Page 4 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

I just shrug and take another sip of my beer. “Pretty sure I know where I’m staying.”

Her lips press together as she yanks her phone from her bag, scrolling through her emails with frantic determination. The whole time, she’s muttering under her breath, her fingers tapping aggressively against the screen. I wait. Then—

“No. No way.”

Her brows pull together, her lips parting slightly. She scrolls again, her breathing picking up. “Double-booked,” she finally grits out, like the words physically pain her.

I suppress a chuckle. “Tough break.”

Her head snaps up, fire in her eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” I admit.

She makes an exasperated noise and spins toward the door. “I’ll just have them fix it.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

While she’s angrily tapping at her screen, I pull out my own phone, opening the last message from my assistant.

Carter, the resort confirmed everything. Private bungalow, storm provisions stocked, no interruptions. Enjoy.

I smirk. No interruptions, huh? Turning the screen toward her, I say, “Everything was confirmed. My assistant booked it.”

She barely spares my phone a glance before rolling her eyes. “Of course you have an assistant.”

I lift a brow. “What’s wrong with having an assistant?”

She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems very… millionaire of you.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “That supposed to be an insult?”

She waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, you have to leave.”

I let out a low chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

She scoffs, throwing up her hands. “Oh my God. The ego on you.”

I just smirk. “It’s not ego, sweetheart. It’s logic.”

She crosses her arms. “Oh, logic, is it?”

“Yeah. I was here first. That means you should be the one to leave.”

Her nostrils flare. “That is not how this works!”

I take another slow sip of my beer. “Seems like it is.”

She mutters something under her breath that I’m pretty sure isn’t polite, then turns on her heel. “Fine. I’m going to the front desk. But when I come back, you’d better not be here.”

I chuckle as she storms out, her footsteps sharp against the wood floors. Somehow, I get the feeling she’ll be back.

The second she walks out, silence falls over the bungalow—just the distant roar of waves and the soft hum of impending chaos outside. The wind rattles the windows. Thunder rolls closer.

I barely take a sip of my beer when there’s a knock at the door.

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