Page 33 of BillionHeir
I think about continuing to ignore him, but that doesn’t seem like the best plan. He is my boss after all. Instead, I choose to be the bigger person and break the tension.
“Twenty-One Questions while we finish this up?” I ask as I check the oven only to find that it is already preheating. Maxwell must have turned it on while he was cooking at the stove.
“Sure,” he answers, still sounding surly albeit slightly intrigued. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist a chance to satisfy his endless curiosity.
“I will go first this time,” I say, starting with a question that he asked me on our long ride up here. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Maxwell chuckles to himself and shrugs his shoulders. “Haven’t we already been over this?”
“Well, I think if you will remember correctly, I answered and you fell asleep.”
“Give a man a break, would you? I was in pain.”
“So, what is your excuse for not answering now?” I ask, arching my brow at him in challenge.
He sighs before answering. “I don’t know, honestly. I always planned on running Banks International for the rest of my life. It was my father’s legacy and carrying on the family business has been a priority for me. The company has been my singular focus for the better part of the last twenty years, much to the detriment of my personal life. Before the accident, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at the question. The answer was obvious: Continue to grow Banks International into something even bigger and better. But now, everything feels different.”
He looks down into the saucepan as he stirs the marinara that is more than warm enough at this point, but I don’t mention it. I don’t know if he realizes how open he is right now. I can tell that this is something he needs to talk through, but I don’t want to push too hard and spook him.
“How so?” I ask even though it violates the one-question-at-a-time-rule.
He shakes his head as though he is working on a puzzle that he can’t quite figure out the solution to.
“It feels like I have lost my purpose. Like everything I have done was for nothing. The company is running fine without me. It is like I never existed.”
When I scoff at him, he is quick to clarify.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know I have succeeded far beyond what my parents ever expected. Since their deaths, I have been focused on building the company up to heights my father never even dreamed of. But I don’t need the money. Lord knows I had enough of it before. And now? It is more than I could ever spend in this lifetime or the next. So, where will I be in five years? I guess the simple answer is there is no simple answer. Somewhere totally different than where I am right now, I think.”
“I feel the same way.”
We fall into a peaceful silence as I marvel at what it must be like to have the kind of wealth that he inherited so young. I suppose it is true that money doesn’t buy happiness, but it surewould fix most of my problems. Actually, it already has. Just last week I paid off my mother’s medical bills. Without her knowledge of course. She would hate for me to be spending my money on her like that, but I am at peace about it.
The next thing I will do is pay off my student loans. I have more than enough money to cover it, but for some reason I still haven’t done it. Maybe because I still haven’t gotten the full payment yet. The whole situation still doesn’t feel completely real.
We are both lost in our thoughts for a few minutes as I finish cutting the pasta to the right length for the pan. We have just enough for one extra-large lasagna. It will still need to cook for a while, but all that is left is the layering and it will be done.
“Time to start assembling,” I announce when he still hasn’t said anything.
He visibly snaps out of whatever train of thought he was on and looks at me, his eyes clearing as he comes back to the present with a determined look on his face.
“You okay?”
He gives me a sexy smile before he answers. “Better than ever.”
I don’t know what changed his mood. I am not sure if I would rather have an introspective Maxwell or flirty Maxwell. The current version seems awfully dangerous.
“How old are you?” I ask, returning to the game to find a reprieve from the butterflies going crazy in my stomach.
“41. You?”
“I will be thirty in December,” I answer. At this point in our adult lives, I am not sure that such a large age gap really matters all that much. What really matters is whether we are compatible.
We get to work combining all the ingredients into the dish, and I could swear that he is taking every chance he gets to brush against me. By the time the lasagna is assembled, my heart is beating against my chest. I am fully aware of everything about the man. His clean masculine scent. His deep, raspy breath. His rock-hard body, still sculpted beneath his clothes despite the weeks of recovery.
“Do you want kids?” he asks as I am bent over putting the lasagna into the oven.
The question startles me so much I almost drop the baking dish. I am thankful that I am facing away from him so that he can’t see the surprise on my face.
