The Last Eligible Billionaire(22)

Hayes is scowling as he pulls the cart to a stop in front of me. “Darling, I told you not to leave the estate without security.”

The last thing Hayes said to me last night before passing out cold was Bubbles melt in the mermaid boat, and he didn’t mention security once before that.

But I smile at him, and it’s not actually hard to find that smile.

Even scowling, he looks less grumpy than he did yesterday. Or maybe I’m projecting a belief that he needed more sleep, or maybe it’s that he came to get me himself instead of just sending security, or maybe it’s that the dark scruff growing out on his chin and cheeks, coupled with the black jeans and Henley, make him look more rugged than fancy, and a scowl on a rugged man is from a way different place than a scowl on a billionaire finding an unexpected nearly-naked guest in his bathroom.

And now I’m thinking about how he wasn’t wearing a shirt when I made him let me into his bed last night, and wondering how naked he was, and once again debating with myself if I can use this change in my own plans to ask a favor of him as well.

“We were out of food.” I gesture to the bike handles, laden with canvas bags of groceries, hoping I don’t look like I’m mentally stripping him, because I’m not.

My favor has nothing to do with finding him attractive. It’s just a thing. That’s it. “No strawberries. But I did get more cheesecake.”

“This is what Charlotte is for,” Amelia tells me.

“Oh, but I love the market. It’s so quaint and charming, and they have a nut butter maker, and I got a sample of the most delicious fresh almond butter that I’ve ever had in my life. Don’t worry—I got a jar to share, because you have to taste this. It’s so good. And the market also let Marshmallow in with me, and no one minded when he carried my mangos around the store for me.”

Hayes makes a noise that might be a simple hiccup or might be regrets laced with dear god, don’t ever speak of your mangos again as he slides out of the golf cart. “Come, Begonia. Sit. I’ll load up the bike—”

“No, no, I’ll ride it back, if you’ll take the groceries. And I’ll start brunch when I get home.”

Amelia doesn’t say anything else out loud, but I’m pretty sure she’s once again thinking that’s what Charlotte is for.

Poor Charlotte.

She’s clearly in love with Hayes, and he has no idea.

Or maybe he does, and he’s very, very good at playing obtuse.

And maybe she’s not actually in love with him, because maybe she has better taste than that, but has great admiration for him because he’s…good…at something she admires.

Whatever that is.

Feel sorry for the man for clearly having a rough few days? Yes.

Admit he’s attractive in a rugged, grumpy way, and possibly not the horrifying bear I thought he was yesterday? Maybe.

Want to fall in love with him?

Absolutely not. Love and I are on a break, and when we decide to give it a try again, it won’t be with a man who makes me sign a contract agreeing to be his fake girlfriend.

I want to be wooed, and I want to be someone’s equal.

Not gonna lie though—I also want someone to pop my post-divorce cherry, and I am nothing if not in tune with signs from the universe.

In all the time since I left Chad and started this journey toward being single, this is the first time I’ve wanted to consider having sex again.

Sleep in the same bed with someone? Of course. I don’t like being lonely. Especially at night.

But sex? Nope.

“Get in the golf cart, Begonia.”

After he fell asleep last night, I extracted myself from beneath his head, climbed onto the other side of the king-size mattress, and slept so-so for about six hours, our bodies continuously drawing closer together until I’d jerk awake and scoot to the other side of the bed again, his deep breathing as constant as the rolling tide outside and the soft breeze fluttering the curtains surrounding the balcony doors.

And I thought.

And this morning, slipping quietly through the aisles of the grocery store, listening to the whispered gossip around me, I thought some more.

This is fake.

It can be a lot of fun.

And maybe, just maybe, whenever this farce is over, both of us will have gotten something out of our arrangement.

Goodness knows I’ve already gotten more than I bargained for.

I met Jonas Rutherford’s mother. And she thinks I’m dating her other son. And Amelia Shawcross is staring at me.

This is way more adventure—in a peopling kind of way—than I thought I’d ever get in my whole life.

So I’m all in with this fake relationship thing.

Still, knowing what I’m supposed to do and why, coupled with what I want to ask him to do, makes it more difficult to slip my arms around this man’s shoulders. So does the way my heart kicks up when I go up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his scruffy cheek. “No. Walk me home instead.”

His muscles bunch, but he mimics my movements and settles his hands on my hips. “It’s not safe to wander off the estate by yourself when you’re dating me.”

I smile brighter and slip my fingers through his hair. “Are kidnappers going to dash out from behind that rock and carry me off to torture me behind the lobster shack?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”