Page 43 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
The emotional rush of that unexpected deeper connection, combined with talking about losing Grandma, produces spikes in the lump in my throat and burns my eyes.
“Oh, Frankie.” There’s a hoarseness to Miller’s voice, so he pauses to clear his throat. “I hate that you went through that.”
“It’s okay.” I wipe my eyes with the end of my sleeve. “I’m fine. Really, I am. And if I’d told you that story in Chicago it probably wouldn’t have affected me as much. It’s just that she’s everywhere in this place.”
I sniff loudly, and take a large swig of wine.
“I feel so bad about everything,” he says, his eyes half closing as he drops his head into his hands and rubs his forehead.
“There’s absolutely nothing for you to feel bad about.” I hold tight onto my glass with both hands to stop myself from reaching across the table to lay a reassuring touch on his arm. “I’m just happy that you’re here to help.”
Another sniff, another sip of wine, and I put on my happy face. “Now, eat up and tell me something fun. Like where else you’ve been so far on your digital-nomading travels.”
He looks up at me from under his hand with a rueful smile. “Oh, you don’t need to hear about that.”
“It wasn’t that funny,” Miller huffs as I snort and hold my stomach at the memory of him hightailing it across the paddock with Harley in hot pursuit.
“Oh, God.” I finally catch my breath and wipe my eyes with my sleeve again, this time banishing tears of joy, not heartbreak.
This man really is wonderful company. In fact, he’s the perfect package with his easy charm and quick tongue softened by self-deprecating humor. And the fact that he runs his own investment business must mean he’s not afraid of hard work or responsibility.
Not to mention, it’s impossible not to be drawn to the sparkle in his eyes or notice the line of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the shadow of stubble across his chin, and the way the white T-shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders and shows off his biceps. And Lord save me from the sight of those forearms that make me ache with the need to stroke them and feel the light tickle of the fine coating of dark hairs on my fingers.
Does this man have a fault?
“I’m afraid it was hilarious.” I drain my wine glass and stand to gather up our dishes. My head has a gentle swimmy buzz from a glass and a half of wine.
Miller follows, stopping at the sink where he tries and fails to turn the tap hard enough to stop the drip.
“It’s been doing that for ages,” I tell him.
But he’s still trying when I turn away.
After a minute I sense his presence next to me at the dishwasher, where he’s watching me load it.
“Would you like me to explain just how wrong your methodology is?” he asks.
“Dishwashers are something you have strong feelings about? Actually, I think you have strong feelings about clean things, so I suppose that would include washing dishes.”
“I have strong feelings about things fitting together properly,” he says. “Be that dishwasher contents or buildings or”—he stills for a second, his eyesflicking to mine as he moves a mug I’d put on the bottom rack to the top—“people.”
My hand presses on my chest to quell the shudder running through my heart and to smother the thudding sound it’s making, which he’s close enough to hear.
Would he and I fit together? I’m sure I’d slot perfectly under his arm, that my face would fill the exact gap between his neck and his shoulder, and that my legs would hook over his hips just right.
It’s only now I admit to myself that I assessed all of those things, without even realizing it, within minutes of opening the door to him yesterday.
“Buildings?” I ask, picking out the most innocuous item from his list to distract myself from the swirl of inappropriate thoughts. “Of all the things you could have picked that fit together, like jigsaw puzzles, or honeycombs, or zipper teeth, or whatever, what on earth made you pick buildings?”
“Not sure.” His attention is entirely on the contents of the dishwasher now. “I guess they just have to fit together properly or they fall down. And if they fell down it would be fairly catastrophic.”
I need to get this man out of here before I become so mesmerized by the shift of the muscles in his dish-rearranging arms that I either pass out or jump on him.
Both would be equally humiliating.
“Okay.” I clap my hands together, all businesslike. “Let’s stop playing chess with the dirty dishes. It’s getting dark. Time to put the kids to bed.”
The warm smile is back on his face when he straightens. “Is that what you call the donkeys? The kids?”
