Page 3 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

“If there’s flooding?” I ask, my fingers tightening around my suitcase handle.

“Then we’ll advise all guests to remain indoors until it’s safe. But don’t worry,” she adds quickly. “The resort has fresh, prepared meals for everyone, and our staff is trained for these situations. We’ve got you covered.”

I force a smile. “Sounds like an adventure.”

“Exactly!” she chirps, though I don’t quite believe her enthusiasm. Adventure, I remind myself. Think of this as an adventure.

The bungalow is perfect. A cozy little slice of paradise, with white sand just steps away and the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. I breathe in the salty air, rolling my shoulders back, tension already melting away. Oh, sweet, sweet serenity.

Dragging my suitcase inside, I take in the airy space—exposed wooden beams, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a king-sized bed that looks dangerously inviting. This week is going to be absolute bliss. I’m fully getting into vacay mode when I hear movement in the room.

“Hi, you can leave it up by the door. Thank you!” I shout, assuming it’s the luggage guy I just tipped in the lobby, but nope… the noise is coming from someone already inside the unit.

I freeze. My stomach clenches. What the hell? I’m supposed to be alone. Grabbing the closest object I can find—a decorative starfish—I tiptoe toward the sound. Then, just as I round the corner—

He steps out. Shirtless. Smirking. Holding a beer like he owns the place.

Nope. No, no, no.

“Airport Rudo? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathe.

His smirk deepens. “Great. It’s you.”

CHAPTER 2

Carter

Of all the people to run into in my hotel room, it had to be her. The stubborn woman from the airport—the one who nearly started a full-blown incident over a suitcase that wasn’t even hers. And now, she’s standing in front of me, gripping a decorative starfish like it’s a deadly weapon, her mouth slightly open in disbelief.

She’s beautiful, not in an obvious, trying-too-hard kind of way, but in a way that sneaks up on you if you’re paying attention. And damn it, now that she’s in my space, I am paying attention.

She’s got this wild, honey-brown hair, half-pulled up like she started fixing it and got distracted. A few strands have escaped, framing her face, which only makes the deep golden tone of her skin more noticeable. Full lips—currently parted in shock—big, expressive brown eyes that flicker between outrage and disbelief.

She’s wearing this oversized T-shirt that slides off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin, and a pair of denim shorts that should be illegal. Her legs go on forever, toned but soft in all the right places. She looks like she threw on the first thing in her suitcase without thinking twice about it. Like she has no idea how effortlessly attractive she is. And that, somehow, makes it worse. Because if she did know? If she tried even a little? She’d be absolutely dangerous.

Not that it matters. Because right now, all that beauty is wrapped up in pure, unfiltered annoyance. And honestly, I get her aggravation. Why the hell are we both in this room right now? I’m supposed to be relaxing this week. I’m supposed to be escaping the storm back home. The one brewing at my company, the one that feels like it’s about to swallow me whole.

I’ve been running one of the largest real estate firms in the country for years. Corporate decisions, multi-million-dollar contracts, endless meetings, constant fires to put out. I’m used to the pressure—it comes with the territory. But lately? It’s been worse.. Like the walls are closing in, and every call is another fuse waiting to blow. So when my assistant booked this quiet little retreat, I thought, “Finally. A few days of peace.”

But here I am, not in a quiet retreat—nope. I’m standing here in this room with a woman who’s about to set my nerves on fire. The whole point of this trip was to get away from the chaos. Away from the constant phone calls, the last-minute decisions, and the firestorms that seem to pop up at every turn.

I’ve been weathering a hostile takeover brewing beneath the surface, with competitors circling like vultures—each one hungry for a piece of my empire. It’s like they know something’s about to blow, and they’re clawing for position. Even the board’s gone quiet—tight-lipped, jittery. Whatever’s coming, they’re keeping it buried. But I feel it rising.. And I’m right in the middle of it. All I wanted was to sit by the ocean, clear my head, maybe drink some whiskey, and pretend my life isn’t being held together by a thin thread of frantic emails and last-minute compromises. This woman… she’s the last thing I need right now.

I take in her disheveled beauty, her quick temper, and her complete refusal to back down, and I can’t help but feel a stir of something deeper than frustration. The stubborn part of her? It’s grating, but I can’t deny how it grabs me. Maybe I’m not as much of a control freak as I thought.

Maybe I can’t help but want to argue with her, challenge her. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know who I am, so she doesn’t give a damn about my money, my success, or my reputation. That’s what my ex used to tell me. That I never had time for anything but work. And here I am, stuck in a small bungalow with this woman. And damn if it doesn’t feel like a tornado of its own.

But I can’t afford distractions. Not now.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she finally breathes.

I take a slow sip of my beer, waiting for it to sink in. She blinks rapidly like she can’t quite process what’s happening. Then she squares her shoulders, tilting her chin up.

“What the hell are you doing in my bungalow?”

“Your bungalow?” I arch a brow, lazily leaning against the doorframe. “Pretty sure it’s mine.”

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Nope. I booked this weeks ago. You must be in the wrong place.”

---