The Last Eligible Billionaire(55)

Nikolay coughs in the foyer below.

“You weren’t trying to make her like you,” Hayes murmurs to me before I can ask questions about this seagull aversion.

He’s on to me. There are very few people in this world that I dislike on sight, or who I’m not motivated to win over on sight, and this Liliane person just got added to the very short list of two, with the collectiveness of Chad and his circle now being the other one. “Who? Your fiancée?”

“She is not my fiancée, despite what her mother would like to believe.”

“Figures. You’re not good enough for Angie anyway. No offense.”

A full smile curves his lips. He barks out a laugh, and someone hand me a parachute.

I’m falling.

I’m falling hard, and fast, and it is a long way down.





21





Hayes



Begonia is staring again.

It should be annoying, but instead, it’s making me examine every bit of my life with fresh eyes.

Again.

We’re sitting before the wall-mounted fireplace in the den of my private suite, her lounging in a black silk robe and white terrycloth slippers from my closet, her hair once again wrapped in a towel, me in jeans and a Henley after both of us showered—separately, at her insistence, as though she was afraid I would suggest joining her, which I would’ve done in a heartbeat if she looked any less worn down and unable to resist the charms of anyone with half the personality of a garden troll—and she’s staring at the candlelit tray of food on the table between us the way I wish she’d stare at me.

I’m reasonably certain it’s not the black cloth napkins, the china, the crystal wine goblets, the candles, or the silver that have her captivated, her hand hovering above the serving tray piled with a dwindling supply of sliced roasted sirloin cap, thick asparagus spears, caramelized bananas, and cheese rolls.

No, my question is which food is so enthralling that she can’t stop staring.

I’ve had this meal many times myself, but tonight, it’s oddly more delicious.

Probably because I’m paying attention to the food instead of taking it for granted. I can honestly understand her fascination, and I don’t believe I could pick a favorite.

She doesn’t leave me to wonder long, as she finally plucks a roll from the spread and holds it up to examine the soft puff of cheesy bread in the glow from the fireplace.

“That is not a simple cheese roll. Did the chef put magic in it? Pixie dust? Sprinkles of awesome? How does it taste so good?”

“Essence of magic mushrooms,” I deadpan.

“No! Oh my gosh, you really do get to try things that normal people—wait. You’re joking. Hayes Rutherford. Warn me before you make a joke. It actually made you attractive this time.”

I jerk my head toward her, but she’s already moved past the compliment, and she’s sealing her lips around the cheese roll, moaning softly, and thinking is suddenly difficult.

As is sitting still.

And being in fucking jeans.

“I’ll have sex with you,” I announce.

She inhales sharply, makes a noise that has both me and Marshmallow leaping to our feet, and then she’s coughing.

I hover while she coughs.

And coughs.

And coughs more, holding up a finger as if to say I’m okay, this happens all the time, don’t worry about it, which is exactly what Begonia would say if she could talk.

I hand her my glass of wine, and she gulps it, then coughs again.

“I’m okay,” she rasps out.

Naturally.

Marshmallow has crawled into her lap and is head-butting her in the chest like the damn dog knows CPR.

“I’m okay,” she repeats.

Her hoarse voice hits me right in the testicles and makes me ache.

It shouldn’t—she could’ve choked for real—but I’m rapidly discovering there’s little Begonia can do that I don’t find attractive.

Hence my incredibly awkward proposition.

Billions of dollars in the bank, growing up in the most elite of societies, nannies and manners lessons and all but going to a damn finishing school, and here I am, being rendered awkward as a middle-schooler by a high school art teacher.

“Thank god I didn’t choke in front of Angie,” she says, a twinkle coming back to her bright eyes as she completely dodges the subject. “She’s not the real Angie and probably would’ve let me die.”

I ease back into my chair, afraid if I touch her, I won’t stop, and that was not the reaction of a woman wanting to take me up on my offer.

Of course it isn’t.

She hasn’t said another damn word about having sex with me since she first brought it up, and I’m nothing if not effective at shutting down passes.

I’ve had regrets before, but rejecting her might take top honors as the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

And why would she want to have sex with me as anything other than a last resort of convenience?

Even at my best, I’m a terrible option for her. And she’s seen me not at my worst, but not anywhere near my best either.

“Marshmallow would’ve saved you,” I offer, trying for a joke again.

She doesn’t laugh, but instead, nods thoughtfully. “Or Nikolay, I’m sure. He’s very nice for being such a terrifying-looking man. Are you ever alone? Honestly? Do you use other people’s houses when you’re in the area and want a comfortable place to crash but don’t have your own nearby? Is that a thing in your crowd? Is that why this is your house but everyone else just seems to make themselves at home regardless of what you want? Hyacinth and I would totally share vacation houses all over the world if we didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, but then, we share half a brain and we get along better than most families. I think. And really, we’d share summer camps all over the world before we’d share houses, because summer camp is way better than a house.”