Page 88 of The Billionaires' Gamble
To be fair, I took every thought he had and filed it away. These are the exact pieces he suggested. I mean, he didn’t give me brands so much as colors and styles. I just relayed all that to the designer, who was only too happy to run around in the middle of the night. Apparently, the furniture warehouses were equally thrilled with the words ‘blank check.’
“You’re running away,” King says, sort of soft, like the truth is dawning on him.
“It’s just furniture.”
He’s too smart for that, though. “Why?”
“Why did I buy furniture?”
He pokes my chest. “Why are you fighting with Alex? Why are you over here when Katherine’s over there?—”
“You’re here!” I fire back.
“To bring you back?—”
“No—”
“Why are you buying furniture for a house that has holes in the walls?” He waves at the offending holes, exacerbation dripping from every pore. His eyes sparkle with wildness, like a cheetah chasing its prey. This isn’t solely about the furniture, and we both know it.
But I chicken out. “Because I wanted a place to sit.”
“Because you’re hiding out over here when you could be over there.” He points to the front door and beyond. To Delores Lane and a short drive to the Montgomery estate.
“I’m thinking.” My voice is higher. Louder.
I try to breathe through the pressure in my chest and calm down, but it’s so hard. He reminds me of Katherine in how easily they get under my skin.
“Well,” he says, spinning, then settles on the sofa, arm stretched across the back. “What are you thinking about? Let’s noodle it together.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for several heartbeats. He’s like a puppy. Friendly, earnest, energetic. And for some strange reason, I feel the need to stay away from that wholesome energy. I really am messed in the head.
At the same time, I’m drawn to him, to the empty spot next to him on the couch. It’s like there are tiny threads connected to every cell in my body, tugging me toward him, connecting me to him. The sensation is wild. My limbs are heavy, my brain woozy.
I really should have eaten something before deciding a little manic physical labor was a good idea.
“I mean, no pressure, but maybe?—”
“It’s my fault.” The words burst from my lips, and I wave a hand in the general direction of the ocean. Of where Katherine was held on that stupid yacht.
King stares up at me, eyes wide, brows lifted, waiting.
My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. “If I hadn’t put the balls in motion to buy out Cort, Lucinda wouldn’t have had any reason to—She wouldn’t have pressed so hard. She wouldn’t have?—”
I wipe a hand over my eyes. I didn’t sleep well last night. Or at all, really.
“Let’s back the train up so I can get on,” King says, his voice even softer now, like he’s approaching a skittish colt. “You’re the one buying out Cort?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It used to be a dream to take over the thing that Henry found most sacred. And then the opportunity presented itself.”
“So you think because you started nosing around, Lucinda found out and got desperate?”
Fuck, it sounds worse when he says it out loud.
“Isn’t that what happened?”
“Yeah.” He nods.
The word hits like a blow to the chest.
