Page 15 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

I pulled out my phone and sent him a message:You rented me a suit??

Less than thirty seconds later, he replied with a voice text: “No. It’s a gift. It’s for the ball. Try it on. See if it fits. I did my best guessing your size.”

I slipped it on and stood in front of the mirror. I looked like someone else. Someone important. Someone who could walk into a ballroom without worrying about being laughed at or mistaken for catering staff.

Even with my tousled hair and my white socks peeking out underneath the pants—crap. Shoes. I was going to have to go get shoes. At least those could be from the discount store. People didn’t tend to look at your feet, right?

I sent him a picture.It fits perfectly. Thank you.

He responded immediately:You look great. Were the shoes too big or too small—I can send a different size over.

Shoes? He sent shoes, too. I rushed to the orange bag, the one I’d assumed held the mask. It wasn’t a mask at all. It was shoes. Shoes that wereexactlymy size.

Are you like one of those tailors who can just look at someone and know their size?

We hadn’t discussed his job, but it would’ve made sense.

Nope. Not a tailor.Then another message followed a few seconds later:How about you get ready. I need to as well. I’ll pick you up at 6.

I agreed, fingers hovering over the keyboard a second longer than necessary. Why hadn’t he told me what he did for a living? He definitely didn’t have mafia vibes. There was nothing shady or scary about him. Could he be a doctor? Maybe something like that—doctors probably owned suits.

I set everything out carefully, laying the pieces on the bed to prevent wrinkles. After calling ahead to snag a spot, I ran down the street to get my hair trimmed. I let the stylist shape it a little, nothing too dramatic, but a thousand times better than the current just-rolled-out-of-bed vibe it currently was sporting. If I was going to be dressed up all fancy, I might as well notlooklike I’d just crawled out of a pile of laundry.

I was showered, changed, and pacing the room when there was a knock at my door. Someone must have let him in downstairs. Security was hardly secure here.

I opened it—and there he was. Kennan.

No mask. Just his face. Hisactualface.

He was stunning. The most drop-dead gorgeous man I had ever seen. I recognized him instantly by hissmile.

“Come in,” I said, stepping back to make room.

I immediately felt awkward. My shitty little apartment hadn’t grown any classier in the last hour. The peeling linoleum, the slightly leaning bookshelf, the crooked light fixture… it all screamednot good enough.

“I just need to say goodbye to Rosco and then we can go.”

“Rosco?”

“Yeah, come and meet him.”

Without even thinking, I reached out and grabbed his hand, tugging him inside. I brought him over to Rosco’s enclosure and launched into the story of how I ended up as the proud papa of a hedgehog.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rosco,” Kennan said, crouching down to get a better look.

“He thinks so too,” I replied, answering for him with a little smile.

Then Kennan looked at me. Something in his face changed—softened, but serious. So very Daddy.

“You’re not weirded out by who I am?”

His question caught me off guard.

“I don’t think Iknowwho you are,” I said slowly. “Other than what I know, you know? Why, are you a famous singer or something? You’re handsome enough to be a movie star, so maybe that?”

“No,” he said, then shook his head. “I mean—yeah. Kind of famous, but nothing close to a movie star. I’m Kennan Millerson. From Millerson Enterprises.”

My jaw dropped. I knew that name. Everyone knew that name. I couldn’t remember seeing a picture of him, but I’d been all work and no play for a shit long time. I didn’t know a lot of popular culture.

---