Page 21 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Okay. Shoes. Where are my shoes?

I spot them near the bedroom entrance where I must have kicked them off. I retreat, slide on my socks, then shoes.

Fully dressed, I return to the bed and snatch up his jeans. They’re heavy, expensive.

Heart pounding, I awkwardly wrestle the denim back onto his legs, trying not to jostle him too much, careful not to disturb the sheet strategically draped over his midsection.

Nope. Not looking.

I definitely don’t need a replay of that particular piece of impressive anatomy right now. Seeing it again might short-circuit my escape plan with flashbacks I absolutely cannot afford. Ignorance is bliss, especially when that bliss involves getting the hell out of Dodge.

Sliding on his jeans is a lot harder than I imagined. He’s solid muscle and dead weight. I manage to get them halfway up his thighs before giving up. Close enough.

I shake my head. Who am I kidding? He’s not even wearing underwear.

Maybe he’ll think he went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and just forgot to put them back on?

Yeah right.

I move on to his shirt next. I pull it roughly back over his head and torso, smoothing it down his chest. It looks… plausible. Like maybe he collapsed into bed half-dressed. Or something.

Well, either way, I’m relieved he didn’t wake up. That saves me some embarassment...

I creep towards the door, casting one last look back at the bed. Leo is still asleep. He looks rumpled, peaceful.

And completely oblivious.

This is for the best,I tell myself, the lie bitter on my tongue.Protect yourself, Sabrina. He’ll never know. No one needs to know.

I’ll tell the girls we just crashed, fully clothed. Plausible deniability.

My hand is on the bedroom doorknob when he stirs again.

“Mmmph… ‘brina?”

I freeze, my blood turning to ice water.

He remembers my name?

Or a part of it, anyway.

I don’t turn around. I can’t.

He shifts, the rustle of expensive sheets loud in the silent room. “Wha… what time ‘sit?”

His voice is thick, slurred with sleep and… confusion.

“Early,” I whisper, my voice tight. “I gotta go.”

“Go?” He sounds genuinely bewildered. “Where… where are we? How... did we get here?”

He doesn’t remember.

The confirmation hits me, a sickening mix of relief and profound sadness. He doesn’t remember the suite, doesn’t remember bringing me here, doesn’t remember… anything.

Just like I feared.

Just like I knew.

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