Page 34 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
I climb out of the truck and trot toward him.
When I get there, he points at a square of cardboard on a stack of bales that has “Frankie” written on it in black marker.
Each pile has a sign on it. There’s “Chuck,” “Wilkersons,” “Betty,” and others I can’t read from this distance.
“Great. So we can see it, but can’t get to—” The sight of Miller climbing the fence silences me. Not only because it’s possibly one of the most surprisingly hot things I’ve ever seen, it also has an edge of danger. “You probablyshouldn’t do that.”
He pauses, almost at the top of the chest-high barrier. “Have you already paid for it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not stealing.” He swings one leg over the top and looks down at me like he’s sitting astride a majestic horse. If it were possible for a smile to swagger, that smile is swaggering right across his face. “Back up the truck.”
“I meant you shouldn’t do it because you might hurt yourself,” I say as he swings the other leg over and climbs down in a way that draws my attention to his powerful thighs and makes the heat between my legs pulse like it has its own heartbeat.
“About time my use of the climbing wall at the gym came in handy.” He produces his gloves from his pocket and slaps them against his thigh.
Then, oh my good God, he winks at me before turning to the pile of bales with my name on it.
A wink should be a cheesy thing that a friend’s dad does when he makes a bad joke. A wink should not make me more aware of the existence of my nipples than I’ve been for a very long time.
I’ve taken several steps back toward the truck before I even realize I’m following his instruction. Apparently I’m doing what I’m told. I can’t even remember the last time someone took charge of something and told me what to do.
Well, I mean, Dickish Darren at work has tried. But in that professional environment I just bite my tongue and walk away.
With Miller, it lights me up with a sort of charged buzz. A very pleasant one. And that is so confusing because I don’t want to be bossed around by anyone. Or taken charge of by anyone.
But as I hop up into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition, it occurs to me that he’s not actually bossing me around or taking charge of me. What he’s doing is supporting me by coming up with a way to solve a problem, by having an idea that I hadn’t had.
Fuck, yeah. That’s…attractive.
I back the truck up as close to the fence as I can get it, right at the spot where Miller is stacking my bales in two piles, right next to each other, on the other side.
“Careful you don’t hurt your back.” Not sure what I’m worrying about, his lifting technique is impressive. “Those things are heavy.”
“Again,” he says, carrying a bale toward me, “the gym finally comes in useful for something.”
He drops it to the ground to create a step up to the higher pile on the left.
Despite the chill in the air, he takes off his gloves so he can wipe his brow with the back of his hand, then slides his work jacket off his broad, square shoulders.
My brain immediately turns it into one of those slow-motion commercials for designer sports drinks, where a guy chugs from a bottle just as an unexpected burst of torrential rain hits him and makes his T-shirt stick to his chest.
Miller hooks his jacket over a fence post and unbuttons a cuff of his shirt.
“Don’t do that,” I shout, as he starts to turn it back. Not that the idea of catching another glimpse of his forearms offends me. “Keep your sleeves down. Hay can get stuck in your skin and it’s really painful. Take that from fourteen-year-old me who once, and only once, insisted on walking through the stable in flipflops. My grandma spent hours working on my feet with a pair of tweezers that night. And I might have cried.”
“Okay. Good to know.” He unfolds the cuff and rebuttons it, then puts his gloves back on before returning to the work of moving my bales until they’re all stacked by the fence.
He climbs up the pile that’s forming steps, grabs the top bale from the higher pile next to it, swings it over the fence and drops it into the bed of the truck.
“Wow.” Jesus, could I really not stop that from flying out of my mouth?
My cheeks burn red hot. I must sound like I’m in danger of swooning. And while I might be, I certainly don’t want him to know that.
“Delighted to be of service,” he says with a flick of an eyebrow.
I busy myself climbing into the truck bed and shoving the bale to the back so the next one doesn’t hit it.
