Page 4 of Faking it with the Billionaire
Did she just fly in from Montana, or is she a local?
I rub the back of my head, glancing her over. It’s hard not to watch her and focus on the way her hips sway as she walks. It’s been too long since I’ve bedded a woman. Having a six-year-old daughter makes it difficult. Oh, and there’s the celebrity status too.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my share of women when my daughter has a sleepover at my cousin’s place or my brother’s for the night.
But it’s never more than a one-night stand.
Women tend to want my bank account. They throw themselves at me, but it’s never real. And it doesn’t help that I became a billionaire before I could legally buy alcohol. It’s not a happy story, but it’s mine, whether I like it or not.
It weighs me down when I think about the investment, where the money came from, and what has happened since.
Most billionaires would walk away from sports and retire. Kick their feet up and lounge on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific or wherever suits them.
I’m not like most billionaires.
I enjoy the sport, the thrill of the ice under my skates, and the fans shouting in unison. There’s a rush of adrenaline I get in the arena that I don’t get anywhere else.
And I’ve tried.
Parachuting out of an airplane was fun and exciting, but it didn’t give me the same satisfactory rush. And having a kid also takes precedence. I can’t throw myself out of an airplane. The same could be said about me being a father and my away games, but Bristol stays with my cousin on those days and loves it.
“Sir?”
When I haven’t answered Ms. Ryan quickly enough, she steps toward me. “We don’t have time to waste, Mr. Greyson. If the threat is viable, we need to secure the house, and I want to make sure everything is working properly.”
“It’s viable, all right,” I mutter, brushing past her.
I feel the heat of her gaze on my back as she follows me down the stairs and to the security office. I open the door, gesturing for her to step in first.
The far wall is covered floor-to-ceiling with surveillance screens. They’re high-end and can merge into one giant screen or twenty individual screens which each focus on a camera around the property. There aren’t too many cameras inside the home. One leads up from the basement stairs, and there are cameras at each entrance of the house and garage.
I tower over her petite frame as she stands with her arms folded across her chest, glancing over the equipment. “Show me the controls,” she says.
There’s a long wooden desk with a control board and computer linked to all the cameras. I lead her to the panel and provide her with the password to access the system.
Within seconds, she’s tapping away at the keyboard, zooming in and out with the cameras, glancing at the screens. I’m not sure what she’s looking for or doing, but this isn’t her first time.
I shuffle on my feet, shifting the weight slightly, not wanting to feel like a complete ass for what I said earlier and worse for thinking that she was incapable based solely on her size.
She is small.
She is petite and quite adorable, I realize, the longer I stare at her.
But this is all business. I didn’t bring her into my home to have lurid thoughts about the bodyguard. I grimace.
Just thinking of her as the bodyguard seems comical. I run my hand over the back of my neck and exhale a heavy sigh.
“Something wrong?” Emerson asks. She glances at me over her shoulder.
I shake my head. She already knows I’m not impressed by her size. But if she can protect Bristol, that’s all that matters.
“You seem to have a pretty good idea of how to use the surveillance system,” I say, and clear my throat, trying to distract myself from the fact she’s leaning forward, head slightly tilted to the side, her cheeks red, likely from the chill outside and the rain.
She’s still in her damp clothes, although with her shoes off and the jacket discarded, she’s less soaked. The hem of her pants is wet, and her hair is damp and messy, but it makes her even more irresistible.
Fuck.
My cock twitches in my trousers.
