Page 45 of Most Eligible Billionaire

He twists his lips.

“You don’t think it looks nice?” I ask.

“It could be better, but it’s good for what it is.”

“If it could be better, why not make it better?”

“Too deep in the pipeline.”

Smuckers takes this very inopportune opportunity to jump up and grab at a bit of fabric that’s dangling off the side. The entire model jerks, and a soda bottle at one end dumps all over a corner of it.

Henry’s on it instantly, sopping it up.

Another guy rushes over to help.

They both look alarmed that the tiny buildings and tinier trees got wrecked. It’s all very strange, because this is just a model.It’s a train set village, people!

Then I realize Henry’s really upset.

Henry and this guy talk about who’s available to fix it up, and I get the feeling they want to quick-fix it, like there’s an ogre who lives in the closet who will come out and wreck the place if the model is messed up. Honestly, the whole thing is weird. Is Henry not the CEO?

Everybody is on an RFI deadline, whatever that is.

He scowls in his surly way at the wrecked side of town. I’m glad I’m not the person who put the soda bottle there.

“Right. Okay.” Henry’s tone is that kind of fake calm where you know anger is just under the surface.

He gets this cool intensity sometimes. It’s a disturbingly winning combination.

Thirteen

Vicky

If you toldme a month ago that I’d ever find myself in a workshop room deep in a fabrication facility owned by Cock Worldwide, crafting with Henry Locke, aka the top cock of Cock Worldwide, I would think, in a word,not.

It seems like a dream doesn't it? Not a dreamy dream so much as one of those weird jumble dreams. Like, Leonardo DiCaprio is your father and he sent you a letter but you can’t find your mailbox. Who blew out all the candles?

Henry has a couple of junior guys bring the model into a small side room and set it on a table. He dismisses them, shakes off his beautiful suit jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. “This’ll just take a minute.”

“Do you need it for a presentation or something?”

“No, it just needs to be fixed,” he mumbles, conducting an intensive inspection of the thing.

I stand on the other side of the table conducting my own intensive inspection of the tiny paper trees, or at least that’s the effect I’m going for while conducting an intensive inspection of his very large and muscular forearms, which are perfect in every way, right down to his golden skin and the sparse smattering of hair.

Some kind of big and chunky euro car racer watch hugs his right wrist. His hand has that rough-hewn look, but it’s not gnarled or anything, like a woodworking codger. If the world of men’s hands is a three bears cabin, his are the “just right” ones with just enough scuff to them. Hands you can respect. Hands that would feel nice against your cheek.

I swallow and force my gaze away to the built-in shelving, loaded with crafter supplies like modeling clay and paper and squares of balsa wood and cutters of every kind and glue and paint.

“Are you sure this whole business isn’t a front for guys who are closet crafters?” I ask.

He’s pulling down green cardboard squares and craft paper and tubes of glue. “This’ll just take a minute.”

He presses some of the craft cardboard to a cutting surface and starts making tiny cuts with an X-Acto knife.

He pauses and frowns at the thing. The sweet little dent appears between his eyes. I definitely like the dent. Seeming lost in thought, he starts unclasping his watch and pulls it off with rough efficiency, setting it aside.

It’s a hot thing he just did.

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