Page 45 of Rival to the Billionaire

Jenny heads in, closes the door and turns on the shower.

And a part of me feels like some sort of sick voyeur for wishing I could see through the damn door.

I sigh.

I'm still in the master office area, but I lean back in the leather office chair and look at my laptop, the code on the screen slowly blurring into the code that's swimming in my head.

In my mind, I see Jenny's eyes.

See her blush.

Hear her gasp.

As adrenaline pumps through me, I decide to take a break.

Standing up, I stretch my arms up and kick my dress shoes to the side of the office desk. In nothing but the white tank I wore under my shirt, slacks, and socks, I walk over to the balcony doors and step out.

The cool air hits me and calms my racing pulse as I open one of the French doors and take in the skyline of Las Vegas.

I can hear the soft, low hum of the nearby traffic from the strip. I see the outlines of the Wynn and Palazzo casinos across the street.

Inhaling the cool night air, I close my eyes and run a hand through my hair. The Las Vegas atmosphere and the warmth must be getting to me. Because here, I feel like a different person.

In Seattle, I never settle down. Never enjoy a moment.

But here, I feel like I can just…be.

I lean against the balcony railing and open my eyes, peering into the night. Until a mouthwatering scent enters my nostrils from behind.

I turn to find Jenny walking up. She's dressed in a pair of white cotton shorts and a silky black tank top.

Her ginger hair, normally straightened, is slightly damp around her nape, the curls there barely contained by the small shower cap she removes as she heads towards me.

I straighten and turn to her, leaning back to place both elbows on the balcony railing.

She's beautiful.

And to look at her right now is to feel like I have just been lifted into the clouds.

"All done in there?"

I watch as her eyes rake over my frame. "Yeah. Though, I should have known to bring my own shower cap. The ones the hotels provide are never big enough."

I smile. "That's because you have a lot of hair."

"Too much sometimes." She touches a tendril escaping the cap and sighs. "My mother used to say that when I was a kid. She would tell me that I had too much hair and I should cut it short like her. I wish I had listened to her."

I laugh quietly. "Trust me when I say that it looks gorgeous the way it is." I pause, taking her in. "You never wear it curly anymore. Not like you used to… Why? I like it."

She shrugs and looks to the flashing lights across the strip. "It's more professional for work."

"Yet, you wear it straight for more than work. You wear it straight all the time, in fact."

"That's because I'm a Bajan woman. A Black woman. Our hair is something we're taught to 'tame' from a young age. And I was taught no different." She tugs on a strand of her curls. "For better or for worse."

"I like it the way it is. I like you the way you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

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