I want to be wooed, and I want to be someone’s equal.
Not gonna lie though—I also want someone to pop my post-divorce cherry, and I am nothing if not in tune with signs from the universe.
In all the time since I left Chad and started this journey toward being single, this is the first time I’ve wanted to consider having sex again.
Sleep in the same bed with someone? Of course. I don’t like being lonely. Especially at night.
But sex? Nope.
“Get in the golf cart, Begonia.”
After he fell asleep last night, I extracted myself from beneath his head, climbed onto the other side of the king-size mattress, and slept so-so for about six hours, our bodies continuously drawing closer together until I’d jerk awake and scoot to the other side of the bed again, his deep breathing as constant as the rolling tide outside and the soft breeze fluttering the curtains surrounding the balcony doors.
And I thought.
And this morning, slipping quietly through the aisles of the grocery store, listening to the whispered gossip around me, I thought some more.
This is fake.
It can be a lot of fun.
And maybe, just maybe, whenever this farce is over, both of us will have gotten something out of our arrangement.
Goodness knows I’ve already gotten more than I bargained for.
I met Jonas Rutherford’s mother. And she thinks I’m dating her other son. And Amelia Shawcross is staring at me.
This is way more adventure—in a peopling kind of way—than I thought I’d ever get in my whole life.
So I’m all in with this fake relationship thing.
Still, knowing what I’m supposed to do and why, coupled with what I want to ask him to do, makes it more difficult to slip my arms around this man’s shoulders. So does the way my heart kicks up when I go up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his scruffy cheek. “No. Walk me home instead.”
His muscles bunch, but he mimics my movements and settles his hands on my hips. “It’s not safe to wander off the estate by yourself when you’re dating me.”
I smile brighter and slip my fingers through his hair. “Are kidnappers going to dash out from behind that rock and carry me off to torture me behind the lobster shack?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“There is a possibility some nosy busybody with a camera will take our picture and perpetuate this crazy story where the world’s last single billionaire is madly in love with a divorced art teacher from Virginia. That would probably be a serious hit to your reputation.” Thank you, market tabloids, for filling in more details to his story while I waited to pay for my groceries.
The world’s last unmarried, male, heterosexual billionaire.
With Jonas getting married to his actress girlfriend, his single cousin, Thomas, dying in a horrific car accident, and Mathias Randolf, the software billionaire, eloping in the Caymans—with friends and family present, including Hayes—all within the last two weeks, that means I truly am fake dating the world’s last single man with a ten-figure bank account.
I’m the only thing standing between Hayes and the dozen women I overheard wondering if he was single and wanted to meet them or their niece or granddaughter.
And Amelia Shawcross.
And who knows how many others?
“My patience is in short supply, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Then you definitely have to walk me back to your place. Just breathe that air. Isn’t it amazing?” I suck in a huge breath, demonstrating how to breathe for him, not because he needs it, but because I never would’ve said this to Chad, and I need to practice saying the things I want to say when they don’t cause anyone harm.
Chad would’ve said, Get in the cart, Begonia, and I would’ve said, Yes, Chad while thinking He’s such a stick in the mud, but at least this way we don’t argue over it.
Peace over happiness.
What good was the peace when it robbed me of the little joys in life, like a few extra minutes of breathing in the fresh salty air while my dog chases sea birds and tries to catch the waves in his mouth?
Hayes’s nostrils quiver, like he’s trying to test the air without letting on that he’s following instructions, and just like last night, when he laid his head in my lap and let me help him relax, a tight band around my chest eases.
My pulse is still running high, and there are goosebumps racing across my skin, but the nerves aren’t about if I’m doing this fake girlfriend thing right, or if I’ve agreed to a deal with someone who actually wants to hurt me.
I think he’s doing the best he can with whatever demons are haunting him, and for one small moment, I’m giving him peace.