My Billionaire Fake Fiance
He looked up with a sneer that somehow made him even more handsome than his usual dumb-looking, charming Peter Pan look.
“Anyway, would you like me to take you home now?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice.
He pulled the ring out of his pocket and looked at it wistfully. “No. I have to fix this somehow. I just have to think.” He hit himself on the side of the head a little too hard.
I winced. Ouch.
More head hitting—this time harder.
“Hey—hey, stop that,” I said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Devlin stopped like a child that had been reprimanded and stared at the ring again in a trance. Rich people problems. Maybe I should take him to his therapist.
“What, exactly, were you trying to get your fiancée to do?” I had to ask. “Because you obviously didn’t want her to be herself.”
Devlin threw his hands up. “She’s beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Balderdash! I thought she was fine being single. Women!”
I looked at him with no sympathy.
He let out a big sigh. “My father’s a traditionalist. I just thought it would be better this way. Make him happy. Win-win.”
I shook my head.
“In what logical world did you think that you were going to bring home an exotic dancer and get her to act like she was a perfect 50’s wife?”
He clenched his hands.
“Right, I was crazy.”
“Well, if you just needed a darn fake date, you would have been better off grabbing somebody off the street than trying to remake Sofia Denario!”
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