Page 83 of Faking it with the Billionaire

“That wasn’t up to you,” he says sharply. He stares at me as though he’s waiting for me to spill some other secret.

I’m not discussing our fake engagement with him. It’s none of his business. And whether he’s caught on to it or not, it’s irrelevant regarding the threats.

Finally, Fitzgerald opens his mouth. “I saw who delivered the threat to Greyson’s mailbox.”

“What?” My eyes widen, shock evident in my features. There are times I can keep my cool, pretend I’m not surprised by news, but this revelation has me jumping out of my seat.

I’m standing, staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Did you tell Greyson? The police? Anyone?” I ask.

“I did not because it puts me in a predicament. Sit back down,” Fitzgerald says and gestures with his finger at the chair. The man’s hair is slicked back, greasy, and his overpriced suit is one size too tight. Like he’s trying to make up for something.

I don’t want to sit, but I also want every detail, and I’d prefer if Greyson heard it as well. At least one other witness, because if he denies it later, then I’m screwed.

I can’t record our conversation with my cell phone. That would be illegal.

“Who delivered the threatening note?” I ask, hanging on to his every word.

A slimy grin curves at the edges of his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

My stomach churns. “That’s what I asked.”

He taps his fingers together, relaxing in his chair. The smugness rolls off him like a fog, and it makes me sick to my stomach without even hearing his request.

“Who delivered the note?” I’m not playing games. This is Greyson’s future on the line, and his daughter’s life is being threatened.

He pushes his chair back. “Come sit on my lap,” Fitzgerald says.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not asking for a blow job. Just sit on my lap.”

“I’d rather not.” What a creep!

“Oh, come on. You’re sticking it to Greyson on a regular basis. You can’t tell me that’s real. I can show you a good time. No strings attached. Unless you like to be tied up, baby.”

I stand, unwilling to take his sexual harassment a moment longer.

“Sit your pretty little ass down if you want me to save Greyson’s career.”

My mouth hangs agape, and I put my butt back down on the chair.

“That’s a good girl. I like that you follow my orders.”

“You’re a fucking pig.” I’m not playing these mind games with him or fuck games. Whatever he wants to think of them, as I’m not going to indulge his disgusting fantasies.

Fitzgerald shrugs, not the least bit appalled by my suggestion. “You will sit, and you won’t move your pretty ass if you want Greyson to play for the Ice Dragons next year.”

He unzips his trousers and pulls out his cock.

“Put that away,” I demand. If he comes anywhere near me with his dick, I’ll grab the letter opener and stab the fucker where it counts.

But he doesn’t move other than his hand, with which he pumps his dick as he stares at me.

I can’t take his level of shit. I stand and head for the door. “If you leave this room, Greyson won’t be playing hockey for any team ever again.” His breathing comes out labored as he continues to give himself a hand job.

“I’ll report you for sexual harassment,” I say, and slide my phone out of my purse, snapping a picture of his hand on his dick.