Mr. President:A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiance Romance(213)

"What title do you want?" I ask her, rolling my eyes. "Last I checked,  Wall Street banks didn't have a title for Chief Bitch Officer."

Lorna smiles at me sweetly and gets up off her chair, walking toward me.  "No, silly, that's not the title I want," she says as she walks around  my desk to stand inches in front of me. "I want my other title to be  Mrs. Mason Kane."

Holy fucking shit.

She can't be serious.

But her eyes tell me she's deadly fucking serious.

"That's right Mason," she says to me. "In order for me to rescue you out  of your latest trouble, I'm going to have to be your wife."

Fuck my life.

Actually, Lorna is already doing that. She's fucking me up the ass with a barbed wire dildo.

And there's nothing I can do about it right now.





167





Becca





Ok, listen. I realize that I shouldn't complain about my childhood. On  the surface, I had everything-nice gated condo, new luxury cars, a  butler, gourmet meals, piano lessons, private school, a math  tutor-typical things that kids take for granted when they grow up with  money. But before you get all judgmental and think I'm just another  spoiled-rotten 21-year-old, you should know that I didn't have it all.  There were voids.

I didn't grow up with a father, and my mother, well …  let's just say that  she went through men faster than kids go through a bag of Halloween  candy. She was actually my stepmother because my biological mother died  in childbirth. And then my Dad married her before he apparently left.  That left Lorna taking care of me and she had a new flavor of man every  year, and sometimes even quicker than that-I think the record was two  weeks, and believe me, there have been more flavors than I can count. I  stopped keeping score.

She fucked them over each and every time.

Like Duke, a master dive instructor from Fiji-or was it Tahiti?-whose  skin felt almost leathery from being in saltwater a good majority of his  life. Mom managed to pick him up on one of her so-called "work" events  although I doubt much work was happening, and while I admit he wasn't  terribly bad on the eyes, his personality was lacking-maybe all that  saltwater pickled his brain-and it quickly became apparent that he  couldn't handle the pace of city life.

Then there was Ben, the epitome of big city living. He was a Wall Street  guy with a penchant for talking above everyone in a room-literally, his  voice drowned out anything around it as if he was perpetually  screaming. He could never get off of his phone either.

I swear, we'd be eating and he'd take the call with a mouth full of  food. He'd be talking and I'd watch in disgust as bits of ravioli, or  buttery flakes of crab leg meat-or whatever it was that we were  eating-dangled from his lips. He's the kind of guy you'd find  "manspreading" on a crowded subway, where men feel like they can spread  their legs wide open and take two seats instead of one. Like they were  born to do it. What did mom ever see in that guy? What did she see in  any of them really?

They were like playthings for her. For her, the thrill was in the hunt,  and once she had them  …  and got what she needed from them  …  I'd watch as  that spark slowly faded from her eyes. It was all so predictable.  Needless to say, she got bored easily. You could always tell when she  started to get bored with a guy-her heels got flatter and the hemline of  her dresses grew longer.

I guess none of that matters, except to say that when it comes to my  mom, I've always felt invisible. She was too busy chasing men to do the  things that normal mothers do, like go to their kids' school functions,  or pack a lunch with one of those cute little hand-written notes on a  napkin that say something like, "Have a great day, sweetie, Love, Mom."

Honestly, that's the last thing my mom would ever do. But whatever, I'm  sure you're bored to tears hearing about all of this, so I'll spare you.

I walk up the steps leading to my mother's townhouse. The front door is  red-the "perfect accent" she calls it. I fumble through the pockets of  my purse and realize that I must've left my keys back at the office by  mistake, so I take a deep breath and I knock.

I instantly hear the click of my mother's heels against the fancy  hardwood floor of the foyer. By the rapid sound of her steps, she seems  to be in one of her moods that can only be described as a hyper  Chihuahua. Did you know that Chihuahuas are one of the most vicious dogs  on the planet? You're laughing, but it's true. They may be small and  full of nervous energy, but they've got a whole lot of bite. That sort  of sums up my mother. While she's petite-and men always want to pet  her-she has enough energy to fill a room, or scare the shit out of it.

"It's about time," she says, opening the door and looking at me with her  hands on her hips. Her eyes are judging me from all angles. She's  wearing a black dress with a particularly short hemline and I wonder  what new man she's chasing.

"It's nice to see you too mom," I say. See? I told you. There's no warmth from that woman. Ever.

"Don't give me that look, Becca. Dinner is scheduled for 7, and you're late."

I look at my watch. I'm literally late by three minutes. Honestly, it's  such a negligible difference that it's not worth arguing with her about,  and she wouldn't care to hear about how busy I was at Kane Price, so I  drop it and try to lighten the mood.

"The table looks nice," I say, walking into our formal dinning room. And  I mean it. She's managed to set up an extravagant flower arrangement in  the center. "What are those, orchids? Are they real?"

"Yes, don't touch them. They're also rare."

She's such a spaz sometimes. I wasn't even considering touching them, so  I don't know why she even bothered saying that. I realize what the  orchids remind me of. They're the color of unripe bananas-not quite  yellow, but not quite green either. I have to say, they definitely make a  statement by how unusual they look.

"If only you gave everything as much attention as you do to your flower arrangements," I say with the roll of my eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks. "Oh, don't tell me you want to  go down that road again-complaining about what kind of mother I've  been. Poor mistreated Becca, is it? Well, I hate to break it to you, but  you had a fairytale childhood."

"If you mean the kind of fairytale where the princess is locked in a  gilded cage, then sure," I shrug. Does she really not understand that  all I ever wanted was her undivided attention? I didn't want to always  compete with Joe Fabulous, her flavor of the month.

Just then, our Butler Carl walks into the dinning room, which freezes  our hostile banter. "It's good to see you tonight, Becca," he smiles.

At least someone exudes some warmth around here.

He's carrying in the night's appetizers, a basket of warm dinner rolls  with Rosemary browned butter. I try to stay away from butter, generally  speaking, but this is to die for. It's that good. He's also bringing in  Pancetta crisps with crumbled goat cheese and pear chutney.         

     



 

Eating at home can be a decadent affair. Let me tell you.

"You should really watch your posture," my mom says, tapping me on the  back and breaking my food trance. Was I slouching? My mom is never short  on criticism. That's for sure.

"I'm fine mom," I snap. I'm in no mood to let her give me shit all night  long. My patience only goes so far. I'm not a kid anymore.

Before she can say anything further, we hear the doorbell ring. "I'll  get it," I offer. I walk over, unlatch the lock, and open the door.

At first, my eyes have to adjust to the darkness. And it takes my mind a  minute to realize who's standing in front of me. There's no doubt that  it's a man. A big strong one at that.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a perfectly tailored suit.

And he has cobalt blue eyes.

That piercing gaze could only belong to one man  …  from one night not too long ago.

What the fuck is he doing here?

"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all  night?" he asks with an open-mouthed smirk. His perfect white teeth seem  to glow in the darkness.

For a moment I wonder if an ego that big will fit through the door.

Because standing in front of me is a guy I'll never forget.

The guy who gave me the best sex of my 21-year old life.

Mason Kane, in the flesh.





168





Mason





She's staring at me like she's some fucking deer in headlights, and  honestly, I'm just as surprised as she is. What are the chances of  running into the woman I fucked in a bathroom stall the other day at a  bar? Especially here at Lorna's house.

I'll admit; she looks good in that tight skirt she's wearing and I'm  reminded why I decided to fuck her in the first place, but I can't  afford to get distracted right now.

"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all night?" I ask.

I don't have time for the awkward gawking. It is what it is.

I don't want to be here, so it's best to get this all over with as quickly as possible.