Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

13. Tilly

13

Tilly

Once the door slams behind me, I stand in the bedroom with anger still pumping through my veins. I can’t believe he would do that to me. Maybe it was fun and games for him, but I am certainly not seeing the funny side.

I strip off my filthy clothes, and peeking my head out the door to check that the coast is clear—I’ve already been embarrassed enough, I don’t need Jake seeing me in my underwear—I toss them down onto the dark wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs. I’m sure they’ve made a mess of his floor, but I don’t care.

Once I enter the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror and gasp at the state I’m in. My hair is caked in mud, and dried brown patches are stuck to my cheeks, my forehead, my chin, and my neck. If I was going on an undercover mission with the Marines, I’d fit right in.

“I am going to kill him. And when I’m finished killing him, I’m going to kill him again.”

I reach my hand into the shower and turn it on, still ranting about what he’s done as I pull my hair out of the braid I tied it in this morning.

At least the water’s hot, and as it pummels down on my body, I press my hands against my face and rub at the muck that’s stuck to it.

“I need you to jump in there and get the one I just bought,” I mimic sarcastically, repeating Jake’s words. “Don’t worry; they won’t hurt you.”

Of course not. They were tiny piglets. It’s Jake who’s the pig.

Some manly-looking shampoo sits on an elevated glass shelf beside manly-looking shower gel and some other manly-looking things. I grab the shampoo and squeeze the thick lotion into my hand.

As I lather it through my hair, the warm smell of patchouli fills my nose, and whether I want it to or not, the scent seems to calm me a little. Maybe this is why Jake is always so darned laid back. I know it isn’t, but my sarcasm levels are dancing at the top of the sarcasto-meter right now.

When I’m done with my hair, I lift the shower gel and lather it over my body. It smells of zesty lime and, admittedly, is rather refreshing. I scrub every inch of myself, paying particular attention to my nails. The mud has gotten under them and is stubbornly refusing to get out. It takes ages to get them completely clean.

When I’m done, I just stand there for a while, letting the water flow over me. It’s only now that I gaze around the shower. It’s pretty modern with one of those rainfall shower heads. It really does feel like you’re caught in a downpour, only the water is lovely and hot, and you’re not getting annoyed that your clothes are getting soaking wet.

When I finally coerce myself out of the shower, I find two huge, fluffy towels draped over a warm radiator. I didn’t notice them earlier.

Probably because you were too busy threatening to murder your new fake fiancé.

Yes. There’s that.

I wrap one towel around my body, even though it goes around me nearly twice, and wrap my hair in the other, doing that turban-like twist on my head that no man has a clue how to do. After that, I pad into the bedroom.

Clearly, this is Jake’s room, and rather nosily, I wander around it. There’s a large bookshelf that runs from floor to ceiling, every shelf tightly packed with books. I trace my finger along them, noting the titles. Surprisingly, these aren’t novels. Every one of them is non-fiction.

Has he read them all?

He has everything from autobiographies to how-to books. There are books on investing standing next to poetry and encyclopedias. There’s history from all sorts of time periods, as well as atlases and mythological discoveries.

Wow. This is not the guy I dated ten years ago.

These clearly aren’t here for show. I mean, it’s his bedroom. Who’s he going to show off to?

My mind then goes somewhere I don’t want it to, and I gasp. “Oh.”

I shake my head as though that’s going to uproot the thought and swiftly move away from the bookshelf. Heading to the bed, I see the clothes he’s laid out for me. There’s a huge t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would probably fit me three times over.

Great.

Maybe…

I then move over to his dresser and open a drawer. I see underwear and quickly slam it closed. Not that one. It takes several more drawers before I find some coiled belts.

“This could work.”

I dry myself off, and after slipping my underwear back on, I pull on the sweatpants. Not only are they huge in the waist, but they’re also ridiculously long. I turn them up several times, now looking like Captain Jack Sparrow, and then I lift the belt from the bed.

Alas, I didn’t think this through. If the joggers are too big, then the belt’s going to be too big as well.

“Right. Now what?”

And suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my head. I move back to the bathroom and retrieve my hair band. It’s pretty stretchy, so it should do the trick. Gathering a bunch of the waistband in one hand, I pull it out so the joggers are as tight as I’m going to make them, and then I tie my hair band around the excess material.

It won’t win any fashion awards, but at least the pants will stay up. I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day. That being said, when I put his t-shirt on, it nearly reaches my knees, so if there is a wardrobe malfunction, I think I’ll be covered.

Clearly, Jake won’t have a hairdryer, so I have no choice but to rub my hair dry with the towel. I’m vigorous with my movements. I have a lot of hair. After some doing, it’s as dry as it's going to be, and dragging my fingers through it, I comb it the best I can.

Finally, I slip on the thick pair of socks he left out. Like everything else, they are far too big for me. Actually, as I look down at my boots, I do feel a little guilty. I’ve traipsed mud all over the floor, and no doubt, there’s a trail down the stairs, too.

Well, whose fault is that?

I know, but if I hadn’t been in such a mood, I would have taken them off at the door like a normal person.

Lifting my boots, I take them in one hand, grab the towels in the other, and make my way downstairs.

I follow the smell of bacon—the irony is not lost on me, though I do wonder if he’s smart enough to do it on purpose—and find Jake in the kitchen, standing at the stove.

“I need a brush,” I declare as I enter.

Evidently, Jake didn’t hear me come into the room because he spins around with a spatula in hand, a slightly surprised look on his face. He doesn’t say anything for a second and instead gives me a long look.

“You look far better without all that muck on your face.”

“Well, whose fault was that?” I retort.

His eyebrows dance a little. “I was talking about your makeup.”

His words and the way he’s looking at me bring me up short. Here I am, all ready for a fight, and instead, Jake throws me a compliment. What am I supposed to do with that?

He never did like me wearing makeup, and admittedly, when we were together, I wore very little. He always told me I was pretty enough. I didn’t need all that “muck,” as he called it. When I moved to the city, all the girls in the office wore it, and somewhere along the way, I followed the crowd and started doing the same.

“A brush?” I repeat, not really knowing how to reply.

He smirks then. “I don’t own a brush. You may not have noticed, but I’m a guy.”

“Then how do you clean your floors?” I balk.

He looks confused, which quickly morphs into realization. “Oh, a brush.”

I look at him like he might actually have lost his mind.

He laughs then. “I thought you meant for your hair.”

I don’t laugh and just stare at him, waiting for him to give me the answer I’m looking for.

“What do you need a brush for?”

“I got mud all over your house. I need to clean it up.”

Jake shakes his head. “Leave it. I’ll do it later.”

“No. I’ll do it now. Where is it? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just go looking until I find it.”

“But this is nearly ready.” He nods to the bacon in the pan.

“I’m not spring cleaning the house, Jake.”

He huffs and shakes his head. Eventually, he points to a door. “In there.”

The door leads to a cleaning cupboard, and upon discovering a brush and dustpan, I leave him to his cooking and find where my trail of mud begins.

Ten minutes later, there’s no trace of me or my mud-covered boots, and after tossing the mud outside, I return to the kitchen to put the brush and pan back where I found them. There are two plates loaded with food sitting on the island; Jake’s already tucking into his.

“Come on. It’s getting cold.”

Admittedly, I am starving. Maybe that has something to do with my earlier exercise, not that I would recommend piglet chasing as a fitness regime. There are far easier ways to burn calories. I settle myself at the table and look at the array of bacon, sausage, eggs, and pancakes. My plate is as full as his, though there isn’t a chance I’m going to eat it all. Maybe Elsa might like a treat later.

We eat in silence, the tension heavy between us. While I’m not as angry as earlier, I’m certainly not thrilled, either. Apart from getting in such a mess, my pride is punctured. I was the entertainment for all those farmers, and no doubt, I’ll never hear the last of it anytime I meet them in the future.

“I’m sorry, Tilly,” Jake says.

His words surprise me. Partly because I didn’t expect him to apologize, and partly because it feels like he might have just been reading my mind.

“It was only meant to be a bit of fun. You’ve had so much on your plate with this ex of yours; I just wanted to hear you laugh again.”

“It was everyone else who was laughing, Jake,” I snarl.

“I know. And that’s why I’m trying to apologize. Things got out of hand. I never expected your antics to attract every farmer in the county. You’ve had a lot on your mind. I wanted to distract you, is all. Clearly, things went a bit too far.”

“A bit?” I counter, though listening to his perfectly understandable explanation has tamed my annoyance.

It’s just the sort of thing Jake would do. It’s the sort of thing he always did. Whenever I got stressed out, he would think of something to take my mind off it.

He flashes me a coy smile across the table.

I can’t help but smirk back at him.

“Well, you certainly succeeded,” I say. “I will admit, Bryan was the last thing on my mind as I ran after squealing piglets and fell in mud and pig poop.”

Jake breaks out into a chuckle then.

“But I’m giving you fair warning,” I continue, “I will get you back. I promise you that.”

And I will. When he’s least expecting it.