Billionaires Dollar Series

“What’s that?”

“We have to buy you a ring.”

“I can’t go ring shopping like this,” I say, tugging at my hoodie. “I’ll get thrown out immediately for violating the dress code.”

“Stores don’t have dress codes,” Liam says, holding the front door to Marco’s open for me.

“Oh, they sure do, they just happen to be unwritten.”

“Like your ring,” he says. “Diamond cut? Princess? You can have whatever you like, for the duration of this little charade.”

“I’ve never thought about what kind of engagement ring I want.”

Liam glances down at me. “You haven’t? I thought all women did that.”

“Yes, all women. Because we’re a homogenous group.”

“Fair enough,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Come on, Maddie. I have a store in mind.”Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“You go shopping for engagement rings often?” I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, like this is a normal walk with a normal friend.

As if it wasn’t a six-foot-two resurrected old-friend-turned-fake-fiancé in a tailored suit.

Perhaps that’s why I’m handling all of it so calmly. At any moment, this absurd dream will snap to pieces.

“Not that often,” Liam says, the same teasing charm in his voice. “You’ll be my first.”

“I’m honored,” I say. “You’re going to have to give me more info here, Liam.”

“I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”

“Why did you say my name?”

“Ah.” He looks across the street, directing us to a crosswalk. “I wish I had an answer to that. I can only assume it’s because I’d met you just a few days earlier.”

“At the Porters’.”

“That’s right.”

“And you go to parties like that often?”

“A fair bit, yes. There’s a lot of networking involved in my job.”

“I thought investors spent all their time behind computers, day-trading.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and masculine. My mind can’t seem to compute that the Liam in my memories is this man, the two of them one and the same.

“When they’re just starting out, perhaps. But not at my level.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Big Shot.”

Liam’s hand drifts over my low back as we walk around a hot-dog stand. “As the future Mrs. Big Shot, it should please you,” he comments.

“Will I be expected to go to some of those parties with you?”

“A few, perhaps,” he says. “I don’t know where this is heading. This might come as a surprise, but I’m playing this by ear.”

“You don’t usually stage fake engagements?”

“Only biannually,” he deadpans, “and always off-Broadway.”

I can’t help but grin. “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, for sure,” he agrees. “Might go down as the stupidest thing I’ve ever done to secure an investment deal.”

“But you’re still determined to do it?”

“Something being a stupid idea has never stopped me before,” he says, as we turn the corner.

“I remember. You were the worst cliff-diver in the history of Fairfield.”

“The best,” he corrects.

“Only because you took the worst risks.”

“Someone had to,” he says. “We’re going to dinner on Saturday a week from now.”

“With who?”

“With the two men I’m trying to convince I’m trustworthy, and their wives.”

“And us?”

“And us.”

The complexity of the situation washes over me, and I put a hand on Liam’s arm. “We’re going to be talking to them?”

“Well, that is assumed at dinner, yes.”

“We need to practice,” I say. “I need to know everything about you.”

“Everything?” Liam asks. “That sounds… excessive.”

“Everything,” I repeat.

“They won’t ask us what kind of shampoo the other one uses,” he says. “This isn’t a ’90s romantic comedy, and we’re not trying to fool immigration agents.”

“We still have to act believable, though.” I don’t say what’s at the forefront of my mind, which is that I have to somehow turn myself into the kind of woman a man like Liam Carter would have proposed to.