Page 82 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
A song came on. “Like A Virgin.” Madonna crooned, “Feels so good inside.”
I turned the radio off.
“Wait.” Bianca looked out the window in confusion. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“No. We’re going home.”
“But my home is—”
“We’re going to our home,” I said. “I want you to pick out your room before we leave this weekend. We need to get you settled. And I don’t want to have to lie to my parents when they ask if we’re living together.”
She made a small, strangled noise in her throat, then rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes.
“You’re terrible for my ego,” I said drily.
“I’m sorry. This is all just so . . . surreal.”
Her voice was muted. When I sent her a surreptitious glance, I saw that her face was pale and her knee was bouncing up and down. She really was traumatized.
Had I been a less selfish man, I would’ve turned around, driven her home, paid for her mother’s surgery, and ripped up our contract. But now—aside from the fact that I dearly loved my house and my car collection and all the things my father’s money bought me—I had to admit that the thought of us living under the same roof had me as excited as a five-year-old on Christmas morning.
I’d get to see those long-lashed doe eyes every day. I’d get to hear that voice, a jazz singer’s honeyed, husky timbre. I’d get the indescribable pleasure of watching her move among my things, warming all the cold marble surfaces with her fire and her laugh and her vibrancy.
In short, I’d be the luckiest fucking man on earth. I wasn’t giving that up over a simple thing like decency.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
After a moment, she sat up straighter and blew out a breath. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s me who’s acting silly. You were right, this is a business deal that we’re both benefiting from.” She sent me a weak smile. “I’m grateful to you.”
Now I really felt like a louse.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, lost in our thoughts. When I stopped in front of the house, Rayford opened the door and bounded out, smiling from ear to ear. I wondered how long he’d been standing inside waiting for us to show up, peering out the windows like an anxious mother.
“Miss Bianca!” he said, opening the passenger door. He grinned at her with his entire body. “So good to see you again!”
For once I was glad of Rayford’s indestructible cheer. It visibly lifted Bianca’s spirits.
“Rayford.” She took his extended hand and allowed him to help her out of the car. Then she hugged him.
He looked as surprised as I felt.
“Why, Miss Bianca,” he said, chuckling and patting her back. “You’ll make an old man blush.”
She said something to him that I didn’t catch, then pulled away. I got out of the car as fast as I could, convinced I’d miss something important, but Rayford simply took her hand and put it into the crook of his arm and led her into the house.
I frowned at his back. The old goat just usurped me!
“So tell me how it went with your mama and Mr. Boudreaux,” said Rayford, gazing down at Bianca affectionately as they walked down the hall and I followed behind like an obedient dog, trying not to sniff too closely at her heels.
“It went great,” Bianca said, wonder in her voice. “She really liked him.”
Rayford threw a glance at me over his shoulder that said, Maybe she’s got a screw loose.
I made a face at him. He turned back to Bianca, suppressing a smile. “Of course she did. What’s not to like about Mr. Frownypants?”
I almost choked on my tongue, until Bianca laughed so heartily that I instantly forgave him. “Let’s take the elevator,” I said when Rayford headed for the spiral staircase to the second floor.
Bianca looked startled. “Elevator?”
