The Last Eligible Billionaire(56)

“Real estate is complicated, and I didn’t realize Uncle Antonio would be throwing a party.” I was counting on Uncle Antonio doing what he does best and telling everyone that he was headed to my house to take care of what the family says needs taking care of.

Namely, getting me an appropriate wife.

Otherwise, Begonia would’ve taken one look at this house, realized seven families could live here without seeing one another for at least half a year, and ignored my request for her to stay in my bedroom.

Having an ambush upon arrival?

She didn’t even question the size of the house.

Merely the number of inhabitants and their likelihood to be nosy.

As suspected.

I am a bad, bad man, taking advantage of a woman who might not actually have a devious bone in her body, which, again, is highly suspicious. “Why did you abandon your other plans to come interview fifty women for the position of my executive assistant?” I ask her.

It’s suddenly imperative to know.

And Begonia doesn’t disappoint. “Because the idea of you calling your mother instead was horrifying. She would’ve had you hitched to one of them by this time tonight.”

I grimace.

She does too. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“No, it was accurate. And I’m not convinced it was an accidental glitch in the human resources system. Which is neither here nor there. It happened, and I still don’t know why you took that on.”

She’s rubbing her chest as she leans back into the easy chair and stares at the fire, and I want to be her hand I want to be her hand, rubbing her chest.

What has this woman done to me, and why don’t I care?

“I like to help people,” she says with a shrug. “You needed help.”

Ah.

That’s what she’s done to me.

She’s been nice.

My standards are awful. I should probably see the family physician about that. “A chief financial officer should also be able to handle interviews and sorting applicants by himself.”

“No, Hayes—the world doesn’t work like that. I mean, it does, but it shouldn’t. You’re not the CFO of Razzle Dazzle because you have good people skills. Your people skills aren’t all that great.”

“Thank you.”

She gives me the don’t sarcasm me when you know I have more to say look. “And that’s totally fine. Not everyone is a people person, nor should they be. You’re the CFO because you have other strengths. And you can’t shine at what you’re best at if you’re spending all of your time and putting all of your energy into the things that drain you. Like interviewing fifty applicants when you should’ve been choosing among four already pre-screened for you. Chad had to interview new assistants all the time. Believe me, I know the process.”

I hate Chad, and I want to punch him on principle. “Did you help him narrow his options?”

She snorts. “Mr. Big-Shot Financial Planner asking his art teacher wife for help? Um, no.”

I don’t even know what Chad looks like, but I’m picturing him bloody and missing a few teeth, with his arm in a sling and both legs in casts, and it’s the only thing keeping my blood pressure in check. “While your ex-husband is clearly a twatwaffle, that’s exactly the issue. Any other CFO would not have called in a woman he blackmailed into pretending to be his girlfriend to handle that mess either.”

“You should say twatwaffle more often. It sounds so distinguished when you do it. Also, you’re not any other CFO. You’re you, and I’m honored that you trusted me to help.” She sighs in utter bliss as she bites into another cheese roll. “It says a lot about your good judgment that you know when to ask for help, and a lot about your luck that I just happened to be there.”

“I don’t want to not be good at the things I’m supposed to be good at.”

She shifts in her chair, frowning at me. “I’ve been teaching high schoolers for about ten years. Every semester, out of all of my students, there are always a handful who walk in with the most amazing talent for painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or studying, but rarely do I see all of those skills together. No one has them all. They’re not supposed to. I don’t have all of those skills, either, and I don’t expect myself to.” She tilts her head. “Anymore. I used to think I could do it all, but I’ve learned to be kind to myself and celebrate my gifts and the things in my control and accept the rest for what they are.”

“I rather doubt I have enough of any of the right skills to do the job.” I need to shut up. I need to shut up, but she makes it so damn easy to admit to my fears.

“Your family believes in you.”

“They believe in what they want to believe in.”

“You know, every semester, I also have a handful of students walk in and tell me they suck at art, and they’re only there because they need an easy A. And every year, every last one of those kids walks out of my classroom at the end of the semester still believing they suck at art, but I have yet to find one who didn’t have a piece they’d made that they were extraordinarily proud of, and several more that are amazing but that they judge too harshly because we’re our own worst critics.”

“They make good art because you’re a good teacher.”

“I’m a terrible teacher. I’m always late turning in grades, I make lesson plans last-minute, and I spend parent-teacher conferences gossiping about old Golden Girls episodes instead of talking about how Kelsey or Aiden got a C in drawing for lack of trying.”