Page 2 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
I turn to the counter to try to engage the other bearded bean, whose name is apparently Atticus—dear God, what were their parents thinking?—but he’s engrossed in demonstrating to a customer how to draw a flower with milk foam.
This would never happen in Boston. You get in, you get out. Maybe someone shouts at someone else about something, probably with a couple of profanities thrown in, and we all get on with our coffee-drinking business. There’s no hugging or latte art lessons while a customer is waiting.
“Well, look who’s blown in from the Windy City,” Aramis says to Frankie.
“Only been here two days,” she says. “I’m here for a couple of months, though. Covering things at the sanctuary while Grandpa recovers.”
My ears prick up at the word sanctuary.
It takes a moment for me to realize the impromptu barista craft seminar is over and Atticus is staring at me.
“Are you waiting?” he asks. Now, that’s more like the Boston snippiness I’m used to.
“Americano. Black. Thanks.”
He rings it up and I tap my credit card while eavesdropping on the conversation behind me.
“Ah, yes,” Aramis says. “I’d wondered how Sam wasgoing to cope with the donkeys with both knees out of action.”
Donkeys.
The chance of there being two Samuels who run donkey sanctuaries in Warm Springs has to be zero.
“Yup,” Frankie says.
The brightness in just that one word makes me turn to look at her again, attracting my attention like a sparkly object.
But then it dawns on me that I’d be at an advantage if she didn’t see me, so I refocus my eyes on my coffee being made and keep my ears on her.
“There’s no way he’d take it easy and get help around the place.” Her words dance in the air, standing out from the general buzz of the café, even though they’re no louder than anything else. “So I got an eight-week sabbatical from work and talked him into taking a temporary spot in a rehab unit at Senior Central by promising to look after the animals and everything for him.”
“There you go,” Atticus says, sliding my coffee across the counter.
“Thanks.” I wander over to the side of the shop and am about to perch on a stool at a high-top table when I spot two large cake crumbs on it. I flick them off, grab a napkin from the holder on the table and wipe down the seat.
Once settled on the crumb-free stool I get out my phone and scroll randomly to make it look like I’m absorbed in something other than the conversation taking place about ten feet away.
“Yeah,” Aramis says, “Sam’s a real I Can Do It All By Myself kinda guy. Can’t imagine where you got it from.”
My head might be bowed overmy phone and my thumb might be scrolling, but my gaze is one hundred percent on Frankie.
She rolls her eyes. I think they might be blue. “And I’m sure he’s more stressed than he’s been letting on about the developer guy who wants to buy the land.”
Well, if I had any remaining doubts that she’s who I thought she was, I don’t anymore. That’s definitive.
The phone buzzes in my hand with a call from my assistant, Brooke. For the first time that I can recall, I send her to voicemail and open the browser instead.
“Oh, yeah. I heard about that,” Aramis says. “Sam could cash in and make a fortune. Well. you both could.” He pauses for a second. “You guys do both own it, right?”
She nods while pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear and tugging on her bottom lip with her teeth.
Fuck.
Theybothown it? So I’ll need them both to agree to sell it.
Fuck.
I look for her left hand. No ring.
