His Fake Fiancee: BBW Romance (Fake it For Me)

Her fire is back, defying me to argue with her. No woman has ever challenged me before. Is that why I want her? Was it that simple, wanting what I cannot have?

“When I’m home I don’t want to worry about work and reports and deadlines.”

“I hardly demand eighty-hour workweeks from my employees. If they have been doing so, it is on them. All they need to do is submit at least one company for acquisition every week to be presented Monday. You came in early. I am well aware Simon did not.” I am curious where she is getting this picture of what her workweek will become.

Her brow furrows in thought. I do not like how easily the frown appears. It is clear she has had many worries. She shakes her head. “Just one? Simon said three. I had to give him at least one and he put together th

e other two. He said he picked which one to put up after he saw mine on Thursdays. Doing mine then putting his two together is the reason why I was working so hard. That jerk. He made it seem like he was working at home into the night.”

“Simon seems to have spent the majority of his days lying to everyone around him. Would you see the one proposal as too demanding going forward? Does it change your mind at all?”

A tilt of her head as she considers my question. Then a careful, measured nod. “Yes. I never thought I would really enjoy what I do, it was a means to an end. Yet I have grown to like the challenge. The thrill of finding a buy and diving deep into the company, their financials and history and what drives the person...” She trails off, then looks up at me.

“I like it, but I don’t know if I want it to consume me the way it does you. The balance in my bank account is only about how it can make me and Abuelo’s life better; it’s not how I define myself.”

It is an insult. I do not see it as one. I love my life. I love what I do; it consumes my day because I want it to. Filling my day with parties, sport, or any other hobby does not excite me.

At first, I was driven to make money for security. To make enough money to bury the memories deep; memories of hearing my sisters cry from hunger I could not satisfy. I worked to forget my own gnawing hunger I endured almost daily for years. To know that I never again would be forced out of my home, stuck in a freezing cold corner of a one-room bedsit with my sisters and mother.

Then it became something else entirely. The thrill of picking up a company and making millions off it when others ran the other way could not be summed up in mere words. Some saw my purchases as reckless, certain I would fail, yet I have never lost money on a single venture. I will not apologize for the satisfaction I get seeing the value of my company increase, my personal bank balance increase year after year, or for how I live my life.

I allow a soft chuckle. Interesting—she is not inclined to watch what she says, simply speaks her first thoughts. This time there is no apology, daring me to argue with her. As I do not apologize for how I live my life, I expect none from others.

“However the hell you choose to define yourself, I do not care. All I care is you do it while working for me. If I were to define your work by what you brought me rather than the hours you spent doing it. Ensure, you do not feel tied to your desk, you would stay.” I am fascinated at how quickly hazel disappears leaving behind vibrant green as our eyes meet and hold.

A slow nod.

“For you, or for your grandfather?”

Her chin comes up in defiance. I am challenged to restrain myself from capturing her small chin and holding her still while I claim her mouth.

“For the both of us. I meant what I said, I do like what I do. I don’t think I would be good at it if I didn’t like it. It will also be nice not to worry so much, about the mortgage and allowances for the nurses Abuelo likes, not just puts up with, and other things that will make him happy and quit being so...” A shrug as she trails off.

“He is melancholy?”

She laughs. “British people, always with the best adjectives and so formal.” Shaking her head, a weariness comes over her. “Before the heart attack, melancholy would have been a good word. After my grandmother died, he was lost. They met when she was twelve and he was fourteen. The very next day she told him she was going to marry him. At sixteen she got her wish, and they never spent a day apart until she died. So, I understood, but after the heart attack...”

Her eyes cloud with pain and confusion. “What?”

Closing her eyes, she goes on. “He’s been so mean. He was never a hugs-and-kisses kind of guy. I got all of that from Abuela, enough I didn’t notice not getting it from him. She was always quick to defend him, after losing both my mom and her brother, then my dad, he had a hard time forming attachments, getting close. For a little while after Abuela died we were the closest and most affectionate we’d ever been. I even got two hugs.”

A hopeless sigh. “Ever since he came home after the heart attack, it’s like he doesn’t even like me. Like we’re two roommates who can’t break our lease. We’re together out of obligation, not love. I never felt that way myself, but it’s what I get from him. For some reason, he’s convinced he’s a burden and I will be better off once he’s gone. No matter how hard I try to tell him otherwise. It scares me sometimes. Honestly, even if he didn’t need a nurse, I wouldn’t be able to relax unless someone was always with him.”

“You have no other family?”

“No, I had an uncle but he died when I was little, in Desert Storm. My dad’s family weren’t happy he married my mom. They were apparently terrified that they would have a black granddaughter. So my dad told them to get stuffed. I think there was a brother or something, but he never talked to them again, that I know of.

“My dad and my grandparents didn’t start with the best relationship, but by the time he died they were his parents too. As far as he was concerned, they were all he and I needed.”

I have everything I need to know. Christina Connolly is exactly what I hoped she would be, and so very much more. Those plans I have will bear profitable fruit, as long as I do not make the mistake of attempting to mix business with pleasure. No matter how pleasurable it would be in the moment, I would much rather have the money she will make me.

***

Christina

His finger is doing that tapping thing on the desk again. The sound draws me out of the dreamlike feeling of the last half hour. After the first terrifying five minutes, all my fear of him fell away. The way he talks about plans for me is scary and exciting and I can’t wait. Only five seconds after I walked into his room it hit me: Anna was wrong. I was wrong. As good as the self-love felt, it would never replace Ivan.

Desire kicked in hard and fast and needy. Drawn into those intent, unfathomable black eyes, I answered every question, shared what I never thought I would with anyone else because I could deny him nothing. Having his whole attention is addictive—I would do or say anything to keep it. My heart started pounding in my ears; my skin went hot and tight. Then I sat down across from him, so very close, and damn it all to hell I was wet all over again for him. I was still sensitive from before, the word torture came to mind.