Page 52 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Only nice?” Morgan asks, and the waitress sets menus in front of us and fills our water glasses.

“It’s very nice,” I tell him. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“I want to hear the truth,” he tells me, and I swear this man is like a Rubic Cube that I can’t solve. Does he want praise? Does he want me to be real? Nobody knows. “Seriously,” he goes on as his eyes sweep over the menu. “You’re a seasoned traveler. I know you’ve seen it all. Is this restaurant blog worthy?”

Seriously?

It’s 10 out of 5 stars. The seating is both convenient and private. The firepit cooking smells amazing. The cocktails look divine. The seafood is probably second to none. And I am very much a seafood connoisseur. Not to mention the view. We aren’t just dining on the beach. We are practically in the ocean, and yet comfortable. It’s unreal.

“It should provide me with some good content,” I say as I take a sip of my water, suddenly remembering that I can’t order a drink.

I can feel Morgan’s eyes on me, and I turn to look at him. “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says with more softness than I thought he was capable of.

Maybe because we started off on our backs.

“How so?” I ask.

“Travel is stressful,” he answers. “We have been bickering a lot. But we need to be on the same team. I hired you because I knew you’d be the best. And I don’t want you to think that I don’t see that.”

I stare at Morgan through slitted eyes, saying nothing.

“You don’t trust me,” he says.

“Not as far as I can throw you,” I state, and Morgan laughs.

Not a full laugh. Not a true laugh. Honestly, it’s more of a chortle with tipped lips, but for Morgan, that just about constitutes ROTFLMAO.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “What if we don’t talk about work? What if we just enjoy dinner, let the speculators do their thing, and you do yours. As MooreToExplore, I mean.”

“Are we ready to order?” the waitress asks. All the while I am still staring at Morgan suspiciously.

“Yes,” Morgan says before waving for me to go first.

“I’ll take red king crab legs,” I say.

“That sounds good,” Morgan says, handing her his menu. “I’ll do the same. And the crab cakes.”

I hand my menu off as well, but my eyes are locked on the man sitting across from me at the table.

“Who even are you?” I ask, and Morgan’s lips tempt to smile. Then he reaches across the small table and takes my hand in his, causing all kinds of nerves to fire under my skin.

“Your boyfriend,” he says in a low enough tone that I am pretty sure I can feel it in my downstairs.

“Right.” I nod. It’s not that I forgot. It’s just that I didn’t know he could play it off so well. Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, I didn’t know he could act so well. On the other hand, my doubt in his ability to act at all has me wondering just how fake this is.

God knows our bedroom chemistry isn’t fake…

Suddenly, I am aware of the people around us. People watching, whispering, snapping photos. It’s a bit odd to me. Even though I have become somewhat accustomed to people recognizing me on my travels, this kind of attention is different. Maybe because they aren’t just recognizing me, they’re recognizing him. Recognizing us together. And as I slowly let my guard down enough to smile back at him, I’m not entirely sure I recognize myself.

And the night goes on much in the same way. We get our food, which is phenomenal. And before he can dive into the crab legs, I smack his hand away so I can take a photo.

“You really should stop doing that,” he warns me as I snap about six photos of the food, the food with the beach behind it, and of course one with me in the photo as well. One of the pics has him in the background, and I swear to God there is a hint of a smirk there.

“Yeah?” I ask. “Because I think you’re just going to have to get used to it.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, and while I’m looking at the photos I am taking and not his face, I detect a hint of a smile.

“Yep,” I answer.