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“You’ve heard about the hit pieces?” He looks at me as he runs his hand through his hair.
The question catches me off guard, and I don’t know if I should lie. Thankfully, he continues speaking before I can decide.
“Some asshole is attacking my reputation. So, I need to improve my image. All I need is for you to be my fiancée until the next January board meeting.”
Me? His fake fiancée? No fucking way.
That means date nights, fake kisses, sleeping on the same bed, and us in constant close proximity. I don’t know if I can resist him.
“There’ll be a contract and a sizeable pay. It will all be above board, and you won’t have to do anything you don’t want.” He opens his hands as he speaks.
The realization that I can’t say no hits me. I could if I was a regular nanny, but I’m not. I can’t risk him firing me, not with Ruby at stake. This offer could be a blessing in disguise. I need to get closer to him, and what better way to do that than to be his fake fiancée?
His eyes stay on me as I weigh my options.
“Not yet,” I poke my finger out at him. “Where’s this contract? I’d like to look it over.”
A smile crosses his face, and he slides a black file toward me. “Yeah, take your time. How about a date tomorrow morning to talk things over?”
Tristan doesn’t realize it, but he’s asking his dead wife’s half-sister to pretend to be engaged to him to get out of a PR disaster. It’s an absurd situation, and he can’t see it.
What the hell am I doing?
Chapter ten
Tristan
This is not a date . I say to myself for the nth time.
I sit in my car outside Layla's apartment, nestled between rows of white bungalows. The scent of fresh grass fills the air under a cloudy sky. With Ruby in school for the next few hours, it's the perfect time for Layla and me to discuss our contract.
Layla steps out, the door swinging shut behind her. She's clad in a green floral gown that dances just above her knees, a black coat casually draped over one arm. Her hair, a mix of black and white, is swept up into a bun, though stray strands artfully cascade around her gently rounded face, touched with a hint of makeup.
The flowing and airy gown subtly accentuates her curves, visible to an observant eye. She carries herself with a tentative grace, like a fledgling model, still adjusting to the camera's flash.
She meets my eyes and looks away immediately.
I step out of the car as she approaches. She looks everywhere but my face. Her expression remains guarded. I open the door for her, and she steps into my vehicle. I return to the driver’s seat with a smile like a schoolboy on his way to prom.
“You found your way.” She turns her brown eyes on me. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
I quickly try to think of something witty but come up blank. Why am I trying to impress her?
“Give me some credit; it’s New Brooks’ version of the suburbs. It wasn’t hard to find.”
Layla’s face flushes as she straightens her gown. My gaze falls on her hair and triggers memories of me gripping her hair in my hand, memories of her face as she started to—
I clear my throat and grip the steering. “Where to?”
“Wait, you want me to pick where we eat?”
“I mean, you’re the native. Impress me.”
“Hmm.” She thinks for a moment, lines appearing on her forehead. “I have a question. What kind of billionaire drives his car?”
“The kind who doesn’t care that he’s a billionaire. I can have a helicopter out here in a few minutes that’d take us to the best restaurant you’ve ever seen, but I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” She asks, her eyes curious.
