Page 26 of Beauty and the Billionaire

“I’m starting to think I won’t find anything at all,” Zain admitted.

I shook my head. “Trust me, they dropped the ball somewhere. There’ll be some weird account that just doesn’t make sense when you look at it. They had to be bleeding the company, I just know it. Guys like that? They don’t stop once they get the taste of it.”

“Who would have thought you’d be the optimist?” Zain joked.

I allowed myself a small smile.

We looked at one another, and Zain’s gaze lingered on my trimmed beard before he looked into my eyes. “I’ll keep looking,” he assured me.

And that was what he did.

I ended up spending my day away from the study. My business associates needed guidance on major decisions, and instead of spacing them through the week, I tended to pick a day and do my rounds over the phone. The conversations lasted well into the afternoon, and I paced around the house while wespoke. In the end, I only spent an hour or so in the study, where Zain was deep in work.

I had to give it to him; he could be dedicated when he put his mind to it. He was organized and learned quickly. It made me think of offering him a proper job in one of my companies once this was over, but that thought carried a tremendous sense of loss.

It took me a walk outside the house to realize that I didn’t fear losing his companionship around here. That was guaranteed either way. I feared having him employed in the city where strict contracts would prohibit personal connections.

The realization struck me like a lightning bolt.

Somewhere in the depths of my withered soul, I harbored a spark of hope that we might remain…friends? Or more. Or something completely different.

A sense of anticipation washed over me. Something like the youthful excitement over a prospect of pleasure that followed a long chase tingled in me until I couldn’t ignore it and remain sane.

My breath was misty in the cold afternoon air. I returned to the house when my brain began spinning in circles, moving from my determination to remain professional and impassive—the characteristics that had given me everything I had—and my basic desire to indulge in this careful little dance.

Every time we stepped over the line or tested the limits, it filled me with unbearable longing to leap over the edge and surrender myself to chance. It was a risk. It was a foolish risk, but it tempted me more than a gambler is tempted by day trading.

The evening was drawing near. The dinner was served at the usual hour, and Zain appeared in a black shirt and cream chinos. It was surprising after weeks of disregarding his clothes as unimportant. My eyebrows shot up at the sight of him.

“Well?” Zain asked.

I stared at him for a moment too long. The shirt was made to fit him to perfection, adding width to his shoulders and chest, emphasizing his narrow waist, and hugging his upper back snugly. But his pants were the winner. Normally, Zain wore his jeans or sweatpants, which neither added nor took away from his physique. These pants absolutely leaned into his attributes, and it forced me to look away when the heat rose into my face. “What’s this?” I managed.

“I figured if you’d make an effort to order this, I might show up dressed for dinner,” Zain said half-shyly as he came to his seat.

I frowned. “I didn’t order you new clothes. I wouldn’t be so…forward.”

Zain lifted his eyebrows in confusion. “There’s an entire wardrobe. If you didn’t…”

“I did.” The voice came through the door just as it opened, and Orwell brought in the cart with hot food. “I’m sure you will forgive me for acting on impulse, but I’m afraid I can’t determine what to do with your wardrobe as is. I couldn’t let you wear your sweatpants to work under my watch.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Zain said, a little breathless. “I packed in a hurry, thinking I’d do some yard work or whatever. It never crossed my mind to bring something…nice.” He looked at me while Orwell served food with indifference as if he hadn’t done anything noteworthy at all. “How did you know?”

Orwell scoffed. “I measured your existing clothes. Then improved the measurements.”

“Orwell has an eye for such things,” I explained.

Stunned, Zain looked at my valet, then nodded. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Orwell only looked at Zain as if it had never crossed his mind he might be thanked for doing the most obvious thing of all. “Dark colors suit your face,” he said.

After serving our dinner, Orwell left the dining room with something like a smile on his sharp, businesslike face.

“I’ve no idea what made him do that,” I admitted to Zain once we were alone. “You must have left quite an impression on him.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Zain said, bewildered. “But the clothes fit.”

“That they do,” I said, struggling to look away from the way his biceps bunched when he moved his arms. Nothing seemed to be too tight, but perfectly so to draw the eye where it needed to go.

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