The Last Eligible Billionaire(66)

“It’s a little heavy, but yes, I think I can—erp!”

In one swift motion, he hefts me into his arms and heads for the back door, me clutching the picnic basket in my lap, him holding onto me.

“Hayes.”

“Robert, close the door behind us, and don’t let anyone else leave this house if they want to live,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Robert answers behind us.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, sir.”

Hayes smiles.

He smiles.

“Don’t do that,” I warn him.

The man isn’t sweating or huffing as he carries me out to the courtyard, Marshmallow trotting beside us, which is more than Chad could’ve done too. “Do what, love?”

“Smile. Do not smile.”

“I had the most fascinating text messages all day long today.” He keeps marching past the edge of the courtyard, me clinging to him like my life depends on it while still wanting to be ready if he drops me and also trying not to drop the picnic basket nestled into my lap.

And he’s not struggling at all.

Does he work out?

When?

“I wouldn’t call our text messages fascinating.”

“Jonas is enjoying his honeymoon,” he muses, as if he doesn’t have a frazzled me clinging to his neck and an eager dog leaping around his legs while he strides across the moonlit lawn. “My mother also has opinions about an interior designer for renovating my bedroom suite. Uncle Antonio is sorry he thought Liliane would be a welcome guest. He tells me he helped set up your pottery wheel himself. And Keisha tells me she told you all of my deepest, darkest secrets.”

“She only did it because she cares,” I say quickly.

“Yes, clearly breaking trust is a sign of caring.”

“Would you have told me about Brock Sturgis?”

His shoulders bunch. “She truly did tell you everything, didn’t she?”

“She didn’t go into detail.”

“Hm.”

“I won’t repeat a thing. But I think I understand better why your mom hovers. Everyone worries about you.”

“I am not a frail flower, Begonia.”

“That’s really funny, because technically, a begonia is kind of a frail flower, so it’s like you’re pointing out that I am when you’re not.”

“You are not a frail flower either. God help the person who mistakes you for one.”

“I know I’m not, and I know you’re not. You’re just…”

“I’m just…?”

“Stuck in a world where you can either let it suck away your soul or be alone. And that’s not fair. Or easy, I’d guess. How does everyone else in your family do it?”

“They don’t feel it as personally, I suppose. Didn’t have the magnitude of betrayal. Or they don’t mind. Or they appreciate the luxuries enough that the trade-off is worth it. My father married well. And not in a money sense, but in a trust and true love sense. My parents were high school sweethearts, in fact, from a time before my mother understood what would be expected of her. He’s never worried about her stabbing him in the back, nor has he had to. Uncle Antonio didn’t fare as well, but he’s my mother’s brother, so he’s shielded from the expectations of being a Rutherford.”

“And he’s a man,” I point out.

Hayes snorts. “That does present another level of protection in the eyes of the world, doesn’t it?”

“But you didn’t escape it.”

“I did for a time, leaving the country to study abroad and ignoring the tabloids and letting my family handle any issues. Ignorance truly is bliss sometimes.”

“Would you tell me what happened?”

“You want details?”

“Yes.” I don’t want details. I don’t want to know the horrific levels of torture that a spoiled high schooler with money and connections could resort to. I see it enough in my own world.

But I want him to know I’d listen if he wants to talk.

“Begonia, this is too lovely of a night to ruin it with old memories that I refuse to let haunt me anymore.”

“So, you needed a fake girlfriend because you’re perfectly fine and well-adjusted and have no lingering trust issues after your fiancée committed the ultimate betrayal like fifteen years ago?”

“You’re so very cruel, yet so very irresistible at the same time. However do you manage?”

“I won’t hurt you, you know,” I whisper. “If you want to use me to learn to trust someone again, I’m okay with that. And I realize that saying you can trust me is basically a red flag that means you probably shouldn’t, but—”

“Begonia.”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t immediately answer, and his steps slow as we approach a line of trees near a hilltop. The lights of the house are distant enough to make this little section of the lawn feel private, and the moon is bright enough that we can see its light reflected in the river in the distance.

He sets me down, then relieves me of the picnic basket and lays out the blanket. “Sit. Have dinner with me and tell me all the good that I missed today.”