Page 155 of Money Reigns
Breakfast arrives.
Croissants, fruit, and the soft scrambled eggs he knows I love. He nods at the delivery guy, barely cracking the door.
We eat at the long marble kitchen island, both barefoot, both quiet. He answers calls, his tone shifting depending on who’s on the other end. Sharp and short with one. Warm and commanding with another. His voice is low but firm. Everything about him feels in control. Untouchable.
And then there’s me. Sitting across from him in lace and silk, pretending I can keep my own secrets when I’m in the middle of falling in love with him.
So in love.
I said I loved him and I meant it.
Butdamnam I still falling.
I open my laptop and transfer the money I’ve been putting off sending. My brother’s text flashes across the screen, short, a little goofy, and grateful. I close the window quickly.
War looks up from his phone. “You okay?”
I smile, small and practiced. “Yeah. Just paying bills.”
He watches me for a moment too long, then returns to his phone. “Parker Building renovations are going smoother than I expected,” he says, sounding almost… surprised. “It’s going to be beautiful when it’s done. Fit to honor him.”
The softness in his voice guts me.
I stare at him. At the way his brow creases when he’s deep in thought, the way his thumb taps against his glass absentmindedly. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are brighter than I’ve seen them in weeks.
And my mind can’t stop screaming it: I love him.
God, Ireallylove him.
War answers another call and I get back to work.
Or try to.
I try to focus.
I really do.
He’s talking; something about permits and square footage, insurance clauses and structural engineers. I should be deep in numbers, reviewing projections for the new hotel site.
But instead, I’m watching him.
Lounging at the other end of the kitchen island, barefoot, shirt half-open, casual command incarnate. One hand cradles his cup, the other gestures sharply as he speaks.
He’s so in control. So effortlessly in charge.
All the while, I’m drowning in him.
I adjust in my seat, trying to cross my legs. His eyes flick to me. One glance. That’s all. But it hits like a warning.
I look away.
He finishes his call, murmurs a clipped goodbye, then scrolls through something on his phone. His thumb pauses.
“You’re not working.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at me for fifteen minutes,” he says without looking up. “And you’ve typed nothing. Not a single key.”
