Page 118 of Return Billionaire to Sender

He kneels in front of me. He takes the papers from my hands. “What’s going on, Elle?”

“I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I’m just so sorry. I’ve let this thing go on way too long.”

“What thing? What are you talking about?”

I suck in a deep breath. “I’m not an executive coach.”

He does this amused smile-frown. “What?”

“And my name is not Stella or Elle.”

He’s frowning now. “What are you talking about?”

“My name is Noelle, and I’m a letter carrier,” I tell him. “I live at 341 West Forty-fifth Street.”

His dark brows draw in, expression mystified. “What?”

“I was going up to talk to you about our building that first day when we met in the lobby, but they wouldn’t let me up. So I came back in my letter carrier’s uniform, knowing I’d be more likely to get in to see you. I got stuck in the elevator with your real coach. She was hating on her job…” I tell him about our conversation, and how I encouraged her to quit coaching and follow her dreams.

His usually warm brown eyes are cold. His voice is eerie-soft. “And you decided to impersonate her.”

“No, I didn’tdecide, it just happened. She gave me her card to stay in touch. Your people made the assumption and—”

“So…this whole thing was always just about the building,” he says.

“No, don’t say that. It started out that way, yes—”

He drags in a fitful breath. “All this time, it was just you trying to get me to halt the demolition plans.”

“You know that’s not true,” I say. “It’s not!”

“All this time,” he bites out, words hard as diamonds. He plucks the papers from my hands. Everything about him is different, now. His expression is tormented; his eyes shine with misery. It’s like an out-of-body experience, facing him like this.

“Listen, Malcolm, it was real—my feelings for you, all of it—” My words die in the face of his furious anguish. In a small voice, I say, “It was real.”

He stalks to the window, looks out over the city, the small sheaf of papers in his fist. His silence cuts deeper than any blade could. I’d prefer thundering rage—anything but this—him back in his angry and desolate ice castle.

Because of me.

“You have to believe me.”

He turns around. “Do I? I have to believe you? And why should I?”

“Because I wasn’t lying about you—how I feel about you.”

28

Malcolm

“Out,”I point at the door, stunned at the steadiness of mt arm. “Out.”

She stands there, blinking. Caught out.

The one person who looked at me and saw something more than a villain. Or so I imagined.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Malcolm…”

She’s babbling on, but the whoosh in my ears drowns out her words. Like a fool, I let her in. I thought she saw something good, somebody worth caring about.

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