Page 12 of Christmas With A Billionaire

I reacted, climbing down and steadying her with an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against my chest. She grabbed my shoulders, and our proximity had her face inches from mine.

“You okay?” My voice came out rough.

She nodded but didn’t let go. “Just clumsy.”

“You’ve always been clumsy.” I should have released her, but my arm stayed locked around her waist. “I also have memories of you falling into the campus fountain.”

“You pushed me.”

“I did not. You were walking backward, talking about some painting?—”

“The Monet exhibition at the Art Institute?—”

“And you didn’t see the fountain,” I chuckled. “But I jumped in after you.”

“Because my portfolio went in with me.” Her fingers played with the collar of my shirt, probably without realizing it. “You saved my sketches.”

“I saved you.” The words came out softer than intended.

Her phone chimed, but I was still under her spell. We stepped apart as she checked the message.

“It’s Marcus,” she said. “He had flowers delivered to my office. He wants to know if I got them.”

The distance between us suddenly felt like miles. “That’s... thoughtful of him.”

She didn’t respond, but our eyes met.

“We should finish the inventory.” I climbed back up the ladder. “What’s next?”

She hesitated before picking up another portfolio. We worked in silence for a while, the easy warmth of earlier replaced by something more complicated.

“These need to be labeled,” she said eventually, holding up a stack of manila folders.

I came down from the ladder, taking some of the folders. We sat on the floor, backs against the wall, sorting through student information. Our shoulders touched as we worked, and I was hyper-aware of every point of contact.

“Do you remember what you wanted to be when we were kids?” she asked suddenly.

“A basketball player.”

“Before that.”

I smiled, remembering. “A painter. Like you.”

“You weren’t bad, either.” She bumped my shoulder. “Your landscapes were good.”

“They were terrible. But you never said so.”

“Because you never gave up. Even when things were hard.” She looked at me. “That’s what I’ve always admired about you.”

The sincerity in her voice made my chest tight. “I learned that from you. Watching you fight for your dreams, no matter what anyone said.”

“We fought together.” She rested her head against the wall, staring at me. “Still are.”

“Always will.” I reached over and squeezed her hand, meaning it to be quick and friendly. But her fingers interlaced with mine, and neither of us let go.

“Art means so much to me. All those hours I spent sketching in your grandmother’s kitchen while she cooked.”

“And somehow, never learning how to make her sweet potato pie.”

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