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

by Hayson Manning

  “She insisted. Said I wasn’t a child when I turned thirteen. Said it would be easier going forward.”

  I don’t even know what to do with that, but my heart bleeds for the lost teen calling his grandmother Cynthia.

  “Tomorrow, we’re going shopping for proper clothes.”

  Wait. No.

  I can’t afford proper clothes. All my money goes to help find my sister, foster abandoned cats, buy bolts of fabric, and sewing supplies. If there’s a Goodwill or a thrift shop, then maybe I’ll find some flannel.

  “The spending spree is on me. If you didn’t leave California, you wouldn’t need extra clothes.”

  I swear the man can read my mind. It’s scary.

  My boss is not buying me clothes, and if he does, I’ll pay him back every single cent.

  Sometime during the night, I wake to a thrashing mass on the other side of the bed. A guttural moan, so low and rough it must hurt his throat, drags me fully awake, and I sit up, my heart thumping. The light from the fire throws shadows across the room.

  “Don’t,” he grinds out. “Come back. Come back now!” he all but screams.

  I make my way through the pillow wall to Jason. His face is screwed up, his forehead sweaty, and he’s breathing like the devil himself is chasing him.

  “It’s okay,” I soothe, running my hand down his arm. “It’s going to be okay.” I pitch my voice low like I do with a frightened cat. I stroke my hand down his arm, noting the tight muscles.

  His eyes open and latch onto mine. The raw emotion swamps me. I stop stroking his arm.

  “Don’t stop,” he says, wiping his hand across his face. “Fuck, that was bad.”

  I continue soothing. The muscles under my hand loosen. “Want to talk about it?” I run my hand down to the edge of his fingers and back up to his elbow. When I do this again, his fingers clamp around mine.

  “Talk to me, Asia.” His voice is brittle. “About anything. Make shit up.”

  His body is a furnace of heat. Hell, the man could heat lower Manhattan. I snuggle closer, the sheet drops away, and my mouth dries at the sight of tight boxer briefs. Can I inch the sheet lower and check him out? I shudder. I’m now freaking myself out. The man next to me just had the mother of all nightmares, and I want to check out his underwear and what lies beneath. Creeper much?

  I take a breath as a story forms in my head.

  “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved listening to the places her sister was going to conquer. Milan would be first up, London, Fiji. The other sister didn’t have the wanderlust. She wanted a simple life. College, degree, start up her own company. Meet the guy, have the kids.”

  “Sounds appalling, but not the travel bit.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t see a people-mover in your future, crammed full of car seats and a shaggy dog possibly drooling and shedding.”

  He wipes his hand across his face. “Jesus. No.”

  He’s starting to relax; the tiny bunches of muscles are smoothing out. God, his skin is soft around the callouses. I wonder how he got them. I run my fingers over his knuckles, then trace the veins in his hand. You can tell a lot about someone by their hands, and these hands are calloused and smooth. A couple of little scars. Hands that work out, maybe carve things. I smile in the darkness; I cannot picture Jason whittling in a chair, wearing flannel whilst listening to Country FM.

  I go to pull my hand away, but his fingers tighten around mine.

  “Tell me more about the sisters.”

  I continue to stroke his hand.

  “The older sister had a wild streak from the day she was born, according to her grandmother. Nothing was going to get in her way. Her younger sister arrived on the scene two years later. Their mother deserted them when the little sister turned three—on her birthday—but their grandmother stepped up and took the little girls in. The willful child, let’s call her Antsy, owing to her grandmother saying she always had ants in her pants and couldn’t stay still for a second, fought with her grandmother. Climbing out the window at night to meet boys. Thinking tequila shots at twelve was a good thing. Time after time, she was dragged back to the apartment only to escape. Now, the grandma knew she’d let her own daughter get away with too much, and it would be a chilly day in hell before it happened to her grandbabies. The other daughter, let’s call her Dressy, made clothes out of paper, sticks, anything she could get her hands on. She’d dress her doll, Flamingo, changing outfits and shoes, and was quieter than Antsy, but wasn’t a pushover. She dreamed of designing her own dresses one day, maybe even owning a little boutique where she’d sell her one-off fifties-style evening dresses.”

  “I like Antsy better. Tequila shots at twelve? She’s my kind of girl. The other one sounds boring. Probably wears boring dresses,” he says in a sleepy voice.

  I do wear boring dresses. I had way too much attention directed at me at the age of eleven. Having a full bust and hips gets you noticed. Boys got handsy at school. Men would drop comments about me sitting on their laps for a ride. I’d learned to hide my body in dresses until it became a habit.

  His hand falls from mine, his deep breathing telling me he’s asleep. I smooth the sheet over him and fluff the quilt so he won’t get cold during the night. I start to journey over to my side of the bed and freeze when two arms drag me into his chest. I stiffen for a second, wondering what to make of being snuggled by my boss. He inhales my hair, and his breathing deepens.

  My side of the bed is freezing. My boss is a boiler, so I do the only thing I can do and snuggle in.

  What feels like only a moment later, a hand is shaking my shoulder. I stare into dark stormy eyes, which should have pirates sailing in them.

  “We’ve got to go.”

  Chapter Six

  Jason

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t wait an hour,” my grumpy assistant tells me through chattering teeth in the passenger seat. “It was warm and snuggly in bed.”

  Exactly the reason I needed to get the fuck out of bed at 5:00 a.m. I woke with my head buried in Asia’s hair, morning wood that could fell a forest. And I slept like a baby after the same nightmare that haunts me, and it scared the crap out of me. I rarely do sleepovers with women for this reason. I freak out and worry I’ll hurt them.

  “I’ve been up since five and have run ten miles and done fifty laps of the pool.” I swing into an empty car space and gaze at the row of shops. Anywhere but the pair of kissable lips on my assistant. I’m not even going near our explosive kisses where she claims to feel nothing. More on that later. She wants kids, dogs, and a people mover. My morning coffee roils in my stomach.

  She scans me. “I thought after last night…” Her voice trails off.

  “Momentary lapse on my part. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

  The softness in her eyes dies a swift death. I’m not sure if that pleases me or pisses me off.

  “Come on, let’s get you clothes. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “You don’t have shit to do.” She looks up from her phone. “I answered your emails while you were making yourself a coffee.” She jumps from the SUV. “Which is where I’m heading now. Thanks for the offer.”

  Shit. I didn’t think about asking her if she wanted a coffee. I make a cappuccino occasionally, but espresso is more my scene, neither of which she drinks. She steps into a coffee shop, and I follow.

  “She’ll have a caramel latte with extra cream and sprinkles,” I say before Asia can open her mouth. Surprise is written all over her face. “I’m not tainting the coffee machine with your caramel shit, and I don’t have cream, and I’ll never have sprinkles, but I should have asked if you wanted a coffee.”

  She studies the brunch menu. “I’ll have a smoked chicken, tomato, lettuce with capers sandwich, please.” She goes to hand over her card. I hand my black AMEX to the attendant. His eyes widen, and he takes the card.

  “We’ll take it to go,” I say.

  Asia frowns at me. “I’ll have it here, pleas
e. I’m not doing brunch on the go.” She heads to a booth that looks out on the street, and I follow her instead of making a scene. I’m a bit of a shit for not making her a coffee.

  “Want to talk about last night?” She moans into her sandwich. “This is now officially my favorite sandwich in the world.”

  I’m drawn to her white teeth and the nibbling motion of her lips. It’s distracting.

  “I don’t,” I grit out.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  My grandmother pushed for counseling at Stamford Brook school for boys, but the last thing I needed was to be the new boy who needed to see a shrink. That would have me sitting in my locker covered in used toilet paper. Nope, I learned young to keep shit to myself, and never discuss what happened to my twin brother and my mom.

  I need to be out doing physical stuff. My brain is fizzing, my body twitchy like I’m full of adrenaline, and I hate it. There’s all sorts of shit going on in my head. Being back here, the nightmares, waking to find Asia in my arms. No fucking clue how that happened. I’ll talk to her about it later. Her coffee arrives, and she moans again, deep and throaty when she takes a sip.

  Jesus.

  That moan lands straight in my jeans. I discreetly adjust myself. Yeah, it has been months since I’ve been on a date, but surely one moan, her moan, shouldn’t have such an effect.

  She peers at me over the cup. “Your horoscope today. You can deny you need people, friends in your life. When you’re old, bitter, and your only friends are your bank account and filing cabinets, don’t look back and wonder ‘what if?’ Song of the day is an oldie but a goodie. ‘Tired of Being Alone’ by the always fabulous Mr. Al Green.”

  “For the four hundredth time, I’m not lonely. I don’t get why you think I am. I have friends. We shoot hoops when we’re all in town.”

  My boarding school buddies will drop whatever is happening in their lives to be there for each other. The boarding school bond will never be broken. There’s me and Gabriel in Los Angeles. Zan and his brothers, Tristan and Brayden Gillard, forever traveling for their hotel chain. Harlan Franco, Zeb Carmichael and Holden Kelly now in Colorado. A broken band of brothers who stitched themselves together at an early age. Harlan and Gabriel were on full academic scholarship.

  “I mean friends where you hang out in a bar. Someone calls, and you catch a movie. My apartment block has a group movie night. That kind of thing.” She looks at me sideways. “Do you even know your neighbors?”

  “I do.”

  Mr. I Don’t Care, and Mrs. Who Gives a Shit.

  We’re on fabulous terms.

  Asia blows out a breath then peers through the window at the line of shops, her forehead crinkled.

  “I imagine it’s quite expensive shopping here with all these cute shops. Do you think there’s a Goodwill or a thrift store?” Staring out the window, she worries her bottom lip.

  “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take care of it.” She’s got cream on her top lip, and I itch to wipe it or kiss it off. Now there’s an idea.

  I stand, lean over the table, and brush my lips against hers while cupping her face. She gasps, and my tongue slides in. She tastes of caramel and coffee—my two new favorite things in the world as of right now. Our tongues wind around each other. I nip her bottom lip, and she moans. I break the kiss when someone yells.

  “Get a room!”

  It’s followed by, “Stop it, Tom, that’s true love right there.”

  That throws icy water over my soul. I sit back down and wipe my hand across my mouth. Asia’s eyes are hazy. More green than gold today.

  She takes a bite of her sandwich.

  “Still nothing,” she says on a sigh. “Sorry.”

  “Why is your hand shaking?”

  She puts down the sandwich, then smooths her napkin.

  “Caffeine withdrawal. I usually have a coffee first thing in the morning.” She glances at her phone on the table. “It’s now ten o’clock. Four hours overdue. My body’s in survival mode.”

  She finishes the coffee in a gulp and scarfs down the sandwich in record-breaking time. At the look on my face, she reddens.

  “Me and carbs are besties.”

  “Take your time.”

  Her mouth is full and bulging and just looking at it is playing havoc on my cock. I am overdue for a long shower when we get back.

  “Let’s go.” She grabs her backpack, smooths her hands down worn jeans, and pulls on a puffer coat which wouldn’t keep her warm in Tahiti. I shrug out of my jacket and put it on her shoulders.

  We’re outside on the pavement.

  “Stop trying to dress me in your clothes.” She hands the jacket back with chattering teeth. The woman is infuriating.

  “Oh, look, there’s a shop that sells yarn and buttons.” Before I can protest, a bell tinkles, and Asia is inside.

  “You don’t need buttons; you need a proper coat.” I stand inside the shop with my hands in my pockets, so out of place it’s almost comical.

  “Everyone needs buttons,” she says, taking for-fucking-ever. She piles glass tubes of all different buttons onto the counter followed by masses of cloth. My phone buzzes with an incoming text.

  GABRIEL PEDERSON: Have you cracked Asia yet?

  ME: Nothing to crack. Family obligation. Nothing more.

  Little bubbles appear.

  GABRIEL PEDERSON: Good. I’m asking her out when she gets back.

  My heart races, which does nothing for my mood. He could ask her out. It doesn’t bother me. My molars fuse.

  “Come on, Sunshine.” She smiles at me, and her entire body does a shimmy. She waves to the now-beaming woman behind the counter. I take her bags of purchases. “Do you need feeding? Is your blood sugar low?” She places a hand on my forehead. “More scowls than I know what to do with.”

  I step back from the warm, smooth hand. “I’m concerned you’re going to get pneumonia, and I’ll have to go through the hassle of training someone new.”

  “I can see how that would be difficult with your winning personality and warm smile.” She shakes her head and carries on, her sneakers slapping the concrete. Her feet must be freezing in lace-less sneakers. Another thing to add to the list. Boots.

  “Why are you always so happy?” I mutter.

  She stares at me for a beat, her eyes dim. “Life can be tough—really tough. I try to see the sunshine instead of hanging out in a storm.”

  Thoughts to mull over.

  We’re now in a department store. Asia is getting paler and paler as she pulls out coat after coat, checks the price, then shoves it back onto the rack. A shop assistant hovers. I sigh, march to the rack, and pull out a dark green woolen coat she’d dismissed earlier and hand it to the shop assistant. It matches the green of her hazel eyes.

  “Jason, it’s too much money.” Asia clutches my arm. “I can’t afford it.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “It’s a coat, Asia, not a suit of priceless armor or the crown jewels.” She looked adorable this morning trying on one of my Gran’s jackets. Two things that Johnson’s have are height and money. Gran’s coat landed past her knees.

  Her little hand grips my arm harder. “It will take me ages to pay you back,” she hisses.

  I shrug her off. “Grab some sweaters, whatever else you need.”

  She glares at me. “I don’t like people controlling me or telling me what to do.” She all but snorts.

  I smile at her words. The woman has a complete mind of her own. I doubt anyone could control Asia Brown.

  She does a double-take. “Damn, I wish I had my phone out and snapped a shot. I’ve never seen you smile before. That’s something to see.” Her hand goes to her heart. She looks a little wobbly.

  I smirk. I do smile. Sometimes. Occasionally. Okay, hardly ever. When I’m doing hoops, I smile. I think.

  I look around and spy a rack of designer dresses. “You need a dress for the soirée and shoes.”

  She pales and looks at me while I look her up
and down. “I have a dress.”

  How do I ask this without coming across as an ass or insulting her?

  “Is it from a thrift store?” I ask quietly.

  She reddens, opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, I explain.

  “The only reason I ask is that there will be a lot of high-end fashion there, and…” I trail off like an idiot before I dig my hand through my hair and mentally start digging my grave.

  “I’ve got a dress,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Are you worried I’ll embarrass you?” Her hands are on her hips, and fire shoots from her eyes.

  The woman could turn up in a garbage bag and flip flops, and she’d steal the room.

  “No, Asia. I’m worried you’ll feel uncomfortable. Senators, presidents, and royalty have turned up in the past. We’ll be under the microscope and scrutinized.” I swish my hand in the air. “Prodigal grandson turning up with a fiancée. We’ll be watched every second and be on display, and I want you to feel comfortable in your clothing choices, at least.”

  “On display?” Her lovely face is ghost-white. “I hadn’t thought this part of our ruse through.”

  “We have to start thinking about it because we’ve got to think of our end games. Me and the house, and you and the money.”

  “Right. You’re right.” She’s bothering with the hem of her sweatshirt.

  I tilt her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. “Do you need a dress?”

  “No,” she whispers.

  “Could you please browse and get what you need. I’m going to have a look around.”

  It’s a decent-sized shop selling high-end clothing. I find a couple of sweaters I like. A scarf for myself and scarves for Asia. Mine black. I add green, blue, turquoise, and a pink scarf for all her moods.

  I add them to the growing pile on the counter and go in search of my assistant only to find her in the lingerie department, holding up a dusky pink bra and a matching scrap of material.

  Fuck me.

  If I could, I would. It would put me out of this misery.

  In my (sick) head, I can see her pulling the material over her hips, down her smooth legs where it rests enticingly on her big toe before she flicks the lace off.