Page 66 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

It wasn’t a real complaint. Not when Nik’s eyes were bright and Ellery was blatantly trying to hide a smile. And that was how we ended up spending Christmas Eve playingThe Warlock of Firetop Mountainin Nik’s hospital room. We took turns reading, passing the book between us after every decision point, and bickering constantly about whether we should go east or west, or if it was better to sneak past or stab the goblin, and whether it was ever acceptable to beat up an old man just in case he turned out to be a wererat like the last guy.

We died a lot: first to an orc, then to a giant sandworm, then to a minotaur, then to the same orc that killed us the first time because we were pretty sure you needed the stuff you got from the orc to have any chance of winning later. And before long, Nik was mapping the whole thing on his tablet, and arguing with Ellery about whether they should do it geographically, by dungeon layout or meta-textually by connections between paragraphs in the book, with my suggestion that we could just Google a walk-through being shouted down by both of them.

This wasn’t a new side to Nik—he was, and always had been, a total geek in the body of a Greek god—but Ellery, despite her initial attempts to appear disinterested, was surprisingly engaged. Though, of course, her story had made me think of Caspian too: a time before grief and shame had made him theirs, a boy with restless hands and hopeful eyes, laughing with his little sister as he led her through these paper labyrinths.

Chapter 21

Ellery vanished again that night. Fuck knows what she was doing and probably I should have been worried, but worrying about Ellery was like worrying about water: Yes, it had the potential to cause a lot of carnage, but it was also just kind of there. And it was only when the door of my room clicked closed behind me that I realised I’d essentially committed myself to spending Christmas Eve alone in a Holiday Inn. Which apparently hadn’t occurred to me in my rush to prove what an awesome friend I was.

Of course, I had my phone and my Kindle. There was absolutely no need for me to spend the time lying on my bed, watching the drift of snowflakes against the windows, as if I was the sole survivor of a very quiet apocalypse. Except, y’know. There I was, lying on my bed, watching the drift of snowflakes against the windows, wondering when I could Skype home without it looking so desperate my family would notice.

This was…this was going to be a long night.

Then my phone rang. Unknown number. Oh my God. Oh myGod.My heart was going like the spinner inInception. It couldn’t be. Could it? Could it really be Caspian?

My hands were shaking so much I nearly swiped the wrong way and hung up. “H-hello?”

“Happy Christmas, poppet.”

Help. Fuck.

“I take it,” murmured George, “you were hoping for someone else?”

I made a desperate attempt to pull myself together. “N-not hoping. Not exactly. I’m sorry.”

“Love’s such a pisser, isn’t it?”

“It really is.” Covering my nose with my, well, my sleeve, I indulged in a sniffle or two. “I’m glad to hear from you, though.”

“Of course you are. I’m delightful.”

That almost made me smile. “I didn’t…I mean…you’re not, um, upset? Because…because…”

“Because you’re not crying in a hotel room over me?” I practicallyheardthe eye roll. “I think I can live without that.”

“I don’t wish you were him or anything.”

“Poppet, I’m far too egoistical for the thought to have even crossed my mind.” Her voice softened. “The things I want from you—your body for sex and art, and your company, when you’re not being put to other uses—can exist with perfect safety outside whatever you need to feel for Caspian Hart. Let’s not start confusing the two.”

“I’m not. Not really.” I adopted a less…sobby position on the bed. Maybe Iwasgetting better. Because while everything I felt for Caspian still held me in a tiger-clawed grip, the wounds seemed less…forever, somehow? Or maybe I was used to the pain. “Thank you for calling. You really are the best, um, whatever we are.”

“Lovers. Friends. It’s not complicated.”

It wasn’t. And it didn’t have to be. “What are your Christmas plans?”

“Beyond talking to you, I don’t have any. Which,” she added firmly, “is how I prefer it. Although I may well go to Mara’s on Boxing Day, and lightly threaten her husband.”

That sounded…something. “Threaten him with what?”

“With myself.” She gave a very knowing, very wicked chuckle. “We all know better, but there’s still a part of him that fears his wife is going to spontaneously turn gay and run away with me.”

“You don’t actually want her to, right?”

“Fuck no. Things that may not be are infinitely beautiful. Things that are…well, they tend to be tedious.”

Perhaps someday I’d feel the same about Caspian. It wasn’t the worst idea in the world. “Do you come up with these things in advance?”

“No, poppet. I don’t have to. I’m not Mr. Collins.”

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