I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19 Almost Said Yes

I stood in the shower like a soggy pretzel, hoping the scalding water would burn the confusion out of my skull.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Ashton’s words kept looping: ‘Let’s get married for real.’

Excuse me? Was I concussed? Had I slipped and hit my head and developed some sexy-rich-boy-themed delusions?

Because last I checked, we were in a mutually agreed fake engagement. No strings, no vows, no wedding hashtags.

And yet, there he was, five minutes ago, standing in front of me with that infuriatingly composed face and that annoyingly persuasive baritone, dropping a ‘let’s get hitched’ like he was suggesting brunch.

I mean, what even was that?

He’d leaned in, talked in that velvet-coated, emotionless CEO tone like he was negotiating a merger, but the only thing merging in my brain was every single R-rated thought I’d ever had about him.

I hadn’t registered a single word, too busy inhaling his scent, staring at his lips, and letting my dumb, horny body teeter on the edge of blurting out yes.

Thank God for the ringing phone that cut through the haze before I threw myself at him.

I cranked the water hotter, whacked my forehead gently against the tile, and groaned.

What was wrong with me? The second Ashton appeared, my logic dipped out like a side.character in a horror film, leaving my poor brain cells to fend for themselves against the tsunami of testosterone and abs.

I wondered if he saw through my act, if he knew that while he was talking strategic alliances, all I could think about was how his Adam’s apple might taste.

If he ever realised I was so into him that I wasn’t even listening to his perfectly sensible, legally airtight proposal and was just picturing him naked… I’d actually die. Of humiliation. Possibly on the spot.

‘Damn it,’ I muttered, smacking the tap like it owed me money.

I tried to rationalise it: maybe it was just the post-Rhys drought. After all, it’d been a while. My libido had gone into hibernation and Ashton had apparently jump-started it back to life.

Besides, it wasn’t all my fault. Even Agent Peggy Carter nearly face-planted into Steve Rogers’ pecs after the serum transformation, and she was literally a government-trained professional.

If she couldn’t resist a good set of chesticles, what hope did I have?

I was just a regular woman with a pulse. And a highly reactive, dangerously thirsty hormone system.

By the time I stepped out of my extra-long shower, my fingers were prunier than a sad raisin in the sun.

I stood in front of my wardrobe. Do I wear my usual sleepwear, which consisted of a threadbare uni tee with a coffee stain shaped suspiciously like Australia and a pair of shorts so tiny they’d get flagged on I*******m?

Or do I pretend to have dignity and put on something that didn’t scream ‘I’m trying to seduce you’?

In the end, I reached for a long, ankle-grazing dressing gown I’d bought during a misguided boho phase and never worn again. It was shapeless, scratchy, and about as flattering as a camping tarp.

I tiptoed out of my flat and paused at Ashton’s door.

1/2

He hadn’t pressured me for an answer when he suggested we get married. Said I should take my time and think about it.

But honestly, I was terrified that if I saw those hypnotic eyes of his again, I’d throw all rational thought out the window and say ‘ yes’.

Worse, I was worried I’d be desperate enough to suggest we celebrate our new relationship status with a cheeky roll in the sheets.

Not that that was something I’d usually do.

Then again, I wasn’t really a one-night-stand kind of girl either. Or a fake fiancée kind of girl.

Apparently, I was going through a phase called ‘acting completely out of character and confusing the hell out of myself’.

When I finally pushed open the door to his place and saw the empty living room, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or gutted.

Possibly both.

He’d left a note on the coffee table. Said he had to fly to another city for urgent business but he’d be back in time for the party. Also said I could treat the place like mine.

Dangerous words. Because five seconds later, I was standing in his bedroom weighing the moral implications of crashing on his sofa versus full-on starfishing in his bed.

The bed won.

It smelled like him, and I slept like a baby.

Next morning, I woke up to find that my mum had called me roughly two dozen times and left a string of messages long enough to qualify as a podcast. Each one more shouty than the last, blaming me for Louisa’s accident.

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