Famously Fake: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Roxy Reid

  Unless it was never a business thing. I thought last night was… well, wonderful. Magical. Fun, Sexy, Exciting, Exhausting. And all of it possible because I knew I was absolutely, one hundred percent safe in his arms.

  But maybe it wasn’t the same for him. Maybe he was bored: not deep enough to be meaningful, and not extraordinary enough to be thrilling. Maybe while I was sleeping the heavy sleep of the sexually satisfied, he was lying awake having epiphanies about how Brittney’s the one he’s supposed to be with.

  I’m spiraling. I grab my phone to prove to myself that Joshua wasn’t holding today’s newspaper. It’s an old photo. It has to be. Joshua wouldn’t lie to me.

  I pull up the story, and start frantically scrolling through the photos to get to the newspaper one.

  Oh, hell. It’s today’s newspaper.

  A slump back in my booth and stare at my half eaten breakfast. I feel like crying. Joshua lied to me. Why would he lie?

  My phone rings, and I jump. It’s Joshua. Joshua’s calling.

  I panic, and hit reject. I can’t talk to him right now. His lie hurts too much.

  I pay and leave as quickly as possible. I get in the car, but I don’t drive away. I just sit there, my hands on the steering wheel, trying to get my breath back. Because the grief is turning to sharp, broken anger.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised that he lied. I don’t know why I’m fucking surprised. From the very beginning he’s been lying. He lied about what the launch party was for. He lied to the press about us. Worse, he convinced me to join his lies. To help the great Joshua King fool the world a little better.

  I flash to the image of him on top of me, pinning my hands, telling me to trust him. Promising to give me what I need.

  The fucking asshole.

  I pound the steering wheel, “I hate you, Joshua King! I fucking hate you.”

  My throat is tight with emotion – fury, heartbreak, embarrassment. I’m worried I’m about to start crying, so I jam the key into the ignition and start driving.

  On the passenger seat my phone rings again. Joshua’s lying face fills the screen.

  I don’t answer him.

  If he wasn’t my fucking client, I’d never answer again.

  I remember Carlotta’s threat to fire me if I don’t bring him on-board as a client permanently. God, why did I make that deal. I’m such an idiot.

  My phone starts ringing again.

  It’s still Joshua.

  Beautiful, lying, perfect, horrible Joshua.

  His ring glints on my finger as I drive, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I snatch it off my finger and throw it onto the passenger seat next to my traitorous phone.

  I want to scream. Just scream and scream and scream. But I’m worried if I start I’ll never stop.

  16

  Joshua

  That’s weird. Sienna’s still not answering. I toss my keys in the bowl by the door, toe my shoes off, and flop down on my couch, thoroughly exhausted.

  Maybe Sienna slept in. We did use each other pretty good last night.

  I grin, smug, my mind already going to all the things I’m going to do to Sienna tonight. I hate that I had to run out this morning, but after lots and lots of coffee, and an agreement to tell her the whole truth, Brittney finally put me in touch with Bill Davis.

  Bill Davis, who, thank everything in the universe, is a fan of mine. He put me in touch with Marilyn Cohen, who reluctantly agreed to meet me so I could explain why I’m the right person to make her late husband’s last movie.

  And I did. I stood in her humble, old-fashioned living room, and told her everything. My plans for the cast, the director, what I love about the script, the areas that – no disrespect – were a little less solid writing, and how I would handle them with care to make sure they still shined. I told her about how this movie was everything I loved about movies, and perfectly embodied everything I want my production company to be.

  She listened, noncommittally, while I put my heart and dreams on the line in a room with wall-to-wall beige carpeting.

  There was nothing strategic, or professional about it. I didn’t do any research beforehand. I didn’t decide exactly how much to tell her, and how much to keep a secret. I just opened my heart up and bled.

  At the end I felt like I’d run a marathon. Or been to therapy. One of the two.

  And then she said yes. Marilyn Cohen said yes, I could have her husband’s movie. She even accepted my invitation to attend the launch party.

  First Brittney, now Mrs. Cohen. This unfiltered truth-telling thing is addictive.

  Of course, there’s one more woman I have to tell the truth to.

  I call Sienna again, but she’s still not answering. So I call and make a reservation at the fanciest restaurant in Hollywood. Then I second guess myself and make another one at the most romantic. And then another one at a small, cozy bistro that doesn’t normally take reservations but makes an exception when I explain to the hostess that there’s a woman I’m head over heels for and I think she knows that but I still need to tell her. Also I offer a thousand dollars for them to hold the table for us.

  It’s possible it’s the thousand dollars that does it, but I like to think it’s my heartfelt pleas.

  I try Sienna again, but she’s still not answering.

  I check my watch. It’s 4 p.m. I’m starting to get worried.

  Hey, are you ok? I keep trying to call you but I can’t get through. I press send and pace my living room, waiting.

  Her response is quick, and curt. I’m fine. Busy.

  Hopefully not too busy for me to take you to dinner, I joke.

  She doesn’t answer.

  Ok, maybe I need to do a little groveling. I did run out on her this morning.

  I’m really sorry I had to leave like that this morning, I type. Believe me, it was the last thing I wanted. But everything’s back under control, so I’d like to take you out. And explain why I ran out. And apologize some more. Really, it might take me all night to make it up to you.

  I hit send.

  There’s the little blue dots that show she’s starting to type. Then stopping. Then starting again.

  It’s probably too much to hope she’s sexting, but hey. It could happen. That’s how rosy my world-view is today.

  But when her words appear, they feel like a kick to the gut.

  Stop, Joshua. I know you lied. So just stop.

  What the hell?

  What lie? I ask, but she doesn’t respond. And knowing Sienna, she won’t. She’s done with this conversation.

  I feel a spurt of panic. It’s like when I lost the Ouranos script, but ten times worse.

  Why does this keep happening to me?

  I desperately wrack my mind for things she could be mad about, or think I’m lying about.

  And yeah sure, there are things. I’m not perfect. But nothing that’s changed since last night, when she trusted me implicitly, moaned my name, and fell asleep wrapped around me after telling me it was the best night of her life.

  “Argh!” I buried my hands in my hair. What the hell is wrong with women? What could have–

  Oh shit. The paparazzi this morning.

  I grab my phone.

  A quick search takes me to some shitty gossip site that more than implies I’m cheating on Sienna with Brittney, complete with photos of the two of us getting coffee this morning. I look earnest, vulnerable even, clearly begging her for something.

  Normally I’d be grateful they got it wrong and assumed I was trying to get her back, instead of the truth, that I was trying to get her to give me a lawyer’s phone number.

  But what if Sienna saw this. Normally, Sienna would brush off something like this, but we did just have sex for the first time, and then I left in the middle night for a business meeting...

  I know you lied.

  Shit. Shit, shit shit. I call Sienna, frantic, but she doesn’t answer. Of course.

  The mature thing would be to give Sienna time. Let her calm
down. Talk to her later.

  But I can’t stand the idea of her thinking I’d do that to her. Worse, what if this makes her start examining all the cracks in our relationship?

  Not that there are cracks. There aren’t cracks. We’re solid.

  It’s just that I’m her client. And I ruined her professional reputation. And then convinced her to be in a fake relationship with me for the benefit of the media. And then had sex with her before I ever took her on a real date, even after she said she was a virgin.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit. Fuck.

  I grab my keys and shove on my shoes and race out the door.

  I need to set her straight, now.

  Sienna’s car is parked in front of her apartment when I get there, but when I pound on the door, no one answers. She doesn’t answer my phone calls either. Or the second round of knocks.

  Finally I give up and slump against her door, the idiocy of my plan sinking in. What am I going to do, sleep on her landing until she comes out in the morning to get the paper?

  Sienna doesn’t want to see me. She’s cutting me off, without giving me a chance to explain what happened.

  I’m furious. At myself, at her, at everything. Because there’s nothing I can do if she won’t let me in. I’m on my way to being one of the most powerful people in Hollywood. But right now I feel as helpless as I did when Poppy spiked an unusually high fever as a toddler, and Brittney and I sat in her hospital room praying the tests would come back with something manageable.

  I force my fists to uncoil, and take a deep breath. It might feel like I’m about to lose something precious, but no one’s in the hospital. No one’s dying. If Sienna needs more time, I can wait.

  I can wait. I can wait.

  I repeat it like a mantra as I walk toward my car, past Sienna’s neighbor watering his lawn. He tips his hat and gives me a sympathetic look.

  “In my day, we threw rocks at their window,” he says, and I force a laugh.

  I look back at her apartment one last time.

  And that’s when I see Sienna. One hand pressed against the glass of her bedroom window, watching me. I can’t see her face clearly, but every line of her body looks sad, weary. Alone.

  And that just breaks me. I open my mouth to shout something, anything, but she turns away.

  I look around frantically, and spot a pile of decorative pebbles in the neighbor’s yard. I look at the old man who gestures toward the pebbles.

  “Be my guest,” he says.

  I grab a few, and throw one at her window. It makes a bright, shallow ping. Somehow it sounds more hopeful than an unanswered cell-phone ring. I throw another rock, then another.

  “SIENNA!” I bellow. She doesn’t answer, so I go back to the pebbles. She’s lucky I played a pitcher in a movie once or these rocks would be going all over the place.

  More of Sienna’s neighbors are sticking their heads out to look at the crazy man throwing rocks in the street.

  I should leave. It’s a matter of moments before someone recognizes me. I can see the headlines now. Joshua King has meltdown in front of fiancée’s house. Is he on drugs or just in love?

  I’m running out of pebbles. Ok, new plan. If she won’t invite me in to let me explain, I’ll just explain through the window.

  “I DIDN’T LIE TO YOU. IT REALLY WAS A BUSINESS THING. BRITTANY KNEW SOMEONE WHO COULD HELP,” I throw a few more rocks at her window. At this point they’re just for emphasis. “SIENNA, JUST LET ME EXPLAIN–”

  The door that leads onto Sienna’s balcony slams open, and Sienna storms out, dressed in pajama pants and that giant sweatshirt she loves.

  She’s furious. I’ve never seen her so angry. But something in me eases at the sight of her, because apparently I’m a masochist.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sienna yells at me. “Are you throwing rocks at my window?”

  “Ooops,” the old man says.

  “This isn’t the movies, Joshua! I don’t want a grand gesture. I don’t want to give you a second chance.”

  “But–”

  She grabs her garden hose from it’s spot by the potted plants on her balcony, and sprays me full in the face with a jet of ice water.

  Then she gets the rest of me for good measure. I stand there gasping from the cold.

  Sienna looks up and down the street at the various neighbors watching. She hefts the hose like a gunslinger, “Anyone else?”

  Doors and windows close as people disappear back into their houses.

  Now it’s just Sienna, me, and the old genius who suggested throwing rocks.

  “Please, just let me–” I try, weakly.

  “Joshua, you said I could trust you. Is that still true?”

  “Always,” I say fervently.

  “Then I’m trusting you to leave. You can contact me at work, about work. But I need space, and privacy, and respect. And I’m trusting you to give me that. I’m trusting you to give me what I need.”

  She turns to go, then turns back and sprays me one more time for good measure.

  “What was that for?” I sputter.

  “Because I felt like it,” she says, and disappears inside.

  I’m standing there soaking wet, but it’s not the water that’s sending a chill down my spine. It’s the realization that she’s right. If she can’t trust me to walk away when she asks, she can’t trust me at all, can she?

  “Well, the rocks did get her to come out…” the old man says, nonplussed.

  I sigh, and pull a sodden hundred out of my wallet. I offer it to him. “Here’s to replace your rocks.”

  He looks at the money, then back at me. “Keep it. I think you need it more than me,” he says kindly, and goes back to gardening.

  So I turn and walk away, because that is what men worth trusting do.

  17

  Sienna

  It’s been a week since I told Joshua to leave and he left. I’ll give him this: once Joshua decides to leave, he commits. He hasn’t called, or texted, or emailed. He even left the group chat I had with him and Darian. Now it’s just Darian politely cancelling events Joshua and I were supposed to attend together.

  I’ve tried to work on the launch party plans, but I can’t bring myself to do more than place a few orders, and confirm details with some vendors. Luckily, almost everything else is planned. So I spend a week burying myself in work for my other clients, and avoiding eye-contact with Carlotta, who can tell something’s up.

  But a week is long enough, I tell myself as I ride the elevator up to work. No more moping. Today, I send a professional email updating Joshua on the launch progress. I do anything that needs doing. And then tonight I go out dancing with Jax, who I haven’t seen in forever, and begin the long road of getting over Joshua King.

  I roll back my shoulders and take a deep breath as the elevator approaches my floor. It dings, the doors open, and I stride out of the elevator and into the firm’s office, ready to leave whatever messy feelings I had for Joshua King firmly in the past.

  Joshua’s sitting in my conference room.

  The glass walls mean I see him the instant I come in, and it’s a sucker punch. My pulse picks up, and butterflies fill my stomach. My brain knows he’s nothing but pain, which is why I’m done with him, but my body looks at him and sees the man who spent weeks making me happy.

  Joshua shifts, and catches sight of me. I can tell the instant it happens, because he stands. Like we’re in some repressed BBC costume drama, and he’s the gentleman waiting for the lady to take a seat.

  Slowly, I become aware of all of my coworkers staring at me. Well, not all of them. Some of them are salivating over Joshua.

  Carlotta pops out of her office, “Oh good. You’re here.”

  She crosses to me, keeping her voice low in a pretense at privacy, “He’s been here since eight. He says he’s got some details about the launch that can only be finalized in person. And that he’ll only do it with you.”

  I glance at Joshua, a
nd our eyes meet. He lifts his chin in a subtle challenge, and it’s like I can feel strength returning to my body after a week of fasting. God, I like sparring with him.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I tell Carlotta briskly, and begin to stride past her.

  Carlotta catches my arm. “I’m not running a counseling session,” she hisses. “Get me that account, or else.”

  “Understood,” I mutter, then lift my chin and head into the conference room.

  The door swings closed behind me. The only sound in the room is my high heels as I walk to the side of the conference table opposite Joshua.

  We evaluate each other over the table. He’s dressed neatly but unpretentiously, in dark slacks and a white button up that fits him like a dream. I wonder if his shoes still have grains of sand in them from the beach.

  Mine do.

  Joshua’s the one to break the silence. “I guess I should ask if there are any garden hoses hidden in here,” he says. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I raise an eyebrow, “I guess I should warn you that they will hear everything we say if we speak much louder than this. Although spreading my personal business to people I have to see everyday doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.” I give a subtle nod to cubicles outside the conference.

  Joshua turns and waves sarcastically. Heads duck as everyone suddenly tries to pretend they’re working. Except for Jenny from Finance who waves back with enthusiasm, startling a real smile from Joshua that fades too quickly.

  “Now that we’ve established the rules of civility and avoided apologizing, shall we sit?” I say, briskly. We do.

  “About that…” Joshua leans across the table. “I know you said that you only want to discuss the… professional aspects of our relationship. But going forward, I think our professional relationship will be harmed if I don’t have the opportunity to explain and apologize for my behavior.”

  “Josh…” I say, feeling helpless.