Page 11 of Christmas With A Billionaire

Now, at eleven-thirty p.m., I stood in my office at the Benefield Building reviewing contractor estimates. The night was quiet except for industrial fans running throughout the space. My phone buzzed and a text from Autumn lit up my screen:“Still at the building?”

“Yes. Reviewing estimates,”I replied.

“Coming up.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. Minutes later, she walked through my office door carrying a paper bag that smelled like heaven.

“Pearl’s sent food,” she said. “Grandma Rose insists you’re working too hard.”

“Did you tell her I was here?”

“No, but she knows you,” she set the bag on my desk. “When I stopped by for dinner, she packed this up and said, ‘Take this to that boy. He’s probably still working.’”

I smiled at Rose’s intuition. “What else did she say?”

Autumn unpacked containers of Rose’s famous gumbo and cornbread. “That I should make sure you eat.”

“Is that why you’re here? To feed me?”

“Actually, I came to help sort through the student artwork we salvaged.” She pushed a container toward me. “But first, you need to eat something that isn’t coffee.”

I accepted the food, watching as she settled into the chair across from my desk, tucking one leg under her. She’d changed from her work clothes into leggings and an old Northwestern sweatshirt—my sweatshirt, the one she’d stolen years ago. Her hair fell in loose curls around her face and as usual her beauty struck me in a way that warmed my heart and strengthened my dick.

“Have you heard anything from the contractors?” she asked between bites.

“They can start next week, but we need to catalog everything first.” I dipped the cornbread in gumbo. “The insurance adjusters want detailed documentation.”

“Then let’s get to work.” She stood, grabbing her container. “We can eat while we sort.”

I followed her to the large storage room where we moved the salvaged artwork. The space was lined with metal shelves, most still empty, waiting to be filled with student pieces once therenovation was complete. Boxes of artwork sat on tables, waiting to be organized.

“I made a preliminary inventory,” she said, pulling out her tablet. “But we need to check each piece for water damage.”

We worked systematically through the boxes for the next hour, carefully examining each painting. I handled the heavy lifting while she documented everything, her fingers flying across the screen as she updated her database.

“This reminds me of when we had to reorganize the entire art department storage room in college,” she marked off another box.

“Because someone knocked over an entire shelf of clay sculptures.”

“That wasn’t my fault! You startled me.”

“You were dancing with headphones on in a room full of breakable art.”

She threw a piece of bubble wrap at me. “You weren’t supposed to be there at midnight.”

“Neither were you.” I caught the bubble wrap. “But you needed help finishing your project, so...”

“So, you came.” She smiled softly. “You always do.”

The moment hung between us, with insinuation stirring her words. I cleared my throat. “These portfolios need to go on the top shelf. Hand them to me.”

She gathered the large black cases while I positioned the ladder. She passed them up one by one, our fingers brushing with each exchange. From my height on the ladder, I could see the graceful line of her neck as she tilted her head back to watch me place each portfolio.

“Careful with that one,” she called up. “It’s Denise Jordan’s work—the girl Marcus helped with the copyright case.”

My grip tightened on the portfolio. “Right.”

“These kids are incredible, Ty. Wait until you see—” She stepped backward, stumbling over a box.

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