FAKE DATING WITH BENEFITS MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS (Ophelia Corrigan) novel Chapter 202

CHAPTER 202

– JAMIE

Simon kissed my neck while I struggled with the last button on my denim jacket.

“You look gorgeous like this,” he murmured, sweeping my hair aside. “All that denim. You have any idea what it does to me?”

“Makes you forget we’re running late?”

“That too.”

His hands slid to my waist. I turned in his arms, laughing, before my husband could turn the morning into yet another excuse to drag me back to bed.

“Simon, I’m serious. Martin’s waiting for us in Newark.”

“So am I. Seriously turned on by my smoking-hot wife.”

“Well, your wife is going to be furious if we miss this chance.”

He stole a quick kiss, then another, deliberately longer one.

“There. Now we can go.”

I smiled as I grabbed my purse. The kids had already left for school, and we’d told Chloe we’d be gone all day. Sylvia knew we’d probably be home late, too. Everything was taken care of. At home, anyway.

We took the elevator down to the garage. Simon was heading toward our Range Rover when he slowed.

“Whose motorcycle is that?”

I followed his gaze. A big, gleaming black motorcycle was parked near the other vehicles. I didn’t remember seeing it before.

Our driver happened to be walking past with a small cup of coffee and stopped when he heard the question.

“Miss Chloe’s, Mr. Hart.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Simon nodded without much interest and opened the passenger door for me.

“You didn’t know she had a motorcycle?” I asked.

“Nope. Didn’t know Sylvia wore a wig until yesterday, either.”

“Sylvia wears a wig?”

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FAKE DATING WITH BENEFITS: MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS

“Apparently you didn’t know that one either.”

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I laughed and climbed in. He shut my door gently, walked around the SUV, and slid behind the wheel. Before pulling out, he checked a message from Martin with the updated address.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yep. Martin’s already waiting outside. From what he’s been able to confirm, the woman’s home.”

“Great. Now we just have to hope she likes surprise visitors.”

Simon chuckled and put the car in gear.

***

Once traffic eased up, Simon rested his right hand on my thigh. I threaded my fingers through his and stroked his hand with my thumb.

“Something’s bothering you,” I said.

“A little.”

“What is it?”

He took a few seconds to answer.

“Sometimes I wonder when we’re finally going to get a chance to breathe again. We’re supposed to be enjoying this part of our lives, you know? Being married. We have so much to be happy about, but it feels like something always goes wrong.”

I looked at him. There was an exhaustion in his voice he didn’t even try to hide anymore. Since the scandal involving Vérité’s products, my husband had barely slept. His days were consumed by meetings, phone calls, and problems that seemed to multiply by the hour. And no matter how hard he tried to conceal it, I knew how deeply the victims’ suffering affected him.

“Sorry,” he added. “I shouldn’t be dumping this on you.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Simon, look at me for a second.”

He glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road.

“You’re my husband. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine just to keep me from worrying.”

“I know, baby.”

“You know, but you keep doing it.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

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“You know me way too well.”

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“And I plan to keep getting to know you for the next fifty years. So you’d better get used to sharing your problems with me.”

“Only fifty?”

I smiled.

“Depends on how you behave.”

He laughed softly.

“In that case, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Simon lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to my fingers.

We stopped for coffee and something to eat. Simon insisted I pick out a sandwich even though I swore I wasn’t hungry. Ten minutes later, I’d demolished half of it, and he was watching me with an unbearably smug expression.

“Not a word,” I warned.

“Haven’t said a thing.”

I rolled my eyes but saved the other half for him.

By the time we reached Newark, Martin was waiting outside a small, unassuming coffee shop.

He wore a dark coat and carried a slim folder. He shook Simon’s hand and gave me a tired smile.

“I confirmed the former owner’s identity,” he announced. “Rosa Alvarez. She’s Cuban. Sold the grocery store a few years ago, but she still lives nearby.”

“Is she the woman in the photograph?” I asked.

“We still need her to confirm that. The store records match the time period and the name written on the

back.”

Martin opened the folder and showed us copies of the documents he’d collected. Simon examined them carefully.

“Does she know we’re coming?” he asked.

“I called and told her I wanted to talk about her old store. I didn’t mention Annie. She sounded suspicious, but she didn’t say no.”

“Then let’s not push her,” I said. “If she feels cornered, she might shut the door in our faces.”

“Agreed,” Simon said.

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We followed Martin through residential streets lined with closely spaced houses, tiny front yards, and trees already shedding their leaves. The neighborhood seemed quiet.

We stopped outside a modest house with a narrow porch and flowerpots arranged neatly along the steps. A curtain shifted behind the window as we got out of our cars.

“I think she saw us,” I whispered.

Simon placed a hand against my back.

“Stay close to me.”

We climbed the steps, and Martin rang the bell. So much time passed that I started to think no one was going to answer. Then came slow footsteps, the rattle of a chain, and the click of a lock.

The door opened just a few inches.

An elderly woman with gray hair peered at us over her glasses. Deep wrinkles lined her face, and her expression was wary.

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