think he’s having clients over tomorrow or something, I send back.
Not to be a bitch, but lady... When Brina leads with that, tough love follows. The way I see it, you’ve got a few options. 1. Play this out to the end and see what happens. 2. Just ask him if he’s interested. 3. He kissed you, remember?
How could I ever forget? But Brina isn’t done.
There’s no good reason you can’t return the favor and see where it goes.
She’s too right.
Too bad you weren’t this smart a year ago when you were crushing on your boss. I roll my eyes as I hit send, wondering if marrying a Chicago god upped her relationship IQ.
That was different, Paige. Mag was just my supergrump boss and we weren’t faking an engagement. If people thought I lived with him, I would have just been honest.
This is you we’re talking about, I send. You would have been blunt.
She must be distracted with her posh life and perfect husband because she doesn’t reply.
I get up and change into an asymmetrical pale-blue swimsuit.
Of all the perks that come with Ward Brandt, the indoor pool is the best part, and I plan to enjoy it.
A massive pool fills the room with shimmering blue, spinning reflected light. I’m not expecting the giant occupying one corner of the pool.
Lovely. It’s not getting any easier to tear my eyes away from his totally Orion chest.
“Come on in, the water’s warm.” He lounges against the side of the pool, a glass with a thin layer of amber liquid on the ledge.
I slip in beside him with flashbacks of middle school swim class. You know how it feels the first time you’re in your swimsuit with boys who notice?
Yeah.
This is me.
Only, I’m an adult, fake engaged to a billionaire hottie, and this is—whatever this is—it’s not how I imagined life in my mid-twenties.
Shoot me now.
Ward’s gaze falls from my eyes to my lips, where it lingers for a few seconds before slipping down to the bow flowing from my neckline. He stretches both arms across the gutter, meaning he now has an arm behind me.
Red alert.
Something red in the clear water catches my attention, all right.
Bright red swim trunks with a firm, unmistakable bulge. My eyes linger there too long.
Is that—did I cause that?
Frick. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m gawking at his rather impressive—um, assets.
“You’ll be happy to know this is working,” he says.
“It is?”
“Mrs. Winthrope must have put in a good word for us. Ross invited us out on his yacht tomorrow evening. I hope you don’t mind coming out on such short notice.”