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

by Arlo Arrow

  “Is that so bad?” I tentatively ask.” I don’t mean to sound like the only poor person on the private plane, but you’re already a billionaire and you own multiple companies. Why do you need…more?”

  He smiles and tilts his head, looking at me. His blue eyes glitter in the sunlight. “That’s why I love having you around, Sophia. You see the world clearly and don’t let false gods like money cloud your vision.”

  “Well, if you’ve never had it, I guess you don’t miss it,” I say.

  Except for you, Grant Blackstone. I never had you, but I'll miss you like crazy.

  "I don't need more money," he says. "But I don't want my father running all those companies—or the family name and the family fortune—into the ground. My father is incompetent, selfish, a liar and even more of a self-centered bastard than his father."

  "Wow. So you and your dad are close, huh?"

  He laughs again. A wave of desire hits me. I can't believe I'm sitting in Grant's private plane, discussing personal family business with him. And that he's looking at me.

  Like that.

  Like he likes me.

  "My grandfather grew up in a time when the only things that mattered were money and power. Times change, thank God, but my father still thinks money is the only thing that matters. Money, and his own happiness. I have no doubt that if my father inherits everything, it could put a lot of people out of business. People would lose their jobs, their insurance, their livelihoods. Not to mention all our foundations and just the power of our family name—he would ruin it without a second thought. He's not stupid—he just doesn't want to expend any energy in thinking about anyone but himself."

  Grant pauses and looks out the window, his jaw and fist clenched. "I thought I left all that behind in my twenties. I moved to California to start a new life—" He looks at me, so intense he's almost feral. "And it would have ended all too soon, if I hadn't met you."

  I blush. "Grant, I didn't do anything—"

  He leans forward and takes my hand, like he can't stop touching me.

  Or maybe I'm just projecting my own desires onto his actions.

  "Sophia, you may not believe me, but you saved my life that day. I know it."

  "Well, you saved mine," I whisper. The moment is too intense. I can't look away, can't pull my hand away—I don't want to, but I also want to run at the same time. To flee these overwhelming feelings.

  I close my eyes, and feel him let me go. Sit back. Pull back into himself.

  I open my eyes and give him a soft smile. "But you can't run from the responsibility, because you're a good person. You want to help people. No matter how messed up your grandfather and father were, you're a good person. You still care."

  "I still care," he agrees, his voice thick. He holds my gaze but doesn't smile. "But I'm not sure I care enough to ruin some poor woman's life."

  "I'm not sure 'marrying a sexy billionaire' is gonna ruin anyone's life," I say.

  "Sexy?" Grant's blue eyes are laser-focused on me, and my heart flip-flops in my chest.

  "Well, according to People magazine. Weren't you one of their 50 Sexiest Men Alive last year?"

  He chuckles. "I forgot about that. My press team arranged everything; I didn't even answer their interview questions myself."

  I'm just relieved he's not spending any more time thinking about me thinking he's sexy. "Well, that seems like an antiquated notion—you can only inherit everything if you're married? Isn’t your competence—and your happiness—more important.”

  Grant takes another sip of whiskey. "I agree. Maybe I should hire you to convince my grandfather he's wrong."

  I laugh nervously. "I think I've got way more idealism than experience, but thanks for the vote of confidence."

  He laughs. "Hell, maybe I should just hire you to be pretend to be my fiancée."

  I choke on my whiskey.

  He glances at me, alarmed, then says, "Don't worry. I was just joking. I would never expose you to my family."

  Just go for it, Sophia. It's not real but you could…you could help him.

  You could spend a little more time with him, and help him…

  "Well," I say hesitantly. I can't look at him, not yet. "You do need a fiancée. And I'm currently unemployed." I chance it and glance up.

  He's staring at me, frozen.

  Almost angry-looking.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I was just trying to think of a way to help you out—"

  "No. No." He leans forward and puts his hand on my knee. "That's just like you, always trying to save me."

  "I'm not saving you. You've just done so much for me. I could give you a week or two. Not that I want your grandfather to die quickly or anything—" I'm flustered and talking with my hands. "But think about it: I know so much about you. How you take your coffee. What sports teams you root for and—and—it would be easy. So easy!"

  He frowns. "Easy to pretend you're in love with me?"

  I freeze. Don't give it all away now, Soph. I shrug. "Well, I've never been in love, not for real, but I imagine I could do it. I—I've admired you for so many years. And we may not be exactly…friends…but you've been in my life for so long…"

  "Sophia." He pauses, studying me. "You've never been in love?"

  I bite my lip. Shit. I didn't mean to say that. "I—does it matter? I mean, I know how to act like someone in love."

  He's still shaking his head. "You always want to save me, don't you?"

  I shrug. "You changed my life. I just want to help. Let me do this—this last thing for you. For all those people whose jobs you want to save. One last thing, before we say goodbye."

  "I have a hard time saying no to you, Sophia Martinez," he murmurs. Then he meets my gaze. "But I can't deny, it would make things simpler. And I wouldn't expect you to do it for free. As you pointed out, you are unemployed. How about this: one week. Pretend to be my fiancée. And I'll pay you, I don't know, twenty-five."

  "Twenty-five hundred dollars? That's too much," I say. "You don't have to pay me at all."

  Grant frowns, his cell phone ringing. "Twenty-five-thousand, Sophia. You've never met my family. If you have to put up with them for seven days, I need to pay you a fair wage. Deal?"

  He holds out his hand and I take it, my trembling hand engulfed in his large, firm handshake.

  Then he answers the phone and winks. "You know what?” he asks the voice at the other end of the line. “I just solved our fiancée problem."

  Six

  Sophia

  Grant had described his childhood home during the ride from the private airfield to the estate. I don't know what I was expecting from his descriptions of endless hallways, twenty bedrooms, a cellar with an actual holding cell in it, and rolling acres of woods and gardens.

  But as we travel up the mile-long driveway toward the Blackmore Estate, my mouth drops. I was imagining something along the lines of an East Coast compound straight out of a J. Crew catalogue.

  I stare at what looks to be an actual castle, straight out of a Gothic horror novel. It's massive, dark, and intimidating. I can see why Grant wanted to get the hell away as a young man.

  "It's… nice?" I say, trying not to cringe.

  Grant laughs and takes my hand. "It's not nice. It's grandiose and old and valuable, but it's definitely not 'nice.' And sadly, neither is anyone inside." He's sitting next to me in the car, and while he's not exactly "man-spreading" with his legs, he's a big guy. His thighs are touching mine as we sit next to each other, even in this spacious town car. He didn't want me to start this ruse with him, but ever since he agreed that I could pretend to be his "fiancée," he's suddenly acting like…he doesn't mind touching me.

  We hashed out "our story" on the plane ride to New York. It wasn't difficult to do, as we're sticking to the truth. "There's no point in lying," Grant had said. "My grandfather has investigators like I do. They'll dig up everything they can on you."

  Then he'd stopped, and stared into my eyes and said, "You don't have to do th
is, Sophia. I want to protect you. Your safety and mental health mean more than anything I could inherit."

  He'd stopped speaking, almost as if he'd surprised himself. He had surprised the hell out of me. So much so that my brain immediately found ways to make his statement make sense. He was just a nice guy. He had always protected me. He looked out for me, like I was his…daughter.

  But no. That wasn't quite right, was it?

  Because my dad never stared at me the way Grant Blackstone did.

  And maybe it was that look—maybe it's the fact I must be crazy—but I wanted to be his fiancée. Even a totally fake one. Even if only for one week.

  Maybe I could cure myself of this insane crush. Grant can't be the perfect man I've constructed in my mind. Realizing that he’s always grumpy, or mean, or that he has the worst morning breath known to man—maybe something will cure me.

  I hope it does.

  But in the meantime, as he traces his thumb along the outside of my hand, I decide I'm going to enjoy this. I'm going to enjoy him. It takes everything in my power not to close my eyes and just shiver as he touches me.

  Instead, I look back outside at the approaching mansion.

  "I can't imagine everyone who lives or works here is mean. You turned out okay, after all. For a bazillionaire." I wink, and judging from his amused face, he's as shocked as I am, at my audacity.

  Who am I? Not the meek little maid who scurries around the mansion.

  "No, the staff are kind,” he replies. “Or at least, they were when I was growing up. My mother died when I was very young. A boating accident. So the housekeeper, Mrs. Fine, basically raised me. But she's retired, and I think my grandfather only employs a skeletal staff now. And Grandfather is most emphatically not nice."

  The town car pulls to a stop right in front of the large, double doors that look like they were stolen off a medieval English church.

  "It's a bit…scary," I admit.

  Grant exits the car first, then turns and takes my hand, helping me to my feet. "It's horrible. I have no idea why in the hell my great-grandfather built this monstrosity. I think it's a replica of a castle back in England." He pauses and considers the massive, dark stones, the turreted tower that looks like a princess could be trapped in there. "But it's really fucking creepy, isn't it?"

  I laugh nervously. "Well, home sweet home!"

  At my words, his smile falters. "Yeah, home sweet home."

  I smooth my T-shirt and wish I had worn anything but torn jeans and flip-flops. "Is your grandfather bedridden?" I knew his grandfather had refused to stay at the local hospital, instead hiring three nurses to tend to him 'round the clock. But I didn't know if I'd be meeting him as soon as we walked in, or if I'd have a chance to change.

  Our feet make a soft crunching sound on the gravel driveway. We're about to climb the massive stone steps to the front door when Grant whirls suddenly and puts his hands on my shoulders.

  "Just be yourself, Sophia. You're perfect, just the way you are. You don't have to lie or be anything other than what you are—well, besides the one big lie." He leans close and whispers in my ear. "That you're in love with me."

  He pulls back and winks.

  I laugh nervously. "Yeah, just the one lie."

  "You think I'm being overprotective when I tell you that my family isn't to be trusted. But these people aren't like you and your father. These people aren't like anyone you've ever met. Don't feel like you need to please anyone. Don't feel like you need to explain yourself to anyone. Just stay right by my side, and I'll protect you."

  I look up at Grant's tense face, his dark hair falling onto his forehead, his eyes two shades darker than the wide blue sky behind him. I know he's just warning me how to act, but the fervor in his voice feels so real. I'm both touched by his kindness, and beginning to feel a little afraid.

  "Oh, and one other thing." Grant takes my face in his hands, gently tilts me up so I'm looking at him, and then leans down.

  And kisses me.

  I stifle a gasp of surprise. He murmurs shhh against my lips. The kiss starts out chaste. And I can't help it, I'm flashing back to four years ago, when I was teetering in heels that didn't fit me, when I was slightly drunk, when the moon shone overhead...and when he first kissed me.

  His lips are soft but firm. His hands are warm, cradling me like he really cares about me. And then I shift, bringing my body slightly closer to him. Or…did he move closer to me?

  His chest is pressing against mine; his hips are hard against my soft, curvy ones. He's everywhere. I take a surprised breath, and his tongue slips in my mouth, and suddenly I'm lost, drunk on him. One of his hands tightens in my hair, holding me close to him. I can feel my heart pounding, and somehow my arms are wrapped up around his massive shoulders, grasping the fabric of his shirt. His other hand snakes down to my waist, and then lower, onto my ass. He squeezes, pressing me close, closer. His kiss is heady, and now—just like four years ago—I feel drunk. Only this time, it's all because of him, his scent, his taste, his touch and his captivating presence.

  And then suddenly, he's gone. It's all gone.

  I open my eyes to find Grant panting slightly. His cheeks are reddened and his jaw is tense. He pushes his hair back and says, "And remember, Sophia, someone is always watching."

  Then he nods almost imperceptibly toward the castle, and as I turn I see a flash of light in one of the upstairs windows, before the sun and clouds shift and then all the glass becomes blindingly bright and impenetrable.

  I press my hands against my cheeks, trying to calm down. It was just an act.

  Duh, Soph, of course it was an act! You're here as his pretend fiancée. Get a grip!

  "Who was it?" I murmur as he takes my hand and we climb the stairs.

  "I don't know," Grant says, staring straight ahead. "And I don't care. We're just going to stay here a few days, and then I'm sending you to Florida."

  He looks down at me, his eyes stormy and haunted. I want it to be because he'll miss me, but I have to think it's just because whatever happened to Grant as a child, this place brings up bad memories.

  Then he takes my hand and we walk up the stairs…as a couple.

  Seven

  Grant

  I'm so fucked.

  I watch Sophia flit around the giant bedroom we've been placed in for the night. How the hell am I going to keep my hands off her? She's fresh out of the shower, her mass of curls piled on top of her head, and she's wearing one of the thick white robes the staff left for us.

  She looks incredible.

  I want to grab the tie around her waist, whip it out of those little belt loops, and pull her to me—while pulling the robe off of her. I want to see all those curves that the robe is currently clinging to. I want to taste her lips again. I want to taste her everything—

  Fuck. I'm so fucked.

  Because I can't fuck her.

  And that's all I'm thinking about.

  Not to mention her innocence. She's been protected, I've protected her, ever since the day I found her. Or she found me. Ever since the day we found each other. She'll never know the lengths I went to—I had dossiers on every one of her professors. Hell, almost every one of her classmates.

  When she moved back to my home, even after I'd offered to help her get a job anywhere in the world, I'd secretly been so fucking grateful. What is it about her that draws me to her? Why can't I stop staring at her curved lips, her shining eyes, the way she puts her hands on her hips as she paces, trying to decide what to wear?

  A smile ghosts across my face. I can't help it; she's so fucking beautiful. I've tried to put Sophia out of my mind. I've dated woman after woman. I've built company after company. I've run marathons just to try and get away from the idea of me taking her, claiming her, making her mine.

  She's mine. Some primordial, caveman remnant in my soul rears up. I could throw her on the bed right now. I could strip her, spread her legs, make her come over and over again. She reacted to my kiss. She liked i
t.

  She wanted me…if only for a moment.

  I could—

  "Penny for your thoughts."

  I look up and clear my throat. "You look beautiful." And she does. She's wearing a flowing, black sundress that shows off her golden skin—though thankfully not too much skin, because apparently Caveman Grant wouldn't fucking like that. No, Sophia's curves are for my eyes only.

  Jesus, what am I thinking?

  This is just an act. She's just helping me, like she's always done. My sweet, beautiful angel.

  "It's not dressy enough, is it?" She grits her teeth and looks down, frowning.

  I walk over to her take her hand. If I only have a few days with her, fuck it, I'm going to hold her hand—I'm going to touch her—as much as I can.

  I'll keep it innocent.

  Mostly.

  But I might as well enjoy the illusion. So I lift up her hand, kiss the top of it, and say, "I don't give a damn what anyone else is wearing in this godforsaken castle: you look like a princess, even in that bathrobe."

  Then I slip my hand in my pocket. "This isn't how I imagined proposing to a woman." I hold up the ring I took from the safe once we arrived. "This was my mother's. She was the most beautiful person I'd ever met. Until now."

  Sophia's face pales and her eyes grow wide. "Grant, I can't…I can't wear that."

  "You can," I say, sliding the two-carat, princess-cut sapphire onto her ring finger. It's a little loose, but it will work.

  "No." She shakes her head furiously. "It's too—holy crap, Grant, it's too big."

  "You’re my fiancée," I say, tucking her left hand through my arm, so that the ring glows against my dark gray sweater. "You deserve it."

  As we walk down the wide, main stairwell and toward the dining hall, she looks up at me and whispers, "What if I lose it?"

  "Don't worry," I say, "It's just a material object."

  My face falls as we turn the corner and see the crowd gathered before us. Just a few more days…

  And then I'll lose the only thing that really matters to me.