New York Billionaires Series

Cecilia smiles. It’s not an expression I’ve seen often on her, and never before the past few weeks. “Do you want parmesan on your pasta?”

It’s been a long time since someone other than a housekeeper cooked for me. She sets the plate down in front of me and grabs one for herself. “How was work today?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “What is this, really? Are we playing house?”

Something flashes through her eyes, but I can’t figure it out, because she looks down at her plate. “No. There’s no one here to watch us, either. I just thought it would be easier to talk over food.”All content is © N0velDrama.Org.

Easier. It would also be private. She didn’t want Bonnie here to listen to the two of us manufacture a love story out of a year’s working relationship.

I taste the food, spearing two of the lobster raviolis. The sauce is great. Almost exactly like Bonnie’s.

“This is good,” I tell her.

She looks up. “You think so?”

“It’s a fairly easy recipe, but I might have aimed a bit high, going for your favorite right away.”

“This is my favorite dish?”

“Bonnie told me it was.”

“Hmm.” I do like it, and I might have made a comment to that effect once. She must have picked up on it. Goes to show just how good the staff I’ve hired is.

“So,” Cecilia says. Her voice takes on the serious note I’m used to, the one she always had when she briefed me on the week ahead, standing with her back straight in my office.

This is familiar territory. “Yes.”

“We started dating in secret, because we didn’t want the HR department to find out.”

“I’m the CEO,” I say. “What was HR going to do about it?”

Her eyes lock on mine with something like exasperation. “They wouldn’t have fired you. They would have fired me.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it. And I do.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s just say we didn’t want HR to find out because of the hassle. Because of how people were going to talk.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off before I can speak. “Victor, we can say it was because of me. That I asked you not to make anything public.”

“All right. Fine.”

“The real problem is when they ask us about the wedding. Why the courthouse? Why so soon?” She drums her fingers against the table, a furrow in her brow. It looks almost… sweet.

“They might think you’re pregnant,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Right. And I wanted to be married first.”

“We can let them make their own assumptions, Cecilia.”

“But there’s no way I could be…” Her cheeks flush with faint color. The kind of rosiness she’d have if we attempted to get her pregnant. Thoughts I shouldn’t be having dance in my mind, of her legs in the tights, of her hair mussed and loose. Of the flash of defiance I’d discovered in her.

What would taking her to bed be like?

“No,” I say slowly. “There’s no way that could be true.”

“So the question remains. Why did we marry?”

“Because we’re in love,” I say. “I don’t know. The same reason most people marry.”

“I don’t think they’ll buy that. You and me, I mean. In love.”

I roll my neck. “They don’t have to buy it. They just have to accept the version we tell them.”

She worries her lip between her teeth, her eyes examining as she runs them over me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just, I think you can get away with being the quiet, silent type when you’re in love. I know I can play my part. We probably don’t need much to convince them it’s real.”

“I’ll drape my arm over the back of your chair,” I say. “They’ll see it as a declaration of love.”

Her lips twitch. “They’ve never seen you with one of your dates?”

“No.” Much as they liked to, I’d never mixed in pleasure with my business. I played poker with my business partners sometimes. We attended functions together, the occasional event. But at the heart of it, I needed them because I could accomplish more with our pooled resources in Acture Capital than I could on my own.

And they did, on occasion, have solid input on business decisions.

Cecilia brightens. “Well, then. You don’t have a precedent to live up to.”

I cut my last ravioli. “That’s it, then. Our story’s straight.”

There’s something like laughter in her voice as she reaches for her phone. “Well,” she says. “I prepared a list of questions.”

I lean back in my chair with a groan, but she ignores it, just like she’d ignored it when she was my assistant. Eye on the prize, that’s Cecilia Myers.

“Questions?”

“Yes. Where did you grow up?”

“They won’t ask us any of this.”

“No, but I’m expected to know it about my husband.”

I shake my head. “Next question.”

The furrow between her eyebrows is back. She scrolls on the phone, passing what must be dozens of questions along the same lines. “Fine,” she says. “Where did you propose?”

“In my office. At work.”