One Midnight Kiss: A Billionaire Fake Fiancée Holiday Romance
One Midnight Kiss: Chapter 14

I wasn’t thrilled Fox was here, but I didn’t have the energy to haul him out of my kitchen. And soup didn’t sound like the worst idea. How long had it been since I’d eaten?

His presence was more inconvenient than anything else, especially since I was in the middle of one of the juiciest, sluttiest romance novels I’d ever read in my life when he decided to knock on my door.

The audacity.

The flowers were nice, I supposed, but they felt like a ploy. “Why flowers?” I called out.

“To thank you for an amazing kickoff to the campaign and as a get-well gift.”

Definitely a ploy.

Another wave of chills washed over me and I pulled the blanket tighter around me. He banged around in my kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and slammed shut. I heard the clang of a spoon hitting the floor and several low curses that made me smirk despite myself.

“Are you planning on burning down my house, or is that part of the cooking process?” I called out, voice scratchy from the cold that had flattened me since Thursday.

Fox poked his head around the corner, a sheepish look on his stupidly handsome face. “I’m working on it. Did you know you have nothing useful in your kitchen?”

“I live off takeout, so I don’t need anything useful in there.”

“No wonder you’re sick,” he said. “That’s not healthy.”

“Oh, whatever. I’ve seen your fridge. The only green thing in there was the moldy cheese.”

He grinned at me. “Things get busy around launch time.”

And yet he had taken the time to come check on me. What the hell is going on?

He disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he was here. Why, of all the people in my life, was Fox Samuelson—the playboy tech billionaire—standing in my kitchen making me soup?

It didn’t add up with the man I knew from my research into him and his background. Christa had told me the guy was a total playboy. I didn’t think I was in danger of him trying to get me into bed. I knew I looked like shit and my undercarriage could probably use a rinse. I was barely in a position to stand, let alone be desirable. So, I knew that couldn’t be the reason for his visit.

He came back into the living room carefully carrying a bowl. He handed it to me like it was a priceless artifact. “I’m really not hungry,” I said.

Through my plugged nose, I managed to smell something acidic and bitter. It didn’t smell like any soup I had ever eaten. I looked inside the bowl. It wasn’t soup. It was Theraflu, poured into a bowl instead of a mug.

I glared at him. “This isn’t soup.”

“It’s hot and it’s got medicine in it,” he said, settling onto the opposite end of the couch. “Drink it. You need it.”

“You’re aware most people make actual soup when they show up uninvited to someone’s house, right? And I have mugs. I don’t drink out of a bowl like a dog.”

He gave me a wry grin. “Your kitchen is confusing. I couldn’t find a mug, so I pivoted.”

“Pivoted?” I shook my head. “You could have just asked.”

“Drink your bowl,” he said. “As for food, it turns out you don’t have shit in your kitchen, and even if you did, I wouldn’t know how to make it. So I ordered takeout. Red curry. It’s on the way.”

I blinked at him, incredulous. “You went through my kitchen, decided I had nothing, and then ordered red curry?”

“Spicy food will clear you right up. Now drink the Theraflu before it gets cold. It does not improve the flavor.”

I narrowed my eyes but took a sip from the bowl. The bitter liquid tasted like hot fruit punch and aspirin. I choked it down my sore throat. “You better not have gone through all my drawers.”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Not all of them. I haven’t made it to the bedroom yet. But I did check out the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that felt suspiciously like amusement, which was dangerous. He was enjoying himself too much.

Something had changed between us after that night with the blown tire. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but I knew I didn’t despise him as much as I used to, and that was super inconvenient. I didn’t want to like him.

“I don’t let guys come over to my house, you know,” I said, more to remind myself than to inform him.

He shrugged, unapologetic. “You told me. And you didn’t let me in, remember?”

“And yet, here you are.” I sipped the medicine and stared at his profile. I should’ve told him to leave, but I didn’t. And it wasn’t just because I didn’t have the energy. The truth was, I didn’t want him to leave, and that realization made me feel chills in a different way. Clearly, the fever had fried my brain.

“Do you watch football?” he asked suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking because you want to watch the game?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t watch football.”

He reached for the remote, clearly not caring if I wanted to watch football or not. I watched him flip through the channels until he found the Monday night pregame show. He got up, went back to the kitchen and rummaged around again. When he returned, he had a can of my soda.

He cracked it open and took a sip, making himself at home on the far side of the couch. I watched him, feeling oddly comfortable. Here he was, this man who was supposed to be all sharp edges and billionaire swagger, sitting on my couch like he belonged here. It made me uneasy, and yet I couldn’t look away.

The worst part about it was he looked like he belonged. Like he had been to my house a hundred times before and just fit right in. Seeing his place, I knew he wasn’t all about the luxury, but still. He was a billionaire. But he seemed so normal.

“Why are you here, Fox?” I asked, breaking the silence. “What do you want?”

He looked at me, feigning surprise. “You don’t think I just came by to check on you?”

“Of course not,” I said, deadpan.

He smiled but it looked a little sad. “You’re sick enough to miss work, and you haven’t even taken your vacation days this year, according to Penelope. It sounded serious enough to see how you were doing. It’s almost Thanksgiving, Natalia. I appreciate all the hard work you’ve been doing but now you need to rest.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do.”

For a moment, I was too stunned to respond.

“I think I might not hate you as much as I thought,” I said finally, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

He grinned, a flash of relief crossing his face. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he insisted, his voice lighter, teasing. “Usually, people just want me for my money or my stunning good looks.”

“And your modesty,” I added dryly.

“Exactly,” he said, smirking.

A minute later, the doorbell rang. He jumped up and went to answer it. Again, it was like he belonged. When he returned, he opened the bag and hauled out containers of curry and rice and spring rolls. He spread them out on the coffee table in front of us. I eyed him warily.

We dug into the food, tendrils of steam wafting up from the containers. The spicy aroma tickled my senses. The red curry was spicy enough to make my eyes water. Surprisingly, my sinuses cleared. I was able to breathe a little better. I loved Thai food but didn’t eat it too often.

“You actually ordered something I liked,” I said, holding back the surprise in my tone.

He shrugged, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I had a hunch,” he said, sounding daringly close to self-satisfied. It was that maddening smirk again as he watched me navigate through my bowl of curry.

I didn’t want to know how he knew what I liked, unless he really took a wild guess. That would be crazy. We ate in silence for a while, the football game commentators filling in the quiet gaps between us. The spiced aroma of the food mixed with the crisp citrus scent of my medicine, and for a moment, it made me forget that this was anything but ordinary.

Fox kept watching me, making sure I was eating.

“Stop,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Quit staring at me.”

“Was I staring?” he asked.

“You’re still doing it,” I said, frustration in my voice.

He shrugged, looking almost vulnerable, which was a look I’d never seen on him before. “I care about you, Natalia. I want you to feel better.”

I stared at him, searching his face for any hint of sarcasm or a joke, but there was none. He was being honest. My pulse quickened. Jokes, I could handle, but I had no idea how to respond to sincerity.

“I don’t know why,” he quickly added. “But I do.”

A normal, rational person would probably hear that and get weirded out, but I wasn’t normal. Or rational. I liked that he was honest and said he didn’t know why he liked me. That was when it hit me that I actually liked him too. But I’m not about to tell him that.

I couldn’t muster the energy to verbally spar with him. My belly was full. I could breathe through my nose, and I was exhausted. I put my carton on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch, letting the warmth of the curry and the comfort of his presence wash over me. My eyes felt heavy, and before I knew it, I was drifting off, the sound of the football game fading into the background.

I woke up to darkness. It took me a few panicked seconds to figure out where I was. I reached out and found the familiar feel of my sheets. I was in my bed, the sheets damp with sweat. My fever had finally broken.

I pushed myself up, blinking in the dim light, trying to remember how I got here. I didn’t recall coming to bed on my own. The last thing I remembered was falling asleep on the couch.

The thought that Fox had carried me here made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t quite name. It felt foreign but kind of good as well. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and took a second to get my bearings.

I climbed out of bed, padding quietly into the living room. I expected to find it empty, maybe with a note left on the counter. Instead, I spotted Fox. He was stretched out on the couch, fast asleep. The TV was on, some late-night talk show host on the screen.

I looked down at him. He looked younger like this, the harsh lines of his face softened in sleep. He had covered himself with the throw blanket I kept on the couch for decoration. His head was propped up on one of my decorative pillows. Something in my chest clenched, an ache I hadn’t felt in years, as if something broken inside me had started to knit back together.

How was that possible?

I stepped closer, being careful not to make a sound. The moment was too peaceful to shatter by waking him. I draped another blanket over him, tucking it in around his shoulders. He didn’t stir, just murmured something under his breath and settled deeper into the cushions.

I stood there for a long moment, watching him. This man who I thought I knew, who was turning out to be so much more complicated than I could have ever imagined. He made me feel things I wasn’t sure I was ready to feel.

But I didn’t despise him. Not anymore.

And that was the scariest part of all.