Page 44 of The Runaway Billionaire's Inconvenient Baby
This perfect island life, this home that I thought I’d been creating… it’s all been an illusion, and it has been from the start.
And the worst part is that Billie knew that all along. She knew it, and she still allowed herself to trust me.
I’ve done nothing but let her down.
I stand up so quickly that the chair I was sitting in topples over beneath me, the wood clattering against the flagstone floor. I stumble to the door, not stopping to pick it up.
Only one thought is in my head. I have to find Billie.
I’m half-dressed and haven’t even showered, but none of that matters. How could it? The only thing I care about right now is trying to control this whole mess before my last chance at a life I really want slips away from me completely.
The sun is blindingly bright, and I instinctively throw up a hand, squinting as the light filters through my fingers. The cafe. I have to get to the cafe.
A car zooms past and the driver shouts something out the window, possibly concern, maybe a warning to stay out of theroad. I’m too dizzy to understand words. My head is pounding with the sound of my heart.
To the cafe. I have to get there now and explain it all to Billie before she decides she never wants to speak to me again.
I turn up the road and run.
CHAPTER 22
BILLIE
My day is going well until the letters start arriving. More than anything, I’m mad at myself for not seeing this coming.
We’re having a bit of a lull, so I’m busying myself with sweeping and cleaning out the tiny gap between the coffee machine and the wall. I don’t remember the last time we did this, and the dust buildup is telling me that it’s sorely overdue.
I’m also doing my best not to notice all the places where the paint is chipped and ugly, or the fact that the coffee machine sounds like it really needs help. I could do the painting myself, but I don’t have the time, and I can’t exactly afford to close the cafe to redecorate. And I definitely can’t afford to get someone in to do it for me.
As usual, all my options are bad ones, and I’m completely trapped between good enough and complete disaster. No doubt Jacob would offer to help, would want to sweep in with his billionaire cash and personal decorating crew, but the guilt of that would crush me.
He’ll never understand why I can’t allow something like that. To him, it’s simply money. To me, it’s a debt I’d never be able to repay.
But imagining the cafe freshly painted and reupholstered does squeeze my heart. I want it more than anything. Almost anything. I guess I don’t want it more than my pride.
Maybe if he really was serious about staying — if he did move here and mean those things he’s been saying about wanting to belong — maybe then I’d let him start helping. Not in one big move, but in pieces. A new piece of equipment here, some new furniture there. He would want to shut down the place for weeks to renovate, but those would be my terms. I’d accept the help if it was in small doses.
I take a second to imagine him doing the work himself, and that makes me giggle. The thought of him in painter’s overalls or building furniture is so opposite to who he is. Or at least, who he was.
Because he has been changing. It’s taking time, but I’m seeing it. He’s not who he was.
And if he keeps going in this direction, I’d even think about letting him stay.
The shop bell dings and I jump to attention, spinning around to greet my visitor. “Mrs. Richardson, good to see you!”
She doesn’t smile, which isn’t totally unlike her. No matter how enthusiastic I am, she’s the type of person who can always find something to be grumpy about. But she has no family, so I always welcome her with a smile and try to make sure someone spends time with her every few days. She’s family in this community, and I’m determined not to let her forget it.
Her cane thumps against the wooden floor as she shuffles over, and when she finally reaches the counter, she slaps down an envelope. “What’s this about?” she demands.
Carefully, I pick up the letter. She’s torn the envelope roughly and crammed the pages back inside. I pull the paper from the envelope and smooth it out on the counter. It’s a single sheet, and the words at the top of the page, underlined and bright red, make my heart stop.
Eviction Notice.
I snatch up the page and scan it over — a lot of patronizing legalese and the threat of forcible eviction. The promise of it. Two weeks until they start coming down with an iron fist. Two weeks left to enjoy our lives.
He promised me. Hesworethat he had changed his mind.
Has he been lying to me this whole time? Using me?
