Page 1 of Christmas With A Billionaire

Chapter 1

Autumn

It was five weeks before Christmas, and the Art Institute of Chicago became my refuge from the holiday rush. The quiet halls after hours wrapped me in serenity, and my footsteps echoed as I made my final rounds, taking in the stunning pieces from our upcoming exhibition featuring emerging Black artists from the South Side. Each painting told a story of home, love, and triumph—stories that deserved to be heard.

“There’s my favorite curator.”

The deep, warm voice sent ripples of recognition through me before I even turned around. Twirling on my heels brought about a satisfaction to my soul that I warred with whenever he entered my space. Tyson Benefield stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the area with a presence that made the vast gallery feel intimate. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a GQ cover in his onyx suit. He’d loosened his tie, and his jacket was draped over one arm – the picture of casual elegance thatonly he could pull off. My heart performed its usual betrayal, beating faster at the sight of him.

“You’re supposed to be in New York.” A smile spread across my face as he crossed the room toward me. I counted his steps, measuring the decreasing distance between us as his warm and spicy cologne wrapped around me like an embrace.

“And miss watching you in your element? Never.” He stopped beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as we gazed at the painting before us. “Tell me what you see.”

I breathed in his familiar scent. It reminded me of late-night study sessions and early-morning coffee runs from our college days. “It’s a piece by Jasmine Taylor. She paints the South Side as we remember it – full of life, color, and promise. Here, the artist captures—” I turned to gesture at a detail and found him already looking at me, his dark eyes intense. The words died in my throat.

For a heartbeat, we stayed frozen like that, teetering on the edge of something that had been building for longer than either of us cared to admit.

I cleared my voice. “Um… the artist perfectly depicts those summer afternoons.”

“Like on your daddy’s porch.” His voice softened with the memory. “I see it. What an amazing eye you have.”

I warmed at his compliment.

“I remember how we used to sketch out our dreams. You with your gallery, me with my first hotel.”

“And look at us now.” I turned to face him, reaching up to fix his crooked tie without thinking. His eyes combed over my face - soft, warm, and inviting. “Mr. Hotel Mogul himself, dropping by unannounced.”

His hand covered mine where it rested on his tie, soothing and steady. “Would you prefer I made an appointment?”

“You can do whatever you like; no one would care or dare to stop you.”

“I’m not talking about anyone. I’m talking about you.”

We eyed each other, and a ripple of warmth slipped through me.

“I care about what you care about, Autumn. If you’d like me to make an appointment to see you, I will.”

I smiled. “That’s not necessary. I enjoy your uninvited appearances,” I laughed teasingly.

“You like yanking my chain, don’t you?”

“At times,” I winked, and he winked back.

“Some things never change, Autumn. Like you straightening my ties after twenty years.”

“Someone has to keep you presentable.” Before stepping back, I smoothed the silk one final time, but his smile kept me anchored.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Business or pleasure?” The words slipped out before I could catch them. I turned quickly and strutted away to mask the embarrassment on my face.

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep and his hand caught my fingers as he turned me back to him in a soft spin on my heels.

“A night of pleasure with me would move us beyond friends, and we would never go back, sweetheart.” We drifted closer. “Is that what you want?”

My pulse spiked, my heart thrummed, and my eyes highlighted in surprise. “I—Tyson?”

He smirked, dropped his head, and laughed. “I’m only kidding – if you are.”

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