Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(17)

The girl needed a hobby. Of course, the odds of that happening were about as good as the odds of Gretchen getting a boyfriend.

She slipped out the door of her room and down the hall. There was no sound of vacuums today. Today they were cleaning the boathouse and greenhouse or something. No flood of maids to drop in on and say hello, since she didn’t know where either the boathouse or greenhouse were. That meant that the only person around was Eldon, and he tended to avoid her.

This also meant that the north wing—Mr. Buchanan’s wing—would likely be deserted.

Gretchen headed there, unable to help herself.

It was a crazy idea, but the more she entertained the thought of apologizing to Mr. Buchanan, the more she wanted to do it. Her spying was going to hang in the air between them, and she didn’t want to spend the next thirty days hiding from him—or having him retreat at the sight of her.

They needed to deal with it like adults. Adults saw nudity all the time. Penises? No big deal. She wanted to apologize and make this next month as smooth as possible, since they’d be living together.

Unfortunately for her, his wing of the estate was entirely deserted. She spent a good half hour knocking on doors, only to come to that maddening conclusion. This place was a maze, and it would be near impossible to find the owner unless she knew where to look for him.

Disgruntled—and a bit hungry—Gretchen headed to the kitchens in the north wing, since it was the only one stocked. Even here, the place was immaculate. Not a crumb marred the gorgeous granite countertops, and the fridge and pantry were brimming with all kinds of delicious things that she was itching to bake with. It wasn’t her kitchen so she wouldn’t touch anything that she didn’t have permission to. Though it killed her not to rummage through the pantry and start baking, she made herself a simple sandwich out of some of the fresh bread left out on the counter (she’d come back later for Igor’s food), washed her knife and plate once she was done, and then wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel and walked the halls as she ate, musing to herself about her surroundings.

As she finished her sandwich, she strolled past a long corridor of windows and almost missed the sight of Mr. Buchanan in the gardens. His tall figure cut a dark form against the nak*d rosebushes. She moved to the window to watch him, and she noticed that he seemed to be inspecting the bushes. They looked pretty dead to her, but maybe they weren’t supposed to be? Intrigued, Gretchen hunted for a door that led outside.

Five minutes later, she was slogging through the light dusting of snow in a pair of boots that she’d found in the mudroom. Her flannel pajamas were warm enough for the indoors, but the bitter winter wind cut right through them. For a brief moment, she pondered heading back to her room to dress in something other than pajamas, but in that time, the mysterious Mr. Buchanan might disappear on her again.

And she desperately needed to talk to him.

Her footsteps crunched loudly as she walked, and she crossed her arms over her chest, heading toward him with determination. He didn’t seem to have noticed her yet, so she studied him from behind. She’d seen him previously, of course, but not clothed, and he looked different, somehow. Rich guys didn’t need to work hard to get chicks. She always suspected that more often they looked like pasty nerds rather than soldiers. But this man was definitely of the latter variety, however. His shoulders were thick and burly underneath the tan jacket he wore, and his entire frame seemed built for muscle. He wasn’t short either, which was nice. Not that she was interested in those sorts of things. She just wanted to apologize for ogling his junk.

He turned around even as she was considering his nicely formed behind, and her face flushed bright red. She was forever going to be caught leering at him, wasn’t she?

Mr. Buchanan stared at her for a long moment, frozen. Then color began to dot his cheeks. It made the scars on his face stand out even more, like jagged talons of white cutting across his tanned skin.

He also looked like he was torn between running for cover or choking her with the length of rope he held.

“Hi there.” She tried to keep her tone cheerful and nonchalant. “I thought I’d come out and say hi.”

His eyes narrowed warily, and she was reminded for a moment of a wounded animal. That piercing gaze moved up and down her form, noting her pajamas. “Are you drunk?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” she said, drawing out that one syllable. Okay, so the pajamas weren’t making the best first—um, second—impression. “I’m friendly. I saw you out here and wanted to talk.”

His face darkened into a scowl, the scars at the corner of his mouth twisting his entire face into an ugly grimace. He turned away. “I have nothing to say to you.”

So this wasn’t going well. When he began to stalk away at a pace more rapid than she could sustain in her oversized borrowed boots, she panicked. “Your penis!” she called out. “I saw it!”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to give her an incredulous look.

She stomped after him, nearly losing her balance in a snowdrift. “It’s true,” she said, struggling to stand upright. “I was snooping and I saw you nak*d. All of you. Really nak*d. That’s why you won’t talk to me, isn’t it?” When he began to scowl again, she continued. “I mean, you can sit here and pretend you don’t want to talk to me, but we both know it’s totally awkward because I saw your dick before I saw your face.”