Page 46 of The Runaway Billionaire's Inconvenient Baby
I thrust Mrs. Richardson’s letter in his face, the paper crumpling where I’m clutching it with my fist. His eyes dart over the wordeviction,and his tanned cheeks pale, either in shame or horror. Hard to tell which. I hope it’s shame. I hope he has a human emotion left in his heart.
I wouldn’t trust that hope to keep me going, though.
His mouth opens and closes as he tries to form the words that are going to make me listen. Of course, there are no words he can say that will make me believe he’s being sincere, but I’d like to hear from his mouth why he thinks he can get away with buttering us all up and then turfing us out the second the paperwork comes through.
“I’m waiting,” I snap.
“I forgot,” he says lamely. “I was so excited to be here. I was having such a good time with you… I forgot that I told my lawyers to expedite everything. I should have called them. I should have?—”
“You forgot?” My own mouth drops open in shock. “Youforgot?”
“I did,” he says softly. “This is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I’m so sorry. But I can put it right. I shouldn’t have let you all find out this way, but maybe…”
“I wish you’d never come here,” I snap bitterly, my vision blurring with tears. “I wish I hadn’t fallen for your stupid tricks, that fantasy you were selling me. I should have known better.”
“It wasn’t a trick,” he tries, but I hold up my hand, pushing him away.
“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. I want you to leave.”
“Leave?” His eyebrows crease in confusion.
“Yes, leave. I need you to leave now. I want you out of my house, off my island, out of my life. I never want to see you again.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again like that means anything.
Seeing him standing here, the sun in his hair, looking as gorgeous as he always has — it’s too much for me to bear. He’s full of pretty words; it’s how he managed to get all the way to this point. But I won’t have any more of it.
“Just get your things and go, all right?” I snap, and before he can get another word out, I turn on my heel and march off.
I don’t know where I’m going. He calls after me, but I don’t turn back. He doesn’t deserve me turning back. He doesn’t deserve a second thought at all.
As I turn the corner and head down a random street, I let out a shaky breath, and the tears pricking at my eyes flow down my face. I can’t do anything to stop them.
CHAPTER 23
JACOB
I’m not much of a crier, but I’ve never been so close to tears as I am walking back to Billie’s house.
I’m utterly and completely devastated.
No doubt if I said that to her, she’d accuse me of being manipulative or think I was being insincere. There’s nothing I can say that will make a difference, no words that will take away the betrayal she thinks she’s feeling. The betrayal sheisfeeling.
It doesn’t matter what I say now. She thinks I’ve used her, and I don’t think she’s entirely wrong about that. It wasn’t on purpose, but now I’m running through every interaction we ever had and it’s horrifying to me how dismissive I was, how selfish I’ve been. How stupid I was not to stop this before it imploded.
She’s not there when I get back. I have no idea where she’s stormed off to. Probably back to the cafe or out to her favorite place to sit on the hill. Does she regret taking me there now? Does she hate the fact that I know her secrets?
I want to believe that she must know I would never hurt her on purpose. But that’s exactly what she thinks. She thinks I’ve donethis as some way of tormenting her; the arrogant billionaire playing games with people’s lives out of boredom.
The thought of that makes me want to vomit.
When I get to her house, I head straight upstairs. I wander into her room — our room — and take a hard breath when I see the bed unmade the way I left it this morning. I suppose I should do her the decency of at least making the bed before I leave.
It’s been only a handful of days that I’ve been here, but it feels like home already. The idea that I have to leave is killing me.
But I have to go or else Billie might really kill me.
Slowly, methodically, I start packing up. My hands shake as I pick up the clothes I’ve discarded on the floor, my new shirts, my shorts entangled in her skirt, my socks strewn about like I’ve made this home.
