Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires #2) by Lauren Asher

Me.

The way the reporter describes our relationship is something out of a movie. Whispered secrets by the candlelight. Stolen glances when one of us was looking the other way. A kiss under the stars, with both of us completely oblivious to the world around us.

He frowns. “That never happened.”

“It’s a gossip column, not the Wall Street Journal. They’re not here to present the facts.”

“It’s a wonder they’re still up and running with that mentality.”

“Because articles like ours already have a million reads and counting. The advertisement money alone must keep them afloat.”

His eyes widen. “A million? It was published an hour ago.”

I grin as I drop into the chair across from him. “I told you it would work.”

“I never doubted you to begin with.” He speaks with such sincerity, my chest twinges with a silent reply.

I deflect with humor. “Liar. You totally did.”

“It’s human nature.”

“No, it’s your nature.”

“It’s gotten me this far.”

“No. That’s all thanks to your last name being on the building,” I tease.

“Our name.”

I roll my eyes. “For now.”

“Quick to get rid of me already, wife?”

Somehow, one word seems to cause a rush of warmth from my head to my toes.

Danger. Red alert. DEFCON five activated.

So I do what I always do when Declan stirs up feelings inside of my chest that have no business being there.

I escape.





Turns out I can only avoid Declan for so long when we live in the same house. It doesn’t take him long to find me, struggling to drain a pot of boiling water with only one hand.

“Are you trying to end up in the emergency room again?”

I’m not given a chance to explain as he swoops in and grabs the pot from me.

He glares. “If you wanted my attention, this isn’t the way to get it.”

My mouth drops open. “I am not trying to get your attention.” On the contrary, I was trying to avoid it at all costs—third-degree burns be damned.

“Then what are you doing?” He drains the pasta without me having to ask.

“Cooking.” I grind my teeth together to prevent myself from saying more.

Why is it when I’m the one who doesn’t want to talk, he can’t seem to help himself? The injustice of this all is not lost on me.

He places the empty pot back on the stove. “I can assure you boiling pasta isn’t cooking.”

“Can you go away please? I’m trying to eat in peace.” Dealing with him at work is one thing, but having him in my space, acting holier than thou, is not how I want to spend my night.

You’re just mad because you like having him around.

He lingers like a shadow as I scoop a large helping of noodles onto my plate.

“You should have asked for my help.”

I bristle. “I don’t need your help.”

“Could have fooled me with the way you were holding onto that handle for dear life.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Perhaps there is some riveting documentary about spreadsheets or expense reports you can go fall asleep to?”

He laughs, and it feels like the clouds parted and heaven graced us with a miracle.

Oh, Iris. This is how it all starts.

I recognize the warmth seeping through my chest as he smiles at me.

I hate it. I love it. And I can’t seem to stop myself from craving more of it.

He smiles. “I actually came down to eat.”

“Great. I’ll leave you to it then.” I drench my noodles with pasta sauce before stepping away from the counter. I’ll clean the mess up later once Declan goes away.

“Or you could stay.”

“What?” I blink.

“I never said you had to leave.”

Shit. If I leave, it makes me seem unequipped to handle him for long spans of time without adult supervision.

Probably because it’s true. It’s one thing to spend time around him in an office; it’s a whole other thing to interact with him in the confines of our home.

I shake my head. “Oh no. I had plans to eat upstairs anyway.”

His eyes drop to the napkin and shiny cutlery I set down. When he looks back up, his eyes seem to brighten. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No,” I say too quickly.

His grin widens.

No wonder the man doesn’t smile often. The world wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he were to use them more frequently.

He opens a cabinet and grabs an empty plate before loading it with a healthy amount of noodles. “If it makes you feel better, we could talk about work.”

My horrified expression can’t be masked. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Because it’s normal.”

“Doesn’t make it right!” I laugh.

The skin around his eyes tightens. “I concede. No talking about work.”

“Fine. But only because you seem pathetically in need of some company.” I drop into the barstool with defeat. During the limited time Declan and I have interacted in the house, we have never eaten together. He seems to always busy himself in his office while I cook a sad meal for one. And unlike our fake date, this feels intimate. At least significantly more intimate than eating in a restaurant full of people for show.