Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(55)

“Well, you sold a shit-ton last week,” Kat said gleefully. “The team over at Incomparable Books is absolutely thrilled and they want you to do more Bill books. As many as you can work into your schedule this year. They don’t even care that you’re late on this other one. Isn’t that awesome? Steady work!”

“Great,” Gretchen echoed, suddenly feeling a little queasy.

“Sales is trying to figure out what the spike in sales came from, but they’re super pleased. They say that if sales keep going the way they are, they might even add your name as a byline at some point.” Kat sounded impressed. “Just think. You could write under your own name.”

“Great,” Gretchen said again.

“So how many Bill books do you think you can fit into your schedule this year? I told them you write fast. At least four, I think. What do you think?”

Four more Bill books, as fast as she could crank them out? Her stomach churned. “I’m not sure. Let me look at my calendar and I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Will do,” Kat chirped into the phone. “By the way, I was going to send you flowers but I wasn’t sure if it would be apropos since you’re guesting over there. But I totally thought of flowers for you. I even bought some shoes in your honor.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” Gretchen said wryly, laughing. “Call you back soon.”

When she hung up the phone, she stared at her surroundings, uncomprehending. Then, the reality of it hit her and she burst into tears.

She felt . . . trapped. God, what was wrong with her? This should have made her happy. Before today, Incomparable Books had been on the verge of booting her from their stable of ghostwriters. She couldn’t hit a deadline and her books weren’t what the fans seemed to want. They wanted Bill having all kinds of sexist, ridiculous adventures and Gretchen had a hard time writing that. But with the success of this book, it meant steady paychecks. It meant success.

It meant she was locked into that misogynistic a**hole Bill for the rest of the year, and possibly several years into the future. And she should have been thrilled.

But instead, she just wept.

It was there that Hunter found her, still on the couch and crying her eyes out. “Gretchen?”

She turned to glance at the doorway and absently dashed a bit of wetness from her cheek. “Hey.” Damn it. Her nose sounded stuffy.

His eyes narrowed and he strode toward her, his fingers moving to lift her chin and tilt her face to him. “You’re upset.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I don’t like seeing you upset. Tell me what it is that’s bothering you.”

She shook her head. It wasn’t something Hunter would understand. “I’m fine. Really.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe her. “Is it something I can fix?”

A wry smile touched her mouth and she stood, moving into his arms. She sighed with pleasure when he wrapped her in his embrace, and she rested her cheek against his chest. “I’m not entirely sure I understand why I’m upset, myself. So no, I can’t ask you to help me fix it.”

“A distraction, then?” Hunter murmured.

“Hmmm,” she said, chuckling. “Now that has merit. What did you have in mind? What do you do to relax?”

“I don’t know if you want to do what I do. I usually exercise or work in my greenhouse.”

She made a face. “Yeah, that doesn’t exactly sound like fun to me. Sorry.”

“I think you’re not giving it a fair chance. Come on.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the library door.

Gretchen hesitated for a moment, then let him lead. She should have been working, but working was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment. It was part of the reason she was so unhappy.

They headed into the greenhouse, and Gretchen was immediately hit by the humidity and the perfume of the flowers. While it had its charm, she didn’t share the fascination with plants that Hunter did. They were pretty, they were fragrant, but that was about it.

He took her hand and led her through the rows of green bushes. A hint of satisfaction was stamped across his proud features as they moved through the gardens.

“Are we here to pick me another rose?”

“Better.”

“Two roses? You rebel, you.”

“Better,” he said again. “Which roses are your favorites?”

She ran her fingers along his sleeve. “The ones you give me.”

“Do you like a particular color? Scent?”

She thought for a moment. “I liked the blue one you gave me the first day.”

“What else?”

Gretchen thought for a moment. They were always lovely, which was why she was having a difficult time deciding. It was obvious that whatever this was, it meant something to him. He practically vibrated with enthusiasm. “Which one is your favorite?”

“For you?” He led her past a row of bright yellow blooms and knelt in front of a rosebush covered with red blooms. “This one. Papa Meilland. It makes me think of you every time I see it.”

The flower’s odd name meant nothing to her, but she knelt next to him, curious. “Why?”

“The petals are like velvet, the color a deep red like your hair, and no other rose that I own smells sweeter.”