Page 5 of Fake it for Keeps

“I’m thrilled.”

“You should be.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the column. “Do you have any idea how many women would kill to be in your position right now?”

“No, but I know one women who would kill to get out of this position right now.”

“All of them,” he said simply. “I’m Colt Jesson. Owner of Valenteen, the most prestigious jewelry company in the world. Women throw themselves at me. And I give them what they want every damn time.”

“How exhausting for you.”

“It can be,” he agreed, ignoring my sarcasm entirely. “But you’re different. You’re not falling at my feet, and I have to say, it’s refreshing.”

I wanted to tell him that I had fallen at his feet once.

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I kept my voice cool and detached. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Jesson. Thank you for the dance.”

“Colt,” he corrected, his hand catching my wrist before I could walk away. “Call me Colt.”

“I’d rather not call you anything at all.”

He laughed again, and damn it, why did he have to be so handsome when he laughed? His whole face lit up, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and for just a moment, I saw the boy I’d fallen for all those years ago.

Then reality crashed back in. This wasn’t high school. This was Colt Jesson, notorious playboy and heartbreaker, who’d built his reputation on one-night stands and meaningless flings. His family’s jewelry empire was supposed to represent eternal love, but the world only saw him as a man who couldn’t commit past breakfast.

And he still didn’t recognize me.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something, probably something filthy, judging by the heat in his eyes, a throat cleared behind him.

“Excuse me.”

I peered over Colt’s very broad shoulders to find John standing there, his expression tight and irritated.

He was shorter than Colt, with thinning hair and a pinched face that made him look perpetually constipated. He wore an expensive suit, but it didn’t quite fit right around his shoulders, like he’d bought it off the rack and hadn’t bothered with alterations.

“I believe you have my date,” John said stiffly.

Colt’s grip on my wrist tightened fractionally before he released me. I watched his expression shift. Surprise flickered across his features before he schooled them back into cool indifference. Colt Jesson wasn’t used to being interrupted.

Colt’s gaze slid to me, one eyebrow raised. “Your date? Aren’t you popular?”

“Yes, my date.” John stepped forward, his hand landing on my elbow in a grip that was just a bit too tight. “Come along, Hallie. We have a table waiting.”

I recognized him from the picture that had been provided. It wasn’t like I got to pick my dates based on their looks. I went where Della had told me to go, just like all the women who were lucky enough to clear the Faux agency’s extensive background and compatibility checks.

I glanced back at Colt as John pulled me away. His hazel eyes were locked on mine, intense and unreadable, even as his sister, Frankie, appeared at his side. I recognized her from photos. She grabbed his arm and hissed something in his ear, her expression urgent.

But Colt never looked away from me. He slid his hands in his pockets and his jaw muscles fluttered with tension.

The moment we sat down, John rounded on me.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes. I didn’t pay Faux the kind of cash I did for a flaky fake date.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my tone pleasant even as my stomach sank. “I tripped on my dress coming in, and⁠—”

“And you decided to dance with Colt Jesson?” John’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how that looked? I hire you to be my date, and you’re off cozying up to a billionaire?”

“He caught me when I fell,” I explained, my patience already wearing thin. “The cameras were there. It would’ve looked worse if I’d just walked away.”

“Right.” John’s gaze raked over me, cold and assessing. “Well, for future reference, I expected a certain caliber of date when I hired you.”