Page 37 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“Yes.” In the absence of anything better to do with my hand that was about to knock on the door and is still hanging in the air, I shove it back into my jacket pocket.
Fuck me, she’s striking. The way her lips curl into that half-smile, the glint in her eyes that leaves me wondering what she might say next, the way her sweater falls over her breasts and her jeans emphasize her hips and thighs.
“The shower,” I finally manage.
Christ, what was that my mom always said about me being able to talk my way into or out of anything? There’s something about this woman that makes me lose the power of speech entirely.
Maybe it’s because I hate that I’m lying to her.
I thought this would be easy.
But apparently I’m a better person than I thought I was.
Frankie steps aside to let me in. “Of course.”
The cat instantly jumps from the seat of a kitchen chair and heads right for my legs.
This time I don’t try to get away. My pants already have enough donkey and hay detritus on them that some cat hair won’t make much difference.
Also, it’s weirdly nice to know that she hates almost everyone but likes me.
“If I live to be two hundred and fifty, I’ll never understand Thelma,” Frankie says as she heads toward the stove where she stirs something delicious-smelling that’s bubbling in a large pot.
“You mean you can’t understand any creature liking me?” I ask.
She doesn’t turn around, but her shoulders hitch a little higher.
Okay, that did sound flirtatious. But that’s just the way I always talk. That’s what Mom’s always referred to as my “social skills.” And it’s what makes meexcellent at my job.
“I just meant that Thelma is a complex animal,” Frankie says.
“Aren’t all females?” Jesus fucking Christ, Miller. Shut the fucking fuck up, get in the fucking shower, then get the fuck out of here.
“Aren’t allpeople,” she says.
“I like to think I’m pretty simple.” I shift the pile of clothes under my arm and one of the new pairs of boxers I picked up from the Tractor Trunk falls out and lands on top of Thelma, her face peeking out from under them like she’s wearing a cape.
She doesn’t flinch. But as I reach down to grab them before Frankie can see them, Thelma takes off across the room. She’s faster than she looks. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Frankie glances back at me over her shoulder.
“Nothing, it’s fine.” I stride around the table to try to retrieve my underwear. “I just dropped…something. And Thelma has it.”
“Well, whatever it is, you’re getting that back from her yourself. I’d quite like to retain all my fingers.”
She turns back to the pot and Thelma runs under the table. I place the rest of my clothes on top of it and move a chair aside so I can crawl underneath.
“Remember how much you like me, Thelma?” I ask as I reach for the boxers that are still draped over her back.
The very tips of my fingers brush against the fabric, right as she twists to grab it in her mouth and bolts.
“For fuck’s sake.” I back out from under the table. “Ow. Fuck.” But apparently not far enough before I stand up.
Rubbing the top of my head, I scan the room and locate Thelma. “Jesus.”
“Concussion?” Frankie asks with a chuckle.
“Just wounded pride.” I wince and point to the cat, who’s made it to the top of the kitchen wall cabinets at lightning speed and is dangling my underwear over the edge right next to the stove. “She’s unexpectedly agile.”
