Page 15 of Beauty and the Billionaire

“Not at all,” I said. “I had the same idea.”

Zain’s lips quivered shortly, almost as if he were about to smile. He took off the tinfoil and pushed the cheese platter between us on the counter. He wore a white T-shirt that was perhaps just a size too small to wear during the day, the bottom edge of it short enough that it revealed an inch of flesh when he straightened. Lower, where my gaze traveled in the shortest jumps, he wore black cotton shorts that ended well above his knees.

I resolved to look into his eyes instead. “Is something keeping you up?”

Zain rolled his shoulders. “Moonlight. Or the new mattress. Who knows?”

“I see,” I said. “We can change the mattress.”

He let out something like a chuckle. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He popped a bit of cheese into his mouth, then searched for crackers in the cupboards with the kind of proficiency that said he had done this the night before. I was oddly glad that he was roaming the house instead of sitting in his room like a fearful bird in a cage.

“I received your contract,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s a…generous offer.”

I said nothing. Generosity had not been my intent.

Last night, he had asked me several times why I had picked him for that job. By all means, he could have been put to landscaping, and the results would be the same. But he was at a disadvantage as it was. A Muslim Mexican from the run-downHudson Burrow and all the experience of a cashier. It didn’t ring the bells of a bright future.

I knew a thing or two about fighting the odds. Besides, he was interesting in a way I couldn’t fully grasp. Something about him made my gaze linger for a little longer than it usually did. The fact that he had tracked me down and found a way into my apartment in the city just to face me said he had more courage than most seasoned bankers, lawyers, and investors I faced daily.

“Do you always haunt the house late at night?” he asked.

“Often,” I admitted.

“It’s a big house,” Zain contemplated. “You won’t run out of places to haunt.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” I agreed.

We snacked in silence for a while. Suddenly, he looked at me, his gaze dragging over my torso before he met my eyes. “I heard you don’t leave this place that much.”

“Why would I?” I asked.

He shrugged. “To be around people?”

I thought about it for a heartbeat or two. “I’m not afflicted with the need for companions. They cost me time. And I can use my time more efficiently if I focus on business.”

“Why, though?” Zain asked. And when I didn’t answer, he added, “Why would you focus on business? What’s the point?”

That was why I found him entertaining, even if the question was flawed. “Why focus on anything ever?” I retorted.

Zain seemed to think about it shortly. “But you have everything.”

Our gazes met like sparring blades.

He let a hesitant smile touch his lips. “Sorry.”

“I see how it would seem so,” I murmured. “After all, I grew up on a Midwestern farm.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“You really don’t know me?” I asked. “That’s a pretty public piece of information.”

I remembered the days when magazines still made the mistake of wanting to interview me for their front covers.The self-made wonder.The American dream come true.

“I just assumed you were…you know, an heir or something,” Zain said.

“People have a habit of making assumptions about me,” I said carefully. Like Harvard students, who had assumed I would never amount to anything. Or my parents, who had assumed I would marry a nice girl and take over the farm. “It ended many a career.”

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