Page 18 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

“This isn’t the kind of heat I’m used to,” I tell her as I reach for another scraper. She hasn’t moved away and she hasn’t told me her favorite line, to get lost, so I ease into moving the tool against the house with her. Why not? I’ll take any chance to hang out with her. Maybe if I do it long enough, I’ll get her out of my mind, and she won’t be a “new challenge” to work on.

“It’s drier than California’s,” she tells me.

“And my wit?”

I watch her bite back a smile. “No. That’s scorchingly dry.”

“Do you travel to Cali often?”

“No. I was born there.”

I grunt in surprise. “I figured you for a local.”

“Why’s that?”

“You offered me the same rosy welcome that the old guys at the coffee shop did.”

She giggles. “Ken and Earl told you to get lost, too?”

“More or less.”

“I met them when I went to get coffee that day.”

I turn, pausing in the scraping to frown at her. “You just got here to the B&B?” I can’t picture it. Now that I’m looking at her, she does look like a California beach babe. That golden beach hair, the sun-kissed glow of her skin, how fit and athletic she seems, and outdoorsy too.

“Yeah, right before you tried to push me down on the sidewalk.” She gives me a side-eye. “I thought you New Yorkers knew how to walk without your phone in your face.”

“I was desperate for directions.”

“I’d say you’re desperate, all right.”

I shake my head at her jab. Is she talking about my eagerness to get to her and how much she’s putting up a fight? Or is she joking about my lack of navigational skills without the aid of the internet?

“How’d you know I was from New York?”

“Well, you sound like it. And Marian told me.”

Interesting. I’ve been wondering if she’s so resistant to me because she recognized me. My publicist chose this spot because it’s remote and I’d have slim chances of everyone knowing who I was. Lauren took so quickly to giving me the cold shoulder that I worried she might have seen all the rags and wanted to take pity on Felicity. If Lauren saw what my ex-fling claims and figured I was a jerk, it would make sense. She doesn’t seem to be aware of who I am. I’m not exactly a celebrity like the people in Hollywood I’ve met and invested in, but I am considered one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. More than that, since she’s arrived, she hasn’t Googled me and learned about it all.

Why?

“This is a far reach from New York,” she comments.

I smile, scraping as I take that for the triumph it is. She left that open for me to respond to. Her initiating conversation is a win.

“I needed to get away for a while.”

“Because you’re a workaholic?” She glances at me. “I heard you asking Marian about the cell and internet reception.”

“I do prioritize my work, but other things have been stressing me out lately.” I’m excited that we’re talking, but I’m hesitant to be completely honest and open. She isn’t, so I’m guarded too.

“Women?” she guesses.

“Are you fishing for info? You wanna know if I’m available?”

She gives me a scathing one-over. “I know your type. You’re the kind of man who thinks he’s always available.”

I narrow my eyes. Maybe she has seen the rags. Why else would she be so quick to imply I’m a cheater?

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