Bound to her Fake Fiancé Boss: A Fun Sexy Feel Good Billionaire Office Romance

by Hayson Manning

  I’d burrow in and inhale her Chanel scent.

  I rarely allow myself the luxury of thinking about my mom. It hurts too damn much. If I could stop the nightmares, my life would almost be perfect.

  Asia cocks her head, waiting for me to finish. I sling my bag onto the bed and unpack, not answering the question.

  An aggrieved sigh hangs in the air.

  I pause from stuffing a nearby drawer with clothes.

  “I don’t talk about my family. It’s off-limits.” I can feel her eye roll, then catch her out the corner of my eye wandering around the suite.

  “I can do laps in the tub.” She comes out of the bathroom. “And for the record, Jason, you don’t talk about anything. I thought your birthday was a state secret until I had to renew your driver’s license.” She stops and stares at the bed, her expression pained.

  “It’s part of the contract. No sex.” The image of her and her vibrator morph into my mind, and unfortunately, my pants. I wonder if I can go through her stuff illegally and see if it made the trip, which makes me stalkery and creepy. I have no shame.

  “I didn’t think for one second of us having sex!” She plants her hands on her hips, her expression pinched. “I’m sorted in that department. I’ll hang a sock on the door when I have the urge.”

  My question answered.

  “Good to know,” I murmur, strategically placing a T-shirt over my zipper. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of toys and have a dedicated collection. The image of my feisty assistant moaning and groaning with her hand between her legs shoots straight to my balls. And it shouldn’t.

  She narrows her gaze. “You’ve got your shifty eyes on.”

  I stuff the remaining clothes into a drawer and discreetly rearrange my junk. I swear, the woman can read my mind.

  Case in point. I check my emails and start scrolling.

  Asia looks up from her phone. “There’s nothing urgent in your inbox.” She stuffs her phone into the back of her jeans pocket and grabs my hand. “Come on, I want to explore.”

  I don’t want to explore. I want the next project. The next big thing that fires my blood.

  I reluctantly wrap my hand around hers and grimace.

  Lines crease her forehead. “You’re never going to get this house, and I’m never going to get the money.”

  She’s right. Gran is going to see straight through us.

  “Come on.” I grip her tiny hand and look down. I engulf her hand—it rattles around in mine.

  “I know. We look ridiculous together. You’re seven-foot-eight to my five one and a bit.”

  I glare down at her. “Which is why we have to make this convincing.”

  She pulls her hand from mine. “There’s only one thing for it. We’re going to have to practice.”

  “Practice wh—”

  Lips land on mine. I freeze. Not because I don’t kiss. There have been no complaints I’m aware of. The lips that land on mine are incredibly soft.

  Jesus.

  A small, demanding growl wakens me from the coma. I cup her warm face in my hands, pull back slightly, then mesh her lips against mine. Her hands grasp my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle. Her mouth opens, and my tongue slides in to tangle with hers. I pull her closer, inhaling her vanilla scent, our bodies fused at all the right places. She sighs and melts against me.

  I’m a man lost.

  My hands pull the band from her hair, and my fingers sink into the curly mass. She whimpers.

  I cannot dominate her tongue. She’s giving as much as I am. I tug her bottom lip into mine. She groans into my mouth, which hits me straight between the legs. Her breath is sweet, her lips sunshine after winter snow.

  Just as I’m about to haul her to the bed, she pulls back.

  We stare at each other. Panting. Her hair has a ‘just fucked’ look. Untamed. Much like the woman herself.

  My heart is going crazy. My lungs are the size of peas, and unease is coating my body. Well, I think it’s unease. My scalp is prickling, and all hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention, along with something else, and I’m horrified. This is my assistant. This is not happening.

  “That was terrible.” She pulls her hair into a knot, her cheeks pink, her eyes glassy, and her hands not too steady. “The worst kiss in the history of kisses.”

  I stuff my hands into my pockets. Stunned.

  That was not the worst kiss in history. That was…I don’t even know what it was, but it wasn’t the worst kiss in history. It was the best kiss in the history of kisses.

  “Godawful.” She puffs hair out of her eyes.

  My brain finally has a steady flow of oxygen.

  I stalk to the door.

  “Forgetting something?” A smile in her voice has me turning. I shrug impatiently at her.

  “You forgot me.” Her eyebrows raised. Head tilted to one side.

  I swear she’s fucking with me. But my body is still recovering from the kiss, and my brain… well, that idiot isn’t in the room.

  I growl, tag her hand, then pull her out the door. “There’s only one thing for it. We’re going to have to practice.”

  Chapter Five

  Asia

  “Why don’t you slow down a smidge? You’re dragging me around like chattel,” I say, tugging on Jason’s hand.

  Impatient, broody eyes snag mine. “Can’t you speed up?”

  I pull my hand from his, my body still tingling after the kiss, which was an hour ago. An hour ago that his mouth owned mine. His hands raking through my hair possessively. His touch warm and tender until he growled, and I lost control. If he’d thrown me on the bed I’d have had my clothes off, which brings me to another dilemma. Me and my stupid mouth. Well, brain, really. I had to say it was the worst kiss in the history of kisses when it was anything but. The look on Mr. Broody’s face was priceless. He looked stunned, and a little horrified. Like kissing me was on par with a slug, a skunk, or having one laid on you by your drunk Uncle Lenny.

  I know by the number of times he’s raked his hand through his hair in the last hour (seventeen) that he’s concerned about something, either the kiss or something else is going on. I’m going with something else going on.

  One thing is certain. We will not practice kissing.

  As in ever.

  I come to a halt in front of a billiard room. Wooden cues stacked neatly against the wall in a gleaming mahogany rack. The dark green velvet brushed to an inch of its life.

  “This isn’t Saturday night down at Steve’s,” I murmur.

  “You play?” Surprise washes over his face like the thought of billiards and me don’t belong in the same room.

  “Pool on Saturday night at Shady Steve’s Emporium on occasion.”

  My sister and I used to go there. Well, I’d trail along after Jamaica, who has always been the more outgoing of the both of us. She’d have a string of guys hanging off her within minutes of entering. I’d always been happy to sit back and watch her work her magic.

  A stone of sorrow lodges hard in my throat. I miss my sister. The sister who used to whip me in pool, who used to borrow my mascara, who’d put her head on my shoulder and whisper about the places we’d go and the things we’d see.

  I wriggle closer into my sweatshirt as a cold wind washes through my soul.

  I’ll never stop looking for you, Jamaica, even though I know you don’t want to be found.

  God, are there tears burning my eyes? I jolt out of my pity party for one and find Jason staring at me, a little alarmed. He starts toward me, then backs away, his hands in his pockets.

  “Why don’t you give me a map of the place, including hidden passageways and dungeons, and I’ll give myself a guided tour? If you have audio, I’ll take it.” I wipe my sleeve across my face.

  I look down in shock when his warm hand curls around mine. He gives my hand a squeeze.

  Jason gives me a guided tour. Along with the billiard room, there’s a game room with foosball, pinball, everything ball,
including a hoop. He gets quiet when we enter the room—his shoulders hunch. Before I can fish out a quarter to play pinball, he’s breathing hard.

  I’m about to ask him if he wants to talk about it when I’m pushed against the wall and sinful lips land on mine. My hair-tie lands on the ground. His hands dig through my hair, and I sigh and dig my fingers into his soft, dark strands. He growls as our tongues glide, stab, and twist around each other. His mouth is hungry, and apparently, I’m the feast, and I don’t mind one little bit. Right now, I want to be a Vegas Buffet. His heavenly scent of man, mountains, and outdoor streams kicks straight between my legs to a very, very neglected part of my body that frankly I thought had closed shop. Apparently not, as I’m wet and needy. My nipples are tight on aching breasts. The man doesn’t kiss, he claims.

  He breaks the kiss and stares at me, his eyes stormy, dark, and dangerous.

  It takes everything in me to keep my voice steady.

  “Still not feeling it. Have you been practicing on yourself in the mirror?” I pull my phone from my pocket and hope he doesn’t notice the tremble in my fingers. “Let’s Google to see if there are any books out there with tips.” I tap on the screen. “Look, there’s a book. Kissing Techniques. It comes with a practice doll.” I stare up into still-stormy eyes. “Want me to order it?”

  “I know you feel it,” he growls.

  “Sorry. Nothing but a little bored and concerned you think you can go around and kiss me when you want.”

  One dark brow rises. “Well, since you aren’t feeling it, we have to make it look convincing for my grandmother.”

  I smooth my hands down my jeans. “Well, just give me a warning,” I say, pulling a shaky breath.

  “Not going to happen. We are loved-up fiancés, remember? I’ll kiss you when and where I feel like it, and you can too.” He grabs my hand, and we head down another set of spiral stairs and into a giant room with people in uniforms milling around.

  Before I can reflect on first world problems, my jaw drops open and hangs in the wind.

  “You have a ballroom? An underground ballroom?”

  “My grandmother has a soirée coming up—her words,” he says when I smile. “This will be her last one.” He wipes a hand across his face. “I haven’t been down here before. We were never allowed.” Before I can get to the ‘we’, and why not, I’m hauled from the room, and with another push of a door, we are standing in the day’s fading light. My hand is let go while he turns a circle then stiffens.

  “Fuck,” he says, his voice raw, his eyes pools of agony.

  I can’t see anything that could cause such misery. Trees, a swimming pool with steam coming off it, a massive barbecue area with seating for about four hundred, and what looks to be a pool house, and a frozen lake.

  Freezing air rips through the thin layers of my clothes, and my teeth chatter.

  “Jason…” I start.

  He opens the door and gently pushes me inside.

  “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll leave you to explore on your own. Dinner is at seven. I’ll see you there.”

  And with that, I’m abandoned and left wondering what caused such a reaction, but I’ll never find out because he’ll never talk about it.

  I wander the halls. I should have dropped breadcrumbs to find my way back to whatever wing we’re in. The house is enormous and sad. It has no life in it. I may live in a quaint part of LA, but when I walk into my apartment, I’m home. My stuff doesn’t match, my curtains needed replacing years ago, but they’re cheery. My place makes me smile; this house makes me sad and lonely. And Jason wants it? This enormous house isn’t a home, it’s a tomb.

  I check my phone for the time and make my way upstairs to check emails and change out of Goodwill to Target jeans.

  To say dinner is torturous would be like saying the Giza pyramid is a small sand sculpture made with a bucket and spade.

  To start, we sit at a table which seats twenty. We’re not all huddled cozily at one end. We’re scattered like we’re self-quarantining with ten feet between us, which makes small talk impossible. I try, I really try, but Jason does not pick up on one social cue I make. If I could hurl a fresh roll at him, I would. His face is closed and more scowl lines than I’ve ever seen dig into his forehead. He barely grunts at me, and I think he hissed.

  Having had enough and, defying the seating arrangements, I gather up my immaculate place setting and plop myself down beside him.

  “What is wrong with you?” I whisper and am answered with a glare.

  Cynthia refused to let me help in the kitchen; in fact, she already has help in the kitchen. A lovely Swedish girl, here to learn English, is living in one of the apartments on the estate. Since it’s her first week here, her English is limited. So that leaves Mr. Grumps and me.

  Dinner is silent. I don’t even know what I’m eating. Maybe chicken, maybe a boot. There are roast vegetables from the garden and broccoli. Ugh. My grandmother thought all vegetables should be boiled for a minimum of fifteen minutes. I can’t look at broccoli without seeing a soggy soup with dead florets floating around in it like murder victims.

  I practically stab Jason in the leg with my foot when I ask about the grounds, the gorgeous lake, and the backdrop of manicured hedges and trees. He gives me one sentence answers to everything.

  Cynthia looks between us with more than a bit of curiosity shining in her dark eyes.

  With a headache forming, I beg off and get ready for bed. Face cleaned, teeth brushed, PJ’s on. The cover of the bed has been turned down, a glass of water on the bedside table. There’s a dying fire in the hearth that you could roast livestock in. I know it wouldn’t be Jason worried I’d get dehydrated during the night. My guess is that an army of silent, invisible people run the estate. It’s a little creepy.

  I’m building a wall of pillows on the king-size bed when Jason storms into the room.

  “What are you doing?” He waves his hand at the Great Wall of China I’ve erected. His eyes narrow as he pulls off his sweater. “Nothing’s going to happen between us, Asia. There’s no way I’m going to touch you, for fuck’s sake.”

  Frustrated and pissed, I pick up a pillow and throw it at his head, scoring a direct hit, annoyed there wasn’t a heavy object in it.

  “I would rather sleep with a four-foot man with severe dandruff who eats raw garlic and doesn’t shower than have any part of you touch me.” I huff my hair out of my face. “This place has a million rooms, so can’t you find solace in your own company tonight?” I fold my clothes from today and place them on a nearby chair.

  “I would if I thought I could get away with it. My grandmother has a silent army of staff who would report to her we slept apart.” He drags his hand through his hair as if noticing me for the first time. His gaze starts at my head, journeys down my body, then up again. “What are you wearing?”

  I look down at my draw-string pants with dancing ducks on them. Nothing special there. My white tank with laughing goats also isn’t anything special. Well, apart from it having laughing baby goats, because goats are awesome.

  “These are called pajamas,” I say slowly. “People wear them to bed.”

  “It’s freezing outside.” He stalks to a drawer and throws me one of his long-sleeve T-shirts. “You are wholly unprepared for Montana weather.”

  I throw the T-shirt back. “It’s never cold enough in Los Angeles to wear winter pajamas. I don’t have any fleece.” I stalk to the bed and climb in. The four-thousand thread count sheets are freezing. I fight a shiver and curl into a ball. Jason moves around the room, muttering, which I ignore.

  The little bit of my heart that had sowed happy tulips because, finally, I was going to help Jamaica and set up a boutique to sell my dresses, is withering every second. My heart does a squeezy thing, and I resist the urge to sniff. There’s no way we can stay holed up for ten days pretending to love each other when we don’t even like each other. I’m going to lose two things that mean the world to me after losing my gra
ndmother six months ago. The need to find Jamaica and forge a connection to the only family I have keeps me from walking away from this ridiculous deal.

  The bed dips with his weight. The light of the dying fire casts shadows around the room. I’m glad it isn’t completely dark, because, fun fact, I’m a little bit scared of the dark, especially in places I don’t know and in thunderstorms. Being left alone in an apartment when you’re two will do that to you. I scoot over to the very edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be such an ass. It’s just this place.” Air leaves him in a gush.

  I turn and scan his profile and pull away a pillow to see him better. Weak embers from the fire illuminate his face. He drags his hand across his forehead. I glimpse agony in his eyes when he turns his head and looks at me.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you so much?”

  “It’s being back here, that’s all.”

  Puzzled, I ask. “Then why do you want the house? Maybe the ferrets and butterflies would like it more.”

  “I have to have the house. Part of me wants it, part of me wants to burn it to the ground, but part of me has to keep it.” He whooshes out a breath. “It’s complicated.”

  More complicated than working out string theory, I’m guessing.

  “It feels a bit like a tomb. It’s big and empty.”

  “It is a tomb, and for that reason alone,” he says cryptically, then presents me with his muscled back. “Good night, Asia. Day one was not an auspicious start. We will have to be way more convincing tomorrow.”

  “Auspicious start. You and your fancy boarding school talk.” I curl up into a ball, my teeth chattering slightly. I bite down hard. Damned if he is going to hear me. “I suppose you blame me for our inauspicious start.” I curl harder.

  “Not at all, we’re equally at fault.” He sighs.

  “You call your grandmother, Cynthia?” I ask. “My grandmother would have skinned me had I called her Alice.” I picture her determined but kind face and smile, which would have slid into the gutter had I ever called her Alice.