Page 286 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“Why’s that?” he asks, and now I’m certain he’s just playing dumb.

“Oh, don’t be polite,” I tell him. “I bet where you live, you’ve got bathrooms bigger than this whole place.”

“No, really,” he says. “Why do you think I’m here and not in Manhattan?”

“You’re moving headquarters, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers, “but why do you think I chose a place like Mulholland instead of, say, L.A. or Boston?”

“Better deals on rent?” I ask.

He laughs. It’s a rich, almost soothing sound. “That’s just a perk,” he says. “I noticed you didn’t have a drink of your own set-out, so I took the liberty of fixing one up for you. I’ll just grab it.”

“You stay and enjoy—” I can’t believe I’m saying this “—the view, and maybe we can figure out something to do when I get back.”

“Okay,” he says, and I go into the kitchen.

What’s the matter with me? I don’t know if I’m speaking normally or if I’ve said anything at all. At the moment, the only thing I’m sure of is the drink waiting for me isn’t a martini. Of course, not knowing what I’m drinking doesn’t stop me from downing the whole thing.

Once the last few drops are down my gullet, I become acutely aware that I’m about to go back out there with nothing. As quickly as I can, I pour some vodka into the glass and walk back out to the living room once more.

Zach’s sitting on the couch.

“Have you tried it yet?” he asks. “It’s something my butler told me about—apparently, it was one of the Tsar’s favorites, though I still haven’t gotten Witherton to say how he’d know that.”

“Yeah,” I say, giving my glass a big whiff and then squinting my eyes to hide the tears that form. “It’s really something.”

I walk over to join Zach on the couch, setting the glass on the coffee table, far enough away from him he shouldn’t notice the sharp smell of my drink.

“Tell me something,” he says as I try to get settled into a cushion that has never felt so awkward to sit on.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Were you really sick or did you just not want to see me?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean,” he smiles, “were you really sick or did you just not want to see me?”

I think a moment and answer, “There’s just no satisfactory answer to that question.”

“You know I like you,” he says. “I don’t think there’s been a lot of suspense there. With that said, though, it’s hard to know how to act when you keep dropping out of existence for days at a time.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I’m sorry about that.”

That’s all I can manage to say.

“So, how do I know that’s not going to happen this time?” he asks.

I shrug and scour my brain for something resembling a verbal response—only I don’t find anything there.

“Well that’s comforting,” he chuckles.

“Oh come on,” I say. “Don’t you get that I like you too, that this is all just a bit overwhelming for someone like me? The only time I’ve even seen millionaires was that time Naomi and a friend of hers dragged me to an NBA game, and then you come into the shop where I work and ask me out. It’s a lot to take in, you know?”

“Would you rather I weren’t as successful as I am?” he asks.

“I’m not saying that,” I tell him. “I’m just saying that … I’m just saying …”

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