Bound to her Fake Fiancé Boss: A Fun Sexy Feel Good Billionaire Office Romance

by Hayson Manning

  “Depends on how I’m feeling.”

  At the silence, and his stare that’s boring into my skull like a laser, I explain. “If I’m down, pink lightens my mood. How can you not like pink?” He says nothing, so I continue. “Green if I’m nervous, blue if I’m having a bad day, and turquoise if I want to curl up and watch rom-coms and eat my body weight in cheese puffs and Cinnabons.”

  “Your logic is blurred. Turquoise is a member of the blue family.”

  “Not for me. They’re two different colors. Two different moods.” I sneak a slice of orange from a plate piled with food. I suck on it like it’s a lollipop, a childhood habit, then look up to find Jason’s gaze locked on my mouth. Something I can’t interpret stirs in the stormy depths. My nipples tighten, and I’m flooded with embarrassment.

  Heat burns my cheeks as I down the segment. “Everyone has a favorite color. I’m adding orange since you only ever wear black, which can’t be a favorite color.”

  “Have you ever seen me in orange?” One dark brow arches.

  “Not that I’ve noticed. You only appear to wear black. The color of your eyes.”

  And your soul.

  I sneak another orange segment from the plate a perky crew member placed on the table between us, giving Jason a sunny smile that says there’s a bed in the back. How ’bout it?

  He doesn’t notice, so I give Perky a wry grin.

  I sneak a look to find Jason pounding away at the keyboard.

  “Where did we meet?

  He ignores me, as usual.

  I resist the urge to throw my notebook at him.

  “Right. We met at a park where you were walking your pet ferret. I remember it distinctly. You wore your favorite pink and green polka dot shorts, an acid-washed T-shirt, and…and, and…you were crying. Your favorite bachelor didn’t get a rose.” If he can’t be bothered to be part of the conversation, I’m going for it. “I handed you a tissue. We went for ice-cream, you had tutti frutti, and well, here we are.”

  I smile at him. He scowls back.

  He makes his voice unnaturally low. “We met over a crowded room. I instantly sought you out as you were the most beautiful woman there. Our eyes met, and I knew you were the one for me.”

  I pull in a tender breath. “Wow. That’s romantic and lovely.” I scribble it down. “I’m going with that.”

  He looks up from his computer screen, his brows turned in. “You didn’t go to college?” He must be reading the bio I sent him.

  A sharp stone lodges in my chest. I won a full-ride scholarship to Parsons Fashion Design and was so excited, but my grandmother—in her attempt to control all aspects of my life, when she couldn’t control my sister’s—hid the acceptance letter. When I found the letter the deadline had passed. My one shot gone. I’d contacted them, frantic, but they’d offered my place to someone else.

  “No, I didn’t go to college,” I say, hating my pinched voice and hot eyes.

  I loved my grandmother, but her stranglehold on my life had become worse as I got older. She and Jamaica had a contentious relationship. When Jamaica started going really off the rails at fifteen, my grandmother turned her attention to me, and the screws got tighter. No, I couldn’t date until I was sixteen and only then with her supervision. She all but thrust a forty-page dossier at potential friends.

  I push down the sadness burning my chest that all that’s left of the family is me and Jamaica (after our mother dumped us on our grandmother), but the ability to make my own choices is like breathing for the first time. It also cements the fact I have to find my sister; she’s the only family I have.

  On that note, I tap out an email to her. Her phone has been disconnected, but I keep mine always at the ready in case she reaches out.

  From: AsiaAmazer

  To: Jamiacaislivingthelife

  Hey big sis. I love you and hope you’re doing well. I still have the same number. Please contact me. I miss you so much.

  Love you,

  Asia xxx

  Word on the street is someone saw her six months ago, and she looked a wreck. I’d sent the location to Bag-o-Bones, but she’d already fled. My stomach clenches at the thought of Jamaica living under a bridge stoned out of her mind, cold, with a boyfriend who doesn’t care. I look up from hitting send to find Jason’s eyes on me. As usual, I can read nothing in the inky depths. Oh, right, we were talking about education.

  “I—”

  “I know, I know, MBA from Harvard,” I huff out.

  “I was about to say, I think we’re coming into land.”

  The captain’s voice confirms it’s time to fasten our seatbelts.

  My stomach swoops, and I clutch the cool leather of the seat as we lurch slightly then hit Terra Firma.

  “Game on, Asia. Follow my lead, and we’ll be fine.”

  If I play this his way, we’ll stand around like high school kids on a first date, with braces and acne. No one will believe we’re engaged.

  On that note, I gaze down at the ring. I’m not into flashy, so this emerald-cut diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds embedded in an elegant platinum band is still way too big, but it was the smallest Cartier had on offer.

  “Showtime.”

  My teeth are chattering so hard I’m in danger of dislodging a filling. “I knew Montana would be cold, but not penguin cold. Are there polar bears?” I ask when Jason joins me on the tarmac of Bozeman Yellowstone airport looking like he stepped off ‘Rugged Billionaires in the Outdoors’ magazine. Dark jeans, designer no doubt, a black knitted sweater, boots, and a black leather jacket. An enigma wrapped in black, like a sexy Batman minus the cape and Robin. I, on the other hand, am in the only cold-weather clothes I could find in my wardrobe. It always amazes me that when winter hits, the stores are decked out in swimwear for the next season. Still, I think I look okay. Jeans, flat boots, a pink hoodie, and a cute white quilted jacket from Burlington that was snuggly when I tried it on in California.

  Jason’s leather jacket lands on my shoulders. God, it’s sinfully warm and smells like him when I give it an illegal sniff. I can’t even begin to describe the gorgeous scent. It’s a pheromone kicker that’s for sure, for girls who want to fall into bed and have a three-week thing with Mr. Broody. Not me—I want the whole picket fence and a man who wants to come home to me every night.

  “Thanks.” My heart does a little complicated twist at his act of kindness.

  “It’s what my grandmother would expect,” Mr. Grumpy barks out. “It’s for show, Asia. All this is about putting on an act and convincing my grandmother we’re engaged.”

  A sting to the heart puts me firmly in my place. “And here I am thinking you were doing something kind. Silly old me,” I mumble, slinging the jacket off and trying to hand it back to him as he stalks across the tarmac to an SUV parked by a hanger. He glowers down at me as I trot to keep up.

  I slow my steps to my pace. The man can walk at my speed for once.

  “Hurry up,” he calls over his broad, brawny shoulder.

  “No,” I say through chattering teeth. “I’m not your puppy who will blindly follow you. You can walk with me.”

  He looks exasperated and shoots me a withering stare, but slows his ten-foot stride, and being a team player, I quicken mine a smidge.

  “Put on the jacket. You’ll catch a cold.”

  “Ohhh, worrying about me, that’s sweet. Will you bring me soup and fuss with the blankets?”

  “God, no. I’ll put you in quarantine then send professional help.”

  A weak sun warms the back of my neck as we reach the Range Rover, but the air is arctic cold. Jason throws his one case and my two suitcases (stuffed to the brim) in the back seat. On the list of instructions Jason emailed me was a formal dress for a party. I finished up the emerald green dress this morning at 3:00 a.m. It’s my new favorite, and I’m a teensy bit proud of it. I design fifties-style prom dresses, tight in the waist, then flaring out in a riot of tulle. The pièce de résistance is the wedding dress I f
inished last week. Even Darlene, my next-door neighbor who doesn’t believe in love, had hearts in her eyes when she smoothed her hand down the vintage silk.

  I place the jacket on the backseat of the SUV and arch an eyebrow.

  “Is this the way it’s going to be, you pushing and me pulling? I am in charge, Asia.” He navigates the icy roads with ease.

  “We’re not at work. Well, not technically. I’m supposed to be your fiancée. I’m not going to stare at you doe-eyed and do everything you say.” I huff out a breath. “You can’t order me around like at work.”

  We’ve paused at a traffic light, and he turns his head. “I’m paying you, so technically we are at work. A different environment, that’s all.”

  We’ll debate that point later. Something has been bugging me, but between working, shopping, and finishing the dress, I’ve barely seen my boss in the last two days.

  “What’s with the house?” I stifle a yawn. My jaw nearly cracks with the effort. “Why does it mean so much to you?”

  His knuckles on the steering wheel whiten, and his jaw ticks.

  “It’s complicated. My grandmother will gift it to the city for stray ferrets or ailing butterflies. She’s determined to see me settled down, along with some other ridiculous clauses.”

  “All those poor ferrets and butterflies.” I snuggle into the buttery leather seat and close my eyes for a second. “I don’t think cyborgs can mate, or is there something new in artificial intelligence I don’t know about?”

  “Asia. We’re here.” A warm hand lands on my shoulder. I jerk awake and wipe my hand across my mouth. I have a terrible habit of drooling when I’m exhausted. I massage a kink in my neck. Jason’s black leather jacket falls to the floor from where it had been on my lap.

  The words ‘thank you’ are already formed on my tongue, but I freeze at the stark look of terror, regret, and fear, which twists his handsome features.

  “Are you okay?” I reach out and grip his hand. His fingers tighten around mine for a nanosecond before he pulls away.

  “Yeah,” he says, all gravelly but cut deep with emotion.

  I shiver in the cold air. “How long have we been sitting here?” I pull my hoodie tighter.

  “Half an hour.” His hands are still clenched around the wheel, knuckles white.

  “Your grandmother is probably waiting for us,” I say cautiously, trying to figure out his mood.

  “Just do what I say, and everything will be fine.” He vaults from the car and stares at me.

  Going to be a fun ten days.

  I grab his jacket and shut the door a bit more forcefully than I intended and stand in shock.

  “Holy shit.”

  Chapter Four

  Jason

  There’s something to be said about returning to the scene of the crime, stepping back into a past that haunts your every nightmare. Don’t do it. Run away to Patagonia, strap raw meat to your body and hang out with starving cougars. It’s far safer than the nausea churning my gut, sweat sheening my body, and my heart kicking against my hollow ribcage.

  Jesus.

  I knew it would be bad, but not this bad.

  The agony-filled scream of James as he plunged through the ice screeches in my head, followed by my mother’s as she sprinted onto the ice to save him and instead followed him through to a freezing coffin. The day my father fled.

  I can’t move my feet. Something’s happened to them. They’ve died.

  Just like twenty-three years ago, I stand, unable to move. Frozen in time.

  “Hey,” Asia whispers and grips my hand. Her warm fingers wrap around my frozen digits. “What can I do to help?” Her concerned voice washes over me, and I snap out of the hellish trance, knowing I’ll be back there soon enough.

  “Nothing.” I pull my hand from hers and start toward the door, then look down in surprise when her hand once again slips into mine.

  “Soon-to-be hubs,” she says through a plastic smile.

  I nod. She’s right. I’m about to come face to face with my twenty-three-year-old nightmare and convince my Gran not to give the house away by being a loved-up fiancé, emotionally well, and with no demons haunting my days and nights. It’s no wonder I haven’t been back here in twenty-three years. I mean, who would?

  We stride hand in hand toward the massive oak and stained-glass doors. My blood is icy in my veins, freezing my dead heart.

  “You didn’t tell me you lived in Buckingham Palace.” My tiny, shivering, stubborn assistant looks up at me.

  “It’s a farmhouse,” I say, looking around at the house.

  “Pa Ingalls lived in a farmhouse. Charlotte and her web lived in a farmhouse. Okay, technically a barn.” She throws up the hand not currently anchored to mine. “This isn’t Farmer takes a Wife’s farmhouse.”

  Before she can go on about shit-sounding TV shows, except the book of Charlotte’s Web. Man, that Wilbur….

  The front door opens and there stands my grandmother. I slam to a halt. Although we video chat every couple of weeks, and I met her at LAX when she had a two-hour layover a couple of months ago, I’m surprised at how she’s shrunk a few inches off her tall frame. How’d I miss that?

  “Jason.” She breathes out as if she can’t believe I’m standing here.

  Makes two of us.

  “Cynthia, nice to see you.”

  She insists on me calling her by her name and not Gran; when I hit thirteen, she became Cynthia. In my heart and head, she’ll always be Gran.

  I tug Asia up the stairs, drop her hand, and shake my grandmother’s—her preferred measure of greeting. Hugging is not her thing. I breathe in the scent of Chanel, and the air rushes out of me like I’ve been punched. My mother wore Chanel—like mother and daughter. So many memories are colliding in my head. James, his laughter, always smiling, always so freaking happy. Christ, I miss him. I miss my mom’s soft kisses to my forehead, the scent of cookies and perfume, hugs that went on forever. My father? The less I think about him the better.

  Gran stands back and studies me.

  “You’re broader than when I last saw you. You must work out a lot.”

  So I can kind of catch an hour of sleep. Yeah.

  “This must be your fiancée.” Shrewd brown eyes dart over my shoulder at the shuffling form behind me.

  “Asia.” My assistant sidesteps me and wraps my grandmother in a hug before being gently pushed away. She grips Asia’s hand for a beat.

  Asia’s eyes widen at the slight, and her cheeks pink.

  We follow Gran inside. Yeah, we’re not a family of huggers.

  “Pretty name,” Gran says politely. She’s all about manners is Gran.

  Gran is a product of her family who were bred never to show emotion. Until James came along and smashed that theory.

  Asia fidgets beside me. “Mom had a thing for continents. I’m kind of glad she didn’t name me after Antarctica. I wouldn’t want it to be shortened to either Ant or Arctica.”

  I smile. I didn’t know that about her. Come to think about it, I know three-tenths of fuck all about her, apart from her ridiculously long bio, which I skimmed. All she needs is to follow my lead and we’ll be fine.

  Her hand reaches for mine. I go to pull away, but her fingers tighten. She shoots me a quick look with a slight nod to my grandmother.

  Got it. I pull her into my side, and she snuggles in—her front to my side. I breathe in coconut and vanilla and almost relax.

  Almost.

  “Come, let me show you to your room. Your bags will be brought up shortly,” Gran says, studying Asia. “I must say, you are very different from the women Jason usually cavorts with.” She studies my assistant intensely.

  Asia’s arm wraps around my waist. “My warm, sparkling personality won him over.”

  “She’s different from any other woman I’ve ever met.” I smile down at Asia, who gives me a tiny glare, then turns a sunny smile to Gran.

  “I look forward to getting to know you, my dear, and please
call me Cynthia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cynthia.”

  I follow the stiff back of my grandmother up the winding stairs and into a massive room on the second floor. I’m not familiar with the room. As kids, James and I had the run of the third floor, my parents on this floor, and Gran on the bottom floor.

  Gran opens the door to what can only be described as the bridal suite. An enormous bed with a white quilt. A million pillows are scattered across the top of the bed; some are love hearts, for God’s sake. A fire crackles in the hearth, the scent of pine tickling my senses. A bottle of Krug sits in a cooler along with two crystal flutes. A forest of flowers in vases litters the room. Rose petals are strewn across the bed like drops of blood against the stark white.

  Gran’s cheeks pink slightly. “I may have mentioned you were bringing your fiancée, and, well, some of the staff may have become excited about you finally settling down.”

  She shoots a look that freezes me. “I, on the other hand, am not at all convinced you’ve conveniently become engaged to gain control of this house.” Another pointed stare at me before her icy gaze shifts to Asia, who grips my hand tighter. “I look forward to being proven wrong. Very wrong.” Her eyebrows rise. “If this is a ploy to get the house without actually getting married—having lied about a thriving social life and kicking your commitment phobia—then I will have no qualms gifting the house and the land to the community.” She nods. “Maybe it’s time we let this place go.”

  The tall, formidable woman in the blue pantsuit walks from the room.

  “We’re going to have to be convincing.” Asia rubs a blood-red petal. “Is she always so scary? I mean, in a nice grandmotherly way?”

  “She struggles to show affection.” I shrug. “There was only one person—” I stop myself. James could make a stone laugh. When he entered a room everyone became lighter. Everything about him was sunshine and light. Mom would always give me a hug when I’d be in the corner while James was working a room at the age of five.

  You’re beautiful and perfect just as you are.