Fakemates

Chapter Four

Dean

It didn't matter how beautiful she looked standing on the other side of my doorway. It didn't matter that I enjoyed her face more naturally than all caked up.

Gone was that so-called dress and replaced with a pair of black yoga pants that should be fucking illegal for her to wear and a low-cut tank top.

I knew Los Angeles was hot, but fuck, she made it hotter. Her supple breasts were perfect, the cleavage just the right amount. She styled her hair up in a ponytail, and I could see the bushel of little curls.

I love the bounce in her golden locks whenever she laughs or runs. It was one of the things I somewhat remember from all of the time we spent together. Her curls.

She used to straighten her hair so much, and it was rare to spot her curls, but when I did. I remember I would smile.

They were cute. She was cute. But I never paid her too much attention. As cute as she was, she was a kid at the time. A little kid, and one I never really acknowledged.

"You're late,"

Evelyn let out another small yawn as she rubbed her eyes. Why was that so fucking adorable? I had to force myself not to smile when she did it.

"It's early, and I'm still a little hungover. Cut me some slack."

"I told you eight. Do you know what time it is now?" I hissed. "It's eight-thirty. Where were you?" I shouted and saw her wince as she closed her eyes.

She rubbed her face and let out a harsh breath of air.

"Sleeping. I was fucking sleeping."

My jaw clenched. Every time she cursed, all I wanted to do was teach her a fucking lesson. I wanted to throw her over my knee, and redden her ass.

I wanted to shove my fingers into her mouth, until she was choking and spit was dribbling down her chin. I wanted to fuck the attitude right out of her.

"Get in."

She stepped foot inside, and I saw her eyes roam around my house. It was a two-story Mediterranean villa in a private and gated community.

Every aspect of this house was over-the-top and expensive, and each room was artistically and perfectly articulated to precision.

My interior designer had gone all out with the decorating and furniture. It seemed like one of those houses you see in magazines.

It had four bedrooms, five bathrooms, and over three thousand square feet of living space. Once I decided to settle in Los Angeles, my realtor found it for me.

I was always traveling back and forth for work but decided I wanted to just stay in one place. I wanted to keep myself grounded as I worked on new businesses and met with potential clients and investors.

I led her up the spiral staircase, down the carpeted hallway, and where my study was.

My lawyer had just left after handing me the finished business contract that I called him just last night to do.

After telling him what I wanted and my conditions, I told him I needed it done fast and quickly. Her eyes were still wide and in shock as she took in the study.

I knew I had money. I knew where I lived. I knew everything was expensive, and for some reason, I wanted her to know as well. I wanted her to know how much fucking money I had and how I was living my life.

Her eyes darted past the bookcase I had in the back to the bar I had in the corner, the leather chairs, and the expensive paintings on the walls, and I saw her nervously swallow as she stood right in the middle of the room.