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

by Hayson Manning

  “Apparently, my grandmother thought an intimate meal for two is required.”

  It isn’t. After wanting to devour Asia, I need to hang out with snow flurries, naked, in the Arctic Circle for about a month for my blood to cool.

  This is not how I imagined spending ten days with my personal assistant. We’re only two days in, and I want to consume her, physically, and mentally she fires me like no woman has. I don’t want to admit this, but I’m in a little bit of lust with Asia Brown.

  Asia approaches the table like a member of a bomb squad. “Why would your grandmother think we need an intimate meal for two?”

  “We don’t appear to spend much time together.” I shrug. “She thought we might be going through a rough patch.” I sweep my hand across the table. “And thought we needed a date night in.”

  Gran must have Googled ‘Romantic Dates’ or some such shit.

  A fire is glowing and crackling in the hearth. We are strictly an air-conditioning family, at least down here. The room has all the curtains closed. Candles flicker throughout the room with a cluster on the table. Krug is chilling. The white tablecloth is scattered with petals. Soft classical music is playing in the background from hidden speakers.

  “Someone got creative.” Asia sits across from me and our knees bump. “This is far fancier than Kevin Colty’s picnic at Griffith Park, and that was a fancy date. Big meaty sandwiches he’d made himself, icy cold beer, and plastic, not paper, plates. As I said, fancy.”

  I smirk. Even dressed in sweats, she looks like heaven with her hair up in a ponytail. Her eyes are more gold than green today. God, her eyes. I could dive in there and get lost. If she looks at me like she did upstairs earlier, like she wanted to climb me, I will lose my mind.

  Silence, and not the comfortable sort, presses against us.

  “So, where did you grow up?” I ask, not knowing much about her and strangely wanting to. Must be all the fresh country air.

  “You’ve been to my apartment. That’s where I grew up, and I can’t leave.”

  I pass her a flute of champagne, which she sips. Her eyes light up. “Oh, champagne. Beats Coors Light any day.”

  “Why can’t you leave?” Her statement surprises me. So, she doesn’t want the one hundred thousand to leave the area.

  Her bright eyes regard me.

  “How about this? You ask something about me, and I share something with you, and I get to go first after you were an ass this morning.”

  I swallow and shift uncomfortably. There is one thing I don’t do, and it is talk about me. The only people who know me are my boarding school buds, and Angus, the family mechanic until I was seven. My grandmother and I circle each other via email and weekly phone calls. It’s a circle I intend to keep small, although I’m fairly certain I can deflect anything one Asia Brown throws at me.

  “Why did you throw out the birthday cake I made you?”

  A punch lands straight to my chest, and I suck back air.

  “It brought back a painful memory I hadn’t thought about in a long time.” I raise the flute and gulp a mouthful.

  The last birthday James and I shared a cake, six candles, our names written by mom in wobbly frosting; it was so like the cake Asia had made me, which turned out to be the last day I celebrated a birthday. I’d shoved it in the trash, then stormed out of the office and hit the gym for a marathon cardio session, returning hours later to find the cake gone and hurt in my assistant’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry for throwing away your cake.”

  “It was an awesome cake,” she murmurs.

  “I’m sure.” Now all I want is cake—her cake.

  Annika arrives, smiling at both of us, deposits a platter of oysters, scallops wrapped in bacon, coconut shrimp, and two bowls of clam chowder, along with tiny bowls of caviar—Beluga no less. My mouth waters as I heap my plate full of food. After fixing the mowers with Angus earlier, my stomach howls at the scents wafting in the air.

  “All the aphrodisiacs.” Asia is spooning clam chowder into her mouth. I swear she says, “exactly what we don’t need.” She sucks the spoon after every mouthful, and I can’t help but stare. I know exactly what I want her sucking. Her cheeks are pink, and she puts down the spoon.

  “Why can’t you leave your apartment?” I’ve got to get this on course and away from wanting to bang my assistant, and I want to get to the bottom of the missing sister she mentioned. If I can save her the heartache of losing a sibling, I will.

  She’s piling her plate with everything but the caviar.

  “Won’t. I won’t leave the apartment.” She looks at me with such sadness, something in my chest lurches. It can’t be my heart. That bastard died years ago. If, in fact, I ever had one—the jury’s still out. I reach out and play with the ring on her finger. Prickles of awareness travel up my arm, across my chest, and circle my heart.

  “Why?” I ask softly.

  She looks into the fire for a beat, then back at me. Her eyes mist, her shoulders slump, and I know in that instant I will do anything to keep the look of sadness off her face.

  “It’s the only place, Jamaica, my sister, will know to find me.”

  I’m holding her hand now. Entwining my fingers with hers.

  “How is she lost?” I prod gently.

  She lets out a big, painful-sounding breath. “Opioids. She’s been on the street for a while with her boyfriend.” Her hand tightens around mine, her eyes narrowing when she says boyfriend.

  I’m guessing there’s no love lost there.

  “I promised my grandmother before she died that I’d get her into rehab and get her clean.”

  She takes a sip of champagne, her hand shaking.

  “I’ve hired a private detective who has an out-of-state lead, which is one of the reasons I’m doing this.” She nibbles on a shrimp. “Private detectives do not come cheap.” More nibbles. “So, when she comes back, I’ll have the money to help her. A promise fulfilled to my grandmother.” She sips champagne. “Why don’t you talk about your family? You have a photo of yourself when you were a little boy on your desk, which proves you have parents. Siblings? Cousins?”

  That isn’t a gut punch to the chest. That is a grenade going off in the empty cavity. I wrench my hand from hers and pace the room.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I dig my hand through my hair, hating my racing heart and the icy cold flooding my bones.

  It isn’t a photo of me on my desk, but James taken days before he died.

  Splinters of memories I shoved in a box marked ‘never to be opened’, which I’d then launched on a rocket to the black hole of outer space, assail me. Mom’s soft lips on my forehead. Mom and Dad shouting the day they died. James who always had my back.

  “Jason, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You said your family is off-limits.”

  She hands me a whiskey, which I gulp, savoring the burn.

  “Are you okay? You’re awfully pale.” Her small hand clutches mine. She leads me to the sofa where I collapse, my bones a brittle heap.

  “I don’t talk about them,” I grind out, staring into the fire. Anywhere but the worried, warm, and anguished face of my assistant.

  “Subject closed.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Why?” I haul in a painful breath laced with barbed wire.

  She frowns. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it, Jason? To be alone. To go through life alone. Modus operandi and all.”

  I nod, and she leaves me to drown in my useless thoughts.

  Do I want to be alone? Yeah, I do. I enjoy my own company. But right now, I don’t. I follow the scent of coconut and vanilla.

  I walk into the room to find Asia coming out of the bathroom. She looks good in my shirt. Her eyes widen when she sees the plate in my hand.

  “You didn’t have dessert,” I say. “Chocolate lava cake.” The spoon chatters against the porcelain. I’d taken our plates into the kitchen to find Annika decorating the dessert. I managed to
tell her with a mix of English and sign language dinner was finished, but I’d take a dessert to go.

  “With whipped cream and raspberries.” Asia smiles, and whatever is in my chest just chunks. Ms. Brown has a smile that outshines the sun. Her eyes light up, and I swear her whole body gets in on the deal. She shimmies, and sunshine pours out of her.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I’m drawn to her mouth but turn away when she once again sucks the spoon. There’s only so much a man can take.

  After cleaning up, I walk back into the room to find Asia in her fort on the chair. I don’t miss her gaze running up and down my body. Her cheeks and ears turn pink before she tears her gaze away; I catch the desire pooling in the depths of her eyes.

  “Please don’t sleep there. You’ll have back issues in the morning, and with the ball tomorrow night, I have a lot to do and I can’t be ferrying you to the doctor, or dancing with you while you’re in a body brace.”

  “I’m fine over here, Mr. Johnson, thank you.” Her head tilts to one side. “I thought you didn’t dance?”

  “I can waltz when required.”

  I know more than the waltz. All the boys at boarding school were taught to dance. We’d wear pink or blue tops as everyone wanted to lead. We could waltz, tango (never easy when you’re aged between twelve and fourteen and boys take it as a race). I could probably Highland Fling if I had to. Clog, I could and would not.

  “Is it a big thing, this soirée?” There’s a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

  “Massive. The biggest thing in the area. Heads of state have attended, royalty on occasion, and since this is the last my grandmother will host, it will be a biggie.”

  “Why is it her last one?”

  “I don’t know.” Something she’s been cryptic about and said we’ll speak about soon.

  Asia plucks at the blanket.

  “You’ll be fine, but we will be on display.” I totally have her back.

  “Lots of public displays of affection,” she says.

  She laughs when I make a gagging sound before turning off the light.

  I can’t make her sleep with me.

  Something occurs to me. “You didn’t make up a shit horoscope today.”

  Logs burn and splutter in the hearth. I piled it high with wood, so she’d have the light she likes at night. She’s quiet for a long time.

  “Be kind to the people who are trying to help you, not everyone is after your bling. You do have a soul, but you like to pretend you don’t because feelings and emotions are tricky suckers. Song of the day. I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry, not by the late, great Hank Williams, but the sweetness that is Norah Jones.”

  “Still not lonely.” I thump the side of the empty bed.

  “Loneliest person I know,” she murmurs.

  I wake in the morning to find my assistant in my arms. How did that happen? And why have I slept the whole night without a nightmare?

  This is bad. Very fucking bad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Asia

  I woke this morning in his bed after abandoning the fort a couple of hours in. I couldn’t do it all night. Plus, I was freezing. Jason is a furnace, so I snuck into the bed, sure I’d made it undetected until I’d been hauled into his arms. He’d buried his head in my hair and sighed. So, I did what every girl would do. I promptly fell asleep. When I woke, Jason was standing and staring at me, clearly confused, his trademark scowl back on display, looking all sexy and sweaty in sweatpants. My gaze wandered over chiseled abs, broad shoulders, and triceps that flexed.

  Flexed.

  I used to have a thing for arms. When it comes to my boss in workout clothes, I have a thing for arms, legs, shoulders, chests, elbows, ankles. The list goes on.

  He barked orders about having work to do and didn’t require my help. I wandered down to the office to see if he needed anything, but he scowled at me and barked out, “No.”

  I’ve just come back from the games room where I now have the highest score on pinball. Go me. I jog up the stairs, realizing it’s taken way longer to immortalize my name on the leader board than I expected.

  I have to shower, get dressed, and be down in the ballroom in twenty minutes.

  Well, that’s not going to happen.

  Jason is wearing nothing but a towel when I enter our room. I come to a halt. I have to stop looking at him like he’s a snack and I’m starving.

  “What color is your dress?” he asks, slipping into a pair of tight briefs under the towel. Thank God. If he dropped the towel again, I’d probably bite his muscled ass. I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into hard muscle until he groans and I leave my mark.

  “Emerald.” I sound husky.

  He nods once. “I’ve got to help Cynthia greet the guests. I’ll see you down there.” He gives me a pointed look. “Don’t forget we’ll be on display tonight.”

  Nerves cramp my stomach and my mouth dries. I will be on display tonight; we both will. What if we’re not convincing at all?

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  My grandmother’s kind face morphs into my mind and gives me the strength I need to get through the evening.

  I eye my dress, doubt prancing in my stomach. What if the dress is a disaster? I blink and push the self-doubt away. I have to or I’ll never make it out of this room.

  After showering and quickly drying my hair, I sit down to the task of taming the riot of curls which I shape into thick ringlets. Makeup done. Smoky green shadow that I hope makes my eyes pop, mascara, a bit of blush over foundation, and a bright red twelve-hour staying power lipstick which my neighbor and bestie Darlene said went perfectly with the dress.

  My phone vibrates.

  MR. SCOWLY: Where are you? The party has started! Get down here!!

  ASIA: Keep your hair on. I’ll be there soon.

  I then add a love heart emoji and a baby goat because, baby goats!

  I slip into my dress and adjust the halter neck top. The mint green glass beadwork took weeks to complete. It’s all interlocking swirls that looks awesome. Well, I think so. No time to shop for a strapless bra, so the girls are on a sit and stay command. Emerald green silk nips in at the waist, then flares beautifully under a skirt of tulle. Little warts of worry are eating my insides. Will it be enough? Will I be enough?

  In case someone likes my dress, I add my business cards to the clutch. I’d love to pick up some high-end clients.

  Another clutch of nerves.

  Nude sandals are on my feet.

  A ping comes from my clutch.

  DARLENE: I figure you should be at your thing. I’d love to see the dress. Pics please, girlfriend.

  I snap off a quick picture and send it.

  ASIAAMAZER: I’m terrified. There are a million birds doing cartwheels in my stomach. How’s Blossom?

  DARLENE: Girl, you are hawt, if I batted for the same side I’d be all over your ass. Blossom is fine. Lost another tooth, so I think we’re down to two. Might be time we have another fundraiser. I saw Mary today and the cost of Marcus’s meds have gone up. L Plus a momma cat showed up and is about to give birth.

  My insides shrivel. Our apartment block all pitch in where we can, but there’s only so much we can contribute. Our last fundraiser where we had a big neighborhood barbecue kept us in the black for nearly a year, but Vera, whose catering company provided everything, moved to San Francisco six months ago.

  ASIAAMAZER: Yeah, maybe it is time for another fundraiser. Not sure what, though.

  DARLENE: Leave the fundraiser to me. Bloss has a vet appointment next week and we’ll know more then.

  Next Wednesday at three we’ll know how Blossom is doing. She’s ancient, sweet, and a friend to every kid in the neighborhood. Not good news on Blossom, our neighbor’s young son’s meds, or the influx of new cats we’ll get vaccinated, desexed and find homes for.

  I startle as my phone is now blowing up. I mentally roll my eyes. Darlene has shared the pic of me with our apartme
nt block.

  I laugh at my six foot plus neighbor’s text.

  BRUTUS: Damn girl, if you don’t get laid tonight and dust off those cobwebs, there is something wrong in the state of Montana. Just saying.

  Maybe mentioning to Brutus that I was batting zero in the action department for over a year was a mistake. He is a man on a mission to right that wrong, as he calls it.

  I glance at myself once again. I think I look okay. I hope I look okay, having never been to a soirée. I Googled soirée and came up with a fancy dance. No chips, dip, or red plastic cups. Definitely no bowls of popcorn, I’m thinking.

  With even more nerves dancing in my stomach, I take a breath, square my shoulders, and make my way down to the ballroom using the sweeping set of stairs instead of the elevator.

  Showtime.

  I nod and wipe my damp hands down my dress.

  Cynthia shakes my hand at the door.

  “You look lovely,” she murmurs. “Your dress is beautiful. I don’t know the designer.”

  My cheeks flame. “I designed it.” I can’t help the teensy bit of pride that squeezes out of my voice.

  Her brows rise. “Do you have business cards? I’d be happy to hand them out.” She tilts her head. “The beadwork is exquisite.”

  With fluttering fingers I hand her some cards.

  She gently pushes me through the door into a room hung with fairy lights that twinkle. A twelve-piece jazz band croons in the background over the chatter of voices. Waiters glide past with porcelain spoons of fancy-looking food I probably can’t pronounce. More waiters dressed in all black tuxedoes mingle with flutes and glasses of wine and tumblers of something—Scotch, I’m presuming. The enormous stage is adorned in Roman pillars, which are also dotted around the room. Vines twist around the pillars—tiny honeysuckle flowers perfume the air and are entwined with tiny twinkling lights like stars on a cloudless night.

  I venture into the room with a practiced plastic smile on my face. A few heads turn, male mostly. I smile and scan the room for a six-foot glowering man. I spy him talking to a young couple. Good God, he’s gorgeous. He’s dressed in his trademark black except for a green bow tie. I swallow over the lump in my throat. It’s the same color as my dress. It’s the first time another color has crashed his black ensemble.