Page 26 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
If this scenario had happened to someone else, I’d say that a total stranger showing up on their doorstep out of nowhere, wearing brand new clothes, with zero belongings, yet seeming to have enough money to buy the whole town but wanting to stay in a ramshackle barn loft, was a walking red flag with a blaring Klaxon on top.
But when we looked at each other for that moment after he bumped into me right here in the kitchen yesterday, I had this weird feeling like I’d known him my whole life. Like we’d been to kindergarten and elementary school together and been teasing each other since we were five.
Though there was nothing childlike about the trembly flip in my belly when he looked down atme and his eyes locked onto mine. And my belly is doing a very similar thing right now just watching his long, firm legs stride purposefully into the miniatures’ stable before he disappears from view.
What the …
A laugh flies from me involuntarily at the sight of Miller suddenly reappearing at high speed—running across the paddock with the shovel still in one hand and the bucket swinging from the other. I can’t quite see the expression on his face from this distance, but I’m pretty sure his mouth is open.
My hand clamps over my mouth to stifle a shriek—totally pointless since there’s no one else here to hear it. Although Thelma has lifted her head just far enough to throw me one of her looks of disgust.
Oh yup, there we have it, just as I suspected. Racing out of the barn behind Miller is Harley. We didn’t name him after the motorcycle for nothing.
This is like something out of an old silent movie. A terrified handsome farmhand running at full tilt—leaning back, knees pumping high—as he’s chased by a miniature donkey who looks like he’s having the time of his life.
The laughter rocks my belly now.
Shit, I totally forgot to warn Miller that Harley hates the shovel. Or, more likely, is scared of it. God knows what that poor little guy experienced before someone rescued him and brought him to us. But if he ever sees anyone carrying a shovel, he headbutts them with a force entirely disproportionate to his size. We always either wait until he’s out of the stables before going in there to clean, or we shoo him out first.
Miller has now reached the far end of the enclosure and has nowhere else to run. He’s oblivious to the fact thatHarley has considered his mission accomplished and abandoned it halfway across the paddock where he’s decided to nudge the big orange ball around instead.
Miller grips the fence and looks like he’s taking his life into his hands as he peers back over his shoulder.
An inelegant snort flies from my nose as his tall, square form slumps with relief that he’s escaped his three-foot-tall tormentor.
He drops the shovel and the bucket and clutches his heart with one hand while removing the Tractor Trunk cap he bought yesterday with the other and running his fingers through that lush crop of deep brown hair.
Oh my God, that was the funniest thing I’ve witnessed in a long time.
You don’t see that kind of action in Chicago. Though there are times I’d wished some sort of rampaging beast would chase Dickish Darren out of the building.
Poor Miller, though. I should take him some breakfast.
To make up for the shock. And because he has no means of making his own. And he is working here for free, after all. So it’s the least I can do.
Yup. Those are the only reasons. I’m definitely not looking for an excuse just to be around him. Nope. Definitely not the case.
I open the bread box to take out the fresh crusty loaf I picked up at Kneads Must while I was in town yesterday and chuckle to myself as the images of Miller high-knee running across the paddock as if chased by a murderous lion replay in my mind.
The chuckle resonates with another of those tremblybelly flips.
Squinting against the low morning sun, I approach the stable just as Miller emerges, jacket off, sleeves of one of his new sweatshirts pushed up to his elbows, displaying those fine forearms.
I think he’s looking over at me, but it’s hard to tell since he’s now stepped into light that’s turned him into a silhouette reminiscent of a sexy cowboy—if the sexy cowboy were sure enough of his own sexuality to look after miniature donkeys rather than strut around riding enormous horses like they were the only large thing he’d ever seen between his legs.
I’d bet Miller McSweeney looks mighty fine in a pair of leather chaps, though.
“Breakfast.” I hold up a Tupperware container bearing toast, and a thermos mug of coffee.
He knocks up the brim of his hat with the back of his hand and gives me the warmest smile imaginable—a smile that could charm the birds from the trees, the fish from the ocean, and the panties from someone who’s taken the most stringent vows of celibacy.
He rests the shovel against the side of the stable and wanders toward me. He has one of those confident saunters, the kind you see in movie stars—head slightly dipped, peering flirtatiously from under his brows.
I perch on the old picnic table in the corner of the field, my feet on the bench.
He climbs up beside me and takes the mug. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know how you take your coffee, so I just put a dash of cream in it. Figured that would do if you like it white, but not be too much if you prefer it black.” Saying that out loud makes it sound like I very much overthought it.
