The Last Eligible Billionaire(37)

He snorts softly. “Drop it, Begonia.”

“Will you have sex with me if I drop it?”

His whole body jolts, and I end up on the receiving end of a glare that should be setting someone’s hair on fire.

And I laugh.

I shouldn’t.

The first man I’ve made a real pass at since my divorce is glaring at me like I’m the most inconvenient thing in the world, and I’m laughing.

I pat his knee. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’m working on finding my self-respect so that I actually enjoy it when I finally have sex again.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in an audible breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, jaw ticking, aura screaming will this night never end?, and suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

Concentrate on the picnic, Begonia, I remind myself. Enjoy this lovely picnic.

The entire little town came together to make sure we enjoyed ourselves on the beach tonight. But for the kindness of strangers, I’d be having a leftover egg bake from this morning all by myself in the garden back at the mansion.

It wouldn’t have been a bad way to spend the evening. The gardens are lovely, and so are the stars, though the egg bake wasn’t entirely edible.

But instead, there are violins, a campfire, a homemade quilt, more delicious food than a dozen people could eat in two days, marshmallows for roasting over the fire—Marshmallow roasting himself near the fire—and an apple pie and wine in glow-in-the-dark silicone glasses to finish it off.

All while we’re wearing formalwear.

And there will be pictures in the paper, so I’ll be able to talk to Hyacinth all about it as soon as I get a cell signal again when I’m in New York next week.

And I’m going to New York.

There’s so much to be grateful for.

But my companion is not currently one of those things.

And he probably won’t ever be.





15





Hayes



Begonia talks in her sleep.

While I’m lying in bed, tossing and turning and accidentally brushing her leg with my knee time and again after waiting until she was asleep to even come to bed, she’s having an entire conversation with herself about goats in trees being painted wrong on the side of the banana boat.

Have sex with me, Hayes.

It’s all I can think about.

It’s all I thought about through dinner. All I thought about while kissing her for the cameras. All I thought about while walking back to the estate, her swaying slightly as she told me hilarious stories about getting caught swapping places with her twin sister during their teenage years or the trouble they got up to at summer camp—clearly, her favorite place in the universe—chattering away with her strappy heels dangling from her fingers, all of her together making for the very epitome of a Razzle Dazzle romantic comedy heroine.

And yet, a naked Begonia writhing beneath me and moaning my name is all I can think about.

And it shouldn’t be.

Fake dating her was a terrible idea, and now, thanks to myself, I’m stuck with her as my pretend girlfriend for as long as the tabloids milk the story.

This should be a good thing.

And it would be a good thing.

Everyone knows a Rutherford would never cheat on his partner, so I don’t even have to be kind in turning down advances, which will still come, because the world is still convinced I’ll never get married, so this is clearly temporary.

Dammit.

I will have to propose. Or possibly blackmail her into an actual marriage.

And that thought doesn’t shrivel my testicles as much as it should.

Begonia Fairchild is a beguiling minx who shouldn’t be allowed in public with all of that sunshine and kindness and na?veté that’s either an exceptional act or proof positive that my world will destroy her.

My conscience is suddenly betraying me. Possibly because on top of knowing just how poorly this relationship could end for her, I’m genuinely beginning to like her.

I don’t like liking her.

Liking her leads to trusting her, and trusting her leads to her betraying me, and her betraying me leads to me being publicly single, and then my mother or my aunt or my grandmother or my father’s assistant’s mailman’s financial advisor will know the perfect woman who would fit into my world as though she was born there—which she most likely will have been—and I’ll finally cave and marry a woman simply to be done with this ridiculous notion of being the world’s most sought-after billionaire bachelor.

Don’t mistake me. I appreciate the luxuries my life provides.

But there are two sides to every coin, and money comes with a price.

And this is why I’m prowling around the kitchen at three AM, looking for something to eat that will soothe an unsootheable ache that’s only made worse every time Begonia shifts closer to my side of the bed in her sleep.

“Insomnia?” my mother says from behind me, startling me so badly that I drop a jar of local honey that Begonia picked up at a small stand after she left the market this morning, which was another story that also involved nearly being attacked by bees after sampling every flavor.

The woman does nothing small. She throws herself all the way into everything.

The jar cracks on the tile floor and splits, much like I feel my brain is about to do. The sticky brown substance creeps out from the splintered jar as I try to mitigate the damage. “Don’t come in here,” I mutter.