A goddamn glass-walled, two-story, marble-floored penthouse that screamed, “I’m the king of the world.”
It was beautiful in a sterile, catalog kind of way. There were cool grays, expensive art that probably cost more than my yearly salary, and polished stone surfaces that had never seen a crumb. It was impressive. And absolutely not me.
“This way,” he said, guiding me past a sleek modern kitchen and into the living room. “We’ll meet with my lawyer first thing in the morning. I know you packed some clothes, but a stylist will be here at six to get your measurements?—”
“You said you’d have me back by my shift on Tuesday,” I interrupted, my voice sharper than I intended.
“I will,” he said smoothly. “But this arrangement won’t end tomorrow. And I’ll need my wife to look the part. People will expect you to be dressed like I’ve given you the world.”
“As opposed to…” I looked down at my Rolling Stones T-shirt, faded jean shorts, and Chucks. “This?”
He didn’t respond, just let out a low chuckle and nodded toward my outfit. “What you’re wearing is fine. Tonight. But I’ve got a meeting with an investor in a few weeks. And my wife is expected to be there, looking like my wife, not a roadie.”
I crossed my arms, biting down the urge to snap. He had dragged me out of Harmony Haven like it was no big deal, and now I was supposed to play Barbie Doll for his business dinner?
Still… I knew the drill. I’d seen enough rom-coms to recognize the trope. Stoic billionaire. Fake wife. Obligatory glow-up montage. Fine. I’d play dress-up.
“You hungry?” he asked, motioning toward the gleaming kitchen.
Tempting. I pictured him cooking, sleeves rolled up, something surprisingly sweet like French toast at midnight. But my stomach was too tangled in nerves, and I bet his idea of cooking was a frozen meal delivery service.
“Nah,” I said, heading toward the massive window that stretched across the living room. “I’m good.”
The view was ridiculous. Outside, the balcony was marble, too, with hidden lights that made it glow like a scene out of a dream.
“Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” West said from behind me. I turned and followed him silently.
He showed me everything with the detachment of a hotel concierge. There was a gym with more equipment than the entire rec center back home, a home office emulating a presidential suite, and a library. An actual library. There were books from floor to ceiling and a ladder that I had the urge to jump on and sing a song about. I refrained, but mostly because I was engrossed by the red pool table in the middle of the room giving weird flex vibe.
“Pool tables don’t belong in the library,” I muttered as we moved farther down the hall.
“Then change it,” he huffed casually, probably thinking I wouldn’t.
But I would if I was actually moving in. A gorgeous room with a million books needed a card catalog in the middle, not a game I watched people play every night at the bar.
I let the subject go and stayed quiet, but when we passed a closed door, I couldn’t help but snort. “Is that your secret sex dungeon?”
His brow lifted. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I refused to blush. He didn’t press it.
Finally, we reached the guest room. It was bigger than my entire house. Another balcony. Another panoramic view. And a bed so fluffy I was afraid I’d disappear into it.
“My room’s on the other side of the living room,” he said casually. “Same setup. Just a bit bigger. If you need anything, text me. And be sure to set your alarm for five.”
“Five?” My brain broke a little. “As in five a.m.? That’s in, five hours.”
“Breakfast is at six. The stylist will be here at six-thirty. And my lawyer meets us at eight.”
“So what I’m hearing is… I need to be up at 5:59.”
West gave a shrug. “To each their own. I just assumed you’d want to shower. Or work out.”
“Bold assumption, rich boy.” I gasped. “I’ll settle for a quick shower. You can keep your gym.”
He smiled, but barely. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you in the morning. 5:59 sharp.”
Then he was gone and the door shut behind him with a soft click. I was alone, so I turned slowly, taking in the room. The bed. The view. The sheer insanity of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
