Page 115 of Most Eligible Billionaire

“I don’t know how you could doubt it,” he says. “I mean, after all those hours we spent in that little workroom toiling side-by-side using toothpicks and glue to get tiny paper curlicues to stick to tiny paper tree trunks? When two people go through an experience like that together…”

I snort and scrub my face with my hands.

“Seriously, even if I hadn’t been in that elevator shaft with you, where it was, let’s face it, pretty obvious you’re not somebody who would’ve gone into a well voluntarily—”

“I would never,” I say.

“I know. And also, Denny? That’s not a good guy there.”

“You know him?”

“Jesus, the way he came at you? Don’t need to taste much to know if it’s cottage cheese.”

“You punched him.”

He gets up from the stoop, stands in front of me, reaches down, and pulls me up into his arms. “If I knew what I know now, I would’ve put him right through that glass.”

Twenty-Nine

Henry

We walk forever.It seems important for her to move, like she needs to put physical distance between Denny and herself, and a car won’t do.

She needs to grind it out. I get it.

I’m trying to keep my anger in check, because an angry guy isn’t what Vicky needs now.

But honestly? I want to be rearranging Denny’s face. My fingers curl with it. The battles I wage are usually about money and boardroom maneuvering, but this one I want personal and painful.

It won’t do anyone any good, I know. Still.

And Brett. What the hell was he thinking?

Of course I know what Brett was thinking. Our PI cracked through her fake identity, figured out she’s Vonda. Brett thought that if he put Denny on the board, it would run her off and add fuel to the incompetency fire. He would’ve been recording it.

I know she’s feeling better when she points out how dazzlingly blue the sky looks against the yellow Reynard Electric building. “It hums with blueness,” she says.

“Unbelievable,” I say. But I’m looking at her. I’m looking at her like she’s a gift. Vonda O’Neil. Strong as steel, with what she went through.

We grab chicken and rice from a halal cart and eat it on a bench at Marcy Place triangle park on the Lower East Side. We throw leftover bits of bread to the pigeons. She’s still shivering, so I give her my jacket to wear. She wraps it around herself and snuggles into me on the bench there. I keep my arm tight around her. “I’m so sorry,” I say into her hair.

“What didyoudo? You didn’t invite him.”

“I started those wheels in motion. Scheming with Brett.”

“I don’t blame you. In no universe would I blame you for that.” She puts a finger to my lips when I start to protest.

We end up walking clear up the East Village and taking the East Side Line the rest of the way to my place. It’s afternoon by the time we get up there.

I settle her into a chair out on the veranda overlooking the park. I drape a light blanket over her shoulders.

She smiles up at me. “Come here.”

I set my hands on her shoulders and kiss her.

“I feel better,” she says. “Thank you.” Her neck is warm under my thumbs. She’s so beautiful, she doesn't know. I slide my hands over her blanket-covered arms, warming her more.

I leave her out there and make her tea and bake cookies out of the premade cookie dough I keep in the refrigerator. “Cookies and tea,” she says when I bring them. “Next thing I know I’ll come over and you’re knitting tea cozies.”

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