Faking Love

CHAPTER 7: After Hours

The office is finally quiet.

I've been Dante Castillo's personal assistant for three weeks now, and I've learned several critical things:

One: The man runs on coffee and sugar. Two: He remembers everything, which makes lying to him a high-risk mission. Three: He's nothing like the billionaires in the books I'm supposed to be writing.

Those billionaires are all passion and mysterious broodiness. Dante is complicated. He's demanding but fair, sharp-tongued but never cruel. He remembers the names of the janitorial staff and tips the coffee delivery guy like he's trying to single-handedly fix income inequality.

It's annoying, honestly. He was supposed to be a specimen, not a person.

I'm finishing up an email when his office door opens. I glance at the clock, 9:47 PM. Everyone else left hours ago.

"You're still here," he says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite identify. Surprise, maybe.

"Last-minute edits to the Anderson proposal. I wanted to make sure it was perfect before tomorrow's meeting." I hit send and close my laptop. "All done now."

He leans against the doorframe, and I try not to notice how he's loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves. There should be a law against forearms like that. For research purposes, obviously.

"You don't have to impress me," he says. "I already hired you."

"Who says I'm trying to impress you?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Everyone tries to impress me. It's exhausting."

"Poor billionaire, so burdened by admiration."

Now he does smile, and it transforms his face from handsome to unfairly attractive. Damn it.

"You're different from my other assistants," he observes, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward my desk.

"Better or worse?"

"I haven't decided yet."

I should leave. It's late, I'm alone in an office with my research subject, and the fluorescent lights are doing weird things to my perception of appropriate boundaries. But I'm also curious, and curiosity is a writer's occupational hazard.

"Why are you really still here?" he asks, stopping at the edge of my desk.

"I told you…"

"The proposal was fine three hours ago. I saw it. So why are you really still here?"

Busted. I consider my options and settle on a version of the truth. "I'm trying to figure you out."

His eyebrow arches. "Figure me out?"

"You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

A cartoon. A cliché. An easy target for observation. "I don't know. Someone more... billionaire-ish."

"Billionaire-ish," he repeats, and there's amusement in his voice now. "That's not a word."

"It is now. I'm a writer, I make up words."

The amusement fades to interest. "You're a writer?"

Shit. "Aspiring," I lie quickly. "Nothing published. Just... journals, thoughts, that kind of thing."

He studies me like he's trying to read a contract written in tiny print. I fight the urge to squirm.

"What do you write about?"

"People. Relationships. The space between what we say and what we really mean."

It's true enough. Just not the whole truth.

"Sounds melancholy."

"Sounds like you've been reading my journal."

"Have you been reading mine?"

"Do you have one?"

"No. I don't have time for introspection. Too busy being billionaire-ish."

I laugh before I can stop myself, and his expression softens in a way that makes my stomach do something very inconvenient.

"You should go home," he says, but he doesn't move.

"So should you."

"I live ten minutes away."

"I live thirty. You're wasting more of my time by keeping me here talking."

"Then stop talking and leave."

"You're blocking my exit."

"Am I?"

He is, technically. Not aggressively, but enough that I'd have to move around him to get to the elevator. It's a power play, subtle but there.

Two can play that game.

I stand, gathering my bag and jacket, then walk directly toward him. He doesn't move. I stop when we're close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine.

"Excuse me," I say sweetly.

"You could go around."

"I could. But I'm direct. It's faster."

"Direct," he murmurs. "I'm learning all sorts of things about you, Raven."

The way he says my name makes it sound like a secret. I should move. I should absolutely move.

Instead, I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "What else are you learning?"

"That you're curious. Stubborn. Smart enough to be dangerous."

"Dangerous to whom?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

We're standing too close. This is too close. I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. If I leaned forward just six inches…

My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering whatever spell we're under. I step back, fumbling for it.

Text from Maya: How's the research going? Found any good material yet? ;)

If only she knew.

I look up to find Dante watching me with an expression I can't read.

"Boyfriend?" he asks, and there's curiosity in his voice.

"Best friend. Checking that I'm not working too late."

"Are you? Working too late?"

"That depends on whether my boss lets me leave."

He steps aside, clearing my path. "Go home, Raven. Tomorrow starts early."

"It always does with you."

I walk past him toward the elevator, hyperaware of the space between us, the subtle tension. When I reach the elevator and turn back, he's still watching me.

"Raven?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth..." He pauses, and something vulnerable flickers across his face before the mask slides back into place. "You're not what I expected either."

The elevator doors close before I can respond.

In the lobby, I lean against the wall and try to catch my breath. My hands are shaking slightly as I pull out my phone and open my notes app.

Chapter notes: Target subject showing unexpected depth. Displays humor, self-awareness. Makes eye contact that feels like a challenge and an invitation simultaneously. I absolutely cannot develop feelings for research subject. This is research, nothing more.

Finally, I close the app and head for my car.

This is fine. I'm fine. It's just research.

I'm an excellent liar, to everyone, including myself.