Ahh, this must be home sweet home. In my head, he has some ostentatious house with pillars, obnoxiously large fountains, gold fixtures, and marble everywhere, even on the walls, because he can afford it, but as we turn into the driveway, I’m completely surprised by the house that comes into view. A coastal-looking white house with black-framed windows, large, southern-looking lamps flanking each side of the main door, and a simple black tin roof.

This was not what I was expecting at all.

It’s chic.

Modern.

In style.

Nothing ostentatious about it other than the size.

Huxley parks the car just as someone steps up to his car door and opens it for him. “Mr. Cane, welcome home.”

“Thank you, Andre.” Huxley hands him the keys. “Everything all set?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for staying late. You can head home.”

“I’ll park your car in the garage and plug it in first. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Huxley says, and excuse me while I pick up my jaw because . . . how come Andre gets spoken to like a normal person and I don’t?

Huxley opens my door for me and then holds out his hand, but since we’re no longer under the eyes of Dave and Ellie, I ignore his help and attempt to shut the car door, his grip on the top of the door preventing me from doing so.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“I can open and shut the door myself.”

Leaning in close, he says, “And I have staff around the house that will be watching us interact, so you need to act like you’re my fiancée.”

“Uh, excuse me?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Did you read the entire contract?”

That godforsaken contract. How many times is it going to come back and bite me in the ass?

“Of course I did.”

I didn’t.

Who really reads contracts these days? Lawyers, that’s who. I read the important parts—at least, I thought I did. There was a section about staff, but I breezed over it. I thought it was just about how he has staff that works for him, so, I don’t know . . . be kind. Something like that.

“Then you’d have noticed that section. Andre is my trusted right-hand man, he knows of our arrangement, but he’s the only one.”

“Doesn’t your staff have NDAs?” I ask.

“Yes, but things always seem to slip. We’ve fired a few staff members for tipping off the media, so I still don’t fully trust everyone in my house.”

“Seems stupid to me.” I reluctantly take his hand. “Allowing these strangers to come into your house and take care of you, but you don’t trust them. Yeah, really intelligent.”

“There are very few people I trust.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask as we walk toward his grand entrance. The black door feels incredibly intimidating despite the potted flowers welcoming you.

“No,” he answers without thought.

“Wow, that’s . . . that’s fucked up.”

“I barely know you. Why would I trust you?” He opens the front door and I’m greeted by an expansive entryway, light blond floors, white walls, and a straight shot all the way to the back of the house, where the largest sliding glass doors I’ve ever seen open to a beautifully lit-up pool and dreamy backyard with enough foliage to block out the neighboring properties. He places his hand on my back and says, “You need to earn my trust.”

I glance up at him and say, “You’re not the only one who needs trust to be earned.”

“You’d be a terrible businesswoman if you offered up your trust right away. I respect you more for making me earn it.”

“Oh, yay, I earned your respect,” I say sarcastically as I walk into the house. I take in the impersonal décor and the calculated placement of each item. Large vases, sleek-looking bowls, and foliage offer the lack of personalization I’m talking about. He probably doesn’t even know half of these decorations exist.

Past the entryway, the house opens up into a great room with vaulted ceilings covered in white shiplap and lightly stained wooden beams. The house is devoid of any color, only decorated in variations of white, with pops of black and green here and there from a plant I’m sure he doesn’t bother watering himself. The kitchen is massive. The island traverses the entire length of the kitchen, with marble countertops and black cabinets, but the uppers and lowers around the kitchen walls are white with modern, black hardware. It’s an absolute dream kitchen, and I’m pretty sure if Kelsey saw this house, she’d be drooling.

“You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen. My chef prepares premade meals and puts them in the fridge. If you’ve any requests, just let me know, and I’ll make sure they’re prepared.”

“I can get my own food.”

“Do I need to remind you, you’re my fiancée?”

I turn toward him and catch him with his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat vulnerable as I take in his house. I lean in and whisper, “Fake fiancée.”

Ignoring my comment, he says, “Nothing is off limits in the house. What’s mine is yours.”

“Oh, so no threat to stay out of the west wing?”

His brow knits in confusion.

“You know, like from Beauty and the Beast.”

“Are you comparing me to the Beast?”

“Not quite. He seemed to have more manners when dealing with his captive.”

“I don’t find that amusing.”

“Shocking,” I say and walk over to the fridge. I pull open one of the enormous Sub-Zero doors. Just like he said, there are meals fully prepared and stuck in the fridge with dates marked on the top. Man, the kind of things money can get someone. “Like Brussel sprouts, do you?” I ask, seeing a lot of them in the containers.

“They’re good for you.”

“So I’ve heard.” I shut the fridge and then ask, “Where’s my room?” And then it hits me. “Uh, wait . . . are we going to have to share a room?” I hold up my hand. “Because that’s where I put my foot down. There’s no way I’m sharing a bed with you. I need my own space.”

“This way,” he says, walking toward the staircase just off the grand living room.

“That wasn’t an answer. Are we sleeping in the same bed? I’m going to tell you right now, you won’t want to. I like to sleep naked.”

“Not a hardship for me,” he mutters as he walks up the stairs.

“Was that a compliment?” I ask, trailing behind him. “Are you saying I have a nice body? Wait . . . it doesn’t matter if you did. Don’t be a pervert.”

“I’m not being a pervert. You’re the one who brought up the naked thing.”

“I’m trying to tell you why I’m not a good partner in bed.” I pause and then say, “Wait, I didn’t mean that. I’m a really good partner in bed. I know how to make a man sing to the high heavens with these hands. Miracle workers, they’ve been called before. I’m a good partner in the sexual aspect, the real deal. Amazing at giving head, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, I am. And I’m very comfortable with my sexuality. Very adventurous. But when it comes to actually sleeping—not sex, but sleeping—that’s when things go haywire. I’m erratic. I’ll sleep sideways in bed. I have no problem kicking someone to get them out of the way and I don’t cuddle. So, you know . . . sharing a bed and a room with you isn’t a great idea.”

When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns right and heads down a long hallway.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

I catch up to him. “Then how come you’re not answering me?”

“Because your incessant chatter is annoying me.”

“Wow, you really are such an asshole,” I say as he opens a door on the left.

I step into the room and I’m immediately transfixed by the modern, light-stained four-poster bed, which claims the attention of the room with its soft white linens and fluffy pillows. At the foot of the bed is a bench with pillows, and across from the bed is a fireplace with two mid-century modern black chairs angled toward the flames. Off to the right is an en suite bathroom, which I’m sure is decked out in marble like the kitchen. But what’s really catching my eye is the dresser under the large window that overlooks the front yard. Because on top of it are my three dildos. One pink, one purple, and the suction cup dick I recently purchased.