The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: An Older Man, Younger Woman Romance

by Arlo Arrow

  “Ooh, what’s through this door?” I say. Grant had told me to explore, so I don’t really wait for an answer before pushing it open. “Oh my.”

  It’s a bedroom. A flipping bedroom, on an airplane! There’s a large, perfectly made bed in the middle of the room, with two side tables. I walk over to the table and push the lamp on top of it. The base doesn’t move.

  “It’s bolted down. For turbulence.” Grant leans against the open door frame, looking perfectly handsome in his dark jeans and chunky knit sweater. I burn his image, that small secret smile that he’s aiming just at me, into my memory.

  “Turbulence?”

  Grant walks over and sits at the edge of the bed. It’s a luxurious bedroom on an airplane, but it’s still on an airplane. With his long legs, his knees are almost touching mine as I stand near the side table. For a second, watching him on the bed, it makes me think of turbulence between the sheets. I blush and look away.

  “I forgot. Sophia, you’ve never been on an airplane before, have you?”

  “No,” I say. I walk over to the window and push open the curtains. Outside the small, portal window I can see men filling the jet with gas, or so I assume. I let the heavyweight curtains close and turn back to him.

  I yelp. He’s standing right behind me.

  “Don’t worry,” Grant says, his voice soft. “If you’re scared, I’ll hold your hand.”

  I smile and nod, but it hard to meet his bright blue eyes. For a second, I entertain the notion of pretending to be terrified.

  Maybe then he’d let me sit on his lap?

  Down, girl.

  A voice comes on over the intercom, and the captain announces that it’s time to depart.

  “Come on, you can pick your seat first,” Grant says. He surprises me by taking my hand and leading me back to the main cabin.

  “Where do you normally sit?” I ask. Every single seat is oversized, leather-bound, and reclines. You can’t pick a bad seat. But I want to sit next to him.

  Grant is still holding my hand. His hand is large and warm, and he grasps me perfectly—not too hard, not too gently.

  “Over here,” he says, leading me to the corner. He helps me sit in the second from the last chair, and he takes his place in the very corner, facing me.

  “ You like to keep your back against the wall?” I joke. “Kind of like a spy, always watching the exits?”

  He smiles grimly. “You didn’t grow up in a family like mine. I always watch the exits. And my back.”

  For a moment he looks shocked that he said those words out loud. I know I certainly am.

  “And now you’re going to visit your family?” I realize that in all the years I’ve known Grant, and lived on his property, I can only remember his mother visiting. One time. I know he’s an only child, but it suddenly hits me that he might be very alone.

  “I’m going to visit my grandfather, in upstate New York.” He crosses one leg on top of the other, his ankle resting on his opposite knee, and takes out his phone.

  “I never knew any of my grandparents,” I say. There’s a sudden whirring noise from underneath the plane and I jump, then look, panicked, at Grant.

  He smiles, his cold face breaking into a warm, reassuring glance. “It’s just the mechanics closing up the plane.” He puts both legs on the ground and leans forward, close to me, his elbows resting loosely on his knees. “Sophia, you’ll be okay. Do you want me to tell you what’s about to happen?”

  His voice is so low and intimate when he speaks with me. And the sun coming in the portals makes his blue eyes burn like the Bay waters.

  “Yes,” I whisper. I’m going to miss him so much. I wish he could tell me what’s going to happen—for the rest of my life. I sigh and he must think I’m scared, because he reaches out his hand and grabs mine again. His thumb slowly traces an invisible pattern on the top of my hand, and I have to force myself not to close my eyes from the pleasure of his touch.

  “We're going to go backwards in a minute.” And like magic, almost as if he could command the universe, the plane gives a slight jerk and begins to move. I gasp and look out the window, but I don’t take my hand from his. I want to soak up every second, every touch, even though it’s going to hurt even more when I say goodbye.

  “We’re on the runway now,” Grant says. “Let’s buckle you in.” He gets out of his seat and reaches down beside my thighs, on the seat. He buckles me in, his hands expertly maneuvering the seat belt and moving over me like this is normal, like we do this all the time.

  What is he thinking?

  "The plane's going to speed up now. We're going to go faster and faster, until suddenly you'll feel this strange mixture of weightlessness and pressure. And then, after a few minutes, we'll reach cruising altitude and—you're flying." He smiles reassuringly and I feel better.

  "I didn't even know I was nervous about flying," I admit. I was too preoccupied being nervous around you.

  "I'll take care of you," Grant says. He's still leaning forward in his seat, and the plane is beginning to go fast. Really fast.

  I don't know what to say to that. I also don't know what to do with the intense look in his eyes, the way those smoky blue orbs are studying me. Taking me in. So I just smile and nod, and then look out the window.

  Coward.

  I'm such a coward.

  Outside, the tarmac becomes a gray blur as the plane races skyward. It's just like Grant described: there's a pressure pushing my body back into the seat, my ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton, and then suddenly there's a slight bump underneath us and—

  "We're flying!" I gasp, leaning forward and staring out the window. "Oh my gosh. It's beautiful." Below us, the Bay Area gets smaller and smaller. The Pacific Ocean sparkles under the morning sun, and as the plane slowly turns east, we begin to fly over the brown, sloping foothills that surround Silicon Valley.

  I'm entranced, watching the entire world turn into a perfect, miniature replica of itself. Then I turn to face Grant, and he's just staring at me.

  With…hunger in his eyes?

  My lips part and I'm pinned to my chair, this time not by the force of gravity but by the force of…him.

  Grant Blackstone. The heated silence between us grows. Neither one of us looks away. And then—

  His phone rings.

  He glances down and his face turns to stone. "Excuse me. I have to take this," he says. The massive seats swivel, and he turns slightly away from me. I watch his profile as he answers and has a curt conversation.

  I'm not proud to admit it, but as I turn to look out the window, I'm actually trying to eavesdrop. The man on the other end of the line is shouting, so it's not exactly difficult.

  There's no way to fight that clause, I think I hear the man say.

  Grant closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before responding. “Can we contest it on a mental-health basis,” Grant says, his voice low and angry.

  I can’t quite piece together the man’s response, but whatever the answer is, it doesn’t make Grant happy.

  Quite the opposite.

  Grant makes a fist and slowly taps it against his armrest as he talks. “And I’m sure my father will support the will.”

  The man on the other end of the line says yes, though his further explanation is unintelligible to me. A will? As in last will and testament? And his father supporting it…I realize Grant said he’s going to visit his grandfather. Oh dear. Is the man dying?

  I’m distracted for a moment as we fly over mountains—real mountains. And then I hear it, crystal clear from the voice on the other end of the phone in the sudden silence of the cabin: You need a wife.

  I don’t look at Grant. I can’t ask him about it. I shouldn’t have heard that.

  But: what the hell?

  After a few terse back-and-forths, Grant hangs up.

  “I apologize, Sophia. Can I get you a drink? I guess the stewardess usually makes coffee.” He stands up and crosses the cabin, opening a hidden refrigerator
door. “Iced coffee? Water? Tea?”

  Me… I finish the joke silently. But that's all the idea of Grant and me could ever be: a joke.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. I stand up, unsteady on my feet for a moment, but now that we’re cruising, it’s almost like walking on solid ground.

  “Everything’s fine,” Grant says tersely.

  I walk over to him and consider telling him it’s obvious he’s lying. Or that I heard some of what was said on the phone.

  Or asking him why he needs a wife.

  This might be the last time we’ll ever be alone. I can’t imagine any reason Grant Blackstone III is going to call me up once I’m in Florida. “Oh, hey, former maid? Where do you keep the Clorox? I’m just cleaning the bathtub.”

  No. Not gonna happen.

  Maybe I should say something.

  And tell him…what? I laugh to myself. Tell him that I’m a fool and that I think I’m secretly in love with him? That if he wanted to, we could just run back to the bed and I’d give him my virginity?

  I’m still shaking my head slightly when he straightens up and turns around, almost running into me.

  “Soph,” he murmurs, looking down at me. He’s never called me that before. “I didn’t hear you.”

  We’re so close. So close.

  And then the entire world jerks and I fly through the air, directly into his arms.

  Five

  Sophia

  We’re in a heap on the floor, and I think it was me that screamed.

  “Are you alright?” Grant pushes himself to his knees and wraps me in his arms, and suddenly I can breathe again. He’s warm and massive, and I can’t help myself. I press my face into his rock-hard chest and squeeze my eyes shut and just let him hold me.

  “What happened?” I whisper, looking up at his tense face. I realize I’m clenching his dress shirt in my fists. For one second I thought we were in free-fall, but the plane had just jerked, hard, and fallen about five feet.

  And now we were…okay?

  Grant doesn’t answer my question, but he runs his hands up and down my arms, as if checking me for injuries. “I don’t know, but I’m going to kill the captain if you’re hurt.”

  My heart warms at his possessive tone, but I’m sure it means nothing. Nothing personal, at any rate. He’s just a nice guy and, you know, doesn’t want people dying on his private plane.

  “It was just turbulence,” Grant explains. “But usually they warn you before you experience it. So you can buckle up.”

  I nod, still shaken. “That was…I don’t think I like flying.”

  I look up at him and start to get lost in his eyes. I’m practically sitting on his lap, his arms are still around me, and I for one second I thought we were going to die.

  Of course, we aren’t.

  We’re fine.

  But still. My heart is racing, my lips are dry, and I—I should just say something.

  I should just tell him how I feel.

  “Let’s get you seated,” he says suddenly, almost roughly pushing me off his lap. Still, he holds me and guides me up, leading me back to my seat and buckling me in. “I’m going to talk to the captain. I’ll be right back. Take a sip of water, Sophia. It was just a moment of bad turbulence.”

  I nod. As he walks away, his hand passes lightly over my hair, and then he’s gone.

  Maybe this is a sign. A sign from God. That you only live once and I should man—or woman—up and go for it.

  Grant himself told me last night to think about what I really want out of life. I know I can’t really have him—an older, sexy billionaire who barely knows I exist.

  But I could…maybe I could help him. As a friend.

  He dates. He’s never brought a woman back to the mansion, as far as I know. Not that I stalk his every move.

  You know. Most of the time.

  But I see the articles online, the paparazzi shots of Grant and various, glamorous women leaving charity events or local celebrities’ parties. I could never compete with them...but I do have this one plane ride.

  Grant returns to his seat and throws his massive body down. “I apologize again. The captain’s assured me we should have a smooth ride from here on out.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like you can control the weather.”

  “One of my companies is working on it.”

  “I have no idea if you’re serious or not,” I say.

  He finally smiles. “Well, we’ve got a little over four hours till we reach New York. It should go…quickly.”

  We stare at each other a moment, and then I do it. I go for it.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  He pauses, tapping his fist against the armrest again. “My lawyer.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard him mention a will.” I’m sure my cheeks are bright pink, but I force myself to look at him directly. “Is your grandfather okay?”

  His fist pauses in mid-air for one heartbeat, then he resumes his slow, quietly angry rhythm. “He’s dying.”

  I gasp softly. "I’m sorry.”

  Grant shrugs. “He’s almost ninety. He’s had a long life, and he smoked, drank, and slept with every woman he could. He’s lived life to the fullest, while also being the hardest, most selfish man I’ve ever met. Well, besides my own father. The sad fact is, I don’t think many people will miss him when he leaves this earth. Probably only his lawyers, since they won’t be able to bill him for all the lawsuits he’s so fond of.”

  I bite my lip. “That’s terrible. So you’re not upset about your grandfather? But you’re upset about…something?”

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with it, Sophia. I’d rather talk about you. Did you think about my advice last night? What do you want to do next with your life?”

  “Yes. I am thinking about next steps. But right now—” I take a deep breath and lean forward. “I want to know why your lawyer said you need to get married.”

  Grant freezes, staring at me. “What did you say?”

  Oh dear. He doesn’t look pleased. Don't wimp out now, Soph.

  “I heard your lawyer say you needed a wife. Are you engaged?”

  His hard, emotionless mask breaks for a moment. “No. No, Sophia, I’m not engaged.”

  I can’t suppress my sigh of relief. “ I know it’s none of my business, but you look so upset. If you’re not engaged, what is he talking about?”

  Grant looks out the window, then back at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I don’t want you to worry yourself about this. It’s a small problem that I’m working on.”

  “Well, if it’s a small problem, surely you can describe it to me in the next four hours before we land,” I say cheerfully.

  He laughs. “Is it crazy that I trust you? But I don’t want to burden you with my ridiculous problems.”

  “Burden me!” It comes out as a joke. He doesn’t have to know that I completely mean it. “You know I won’t tell anyone. After all I think my NDA is still in effect.” My tone is light, but my father, myself, and everyone who works for Grant has to sign a binding nondisclosure agreement.

  “I think I’m going to need a drink for this.” Grant gets up again, finding a cup and ice, and then pouring a fingerful of what I assume is really good whiskey into it. “You want one? It’s after noon in New York.”

  “Sure,” I say, amazed that he might open up to me. Amazed that I'm in his private plane.

  I think I do need a drink.

  Grant hands me a tumbler full of ice and a small amount of dark amber liquid. The sun is bright outside and fills the cabin with its almost blinding light. The ice in my drink catches the light, and I take a sip.

  And then cough uncontrollably.

  “Oh, shit, have you never had whiskey before?” Grant rushes a water bottle to me, and I take it gratefully.

  “No, I have,” I joke. “I’m just used to the good stuff. Not this swill.”

  For a moment, Grant’s face is shocked, a
nd then he bursts out laughing. “Yes, this twenty-year-old, barrel-age stuff is…crap.”

  I giggle and take another sip, wrinkling my nose and trying to swallow it. It feels like fire going down. “Honestly, you drink this? On purpose?”

  He smiles. “I do. I like the burn.”

  I rub my chest. It’s true. It tastes disgusting, but afterward, the whiskey leaves you with a nice, glowing burn inside. “I guess I don’t drink that much. And if I do, it’s a girly drink.”

  “I know. I don’t think I’ve seen you drunk since your twenty-first birthday—”

  He stops speaking suddenly, and my mouth drops open. He remembers that night? He thinks about it?

  I’m such a fucking wimp.

  “I don’t remember much about that night.” Why did I just lie? Why am I so scared?

  It’s easier to deflect. “So you’re day-drinking in preparation for going to meet your dying grandfather. And there’s a mysterious will and your lawyer wants you to get married?”

  He takes a slow sip of whiskey and nods.

  “How fascinating. Any candidates? For a wife, I mean?”

  “I’m not going to marry anyone, Sophia. My grandfather is the patriarch of the family, obviously. He was born wealthy, and he’s amassed billions over his lifetime. He’s in charge of multiple companies, investments, and all of our family’s assets. He wants to leave all of that to me.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s…intense. But you don’t seem very happy about it.”

  “Well, it all hinges on one condition: Me. Being married.”

  I gasp and take another sip of whiskey. I'm getting used to the taste, and feeling a bit more relaxed now, except for the fact that the man I’m secretly in love with apparently needs to get married ASAP.

  Then it hits me…

  He needs a fiancée.

  I am unemployed…

  “It’s ridiculous. An antiquated notion, and I’ve got a team of expensive lawyers trying to find a loophole in his will,” Grant says, his voice hard. “But as it stands now, if I’m not married by the time my grandfather passes away, my father inherits everything and I get nothing.”