The Last Eligible Billionaire(74)

She wasn’t the first.

She was simply the last. I dated after her, but I never fully let my guard down with anyone.

For years, I’ve told myself my lack of interest was because my standards were too high, the media attention was too much of a bother, and that I prefer my solitude to the complications that go with relationships.

But it’s not entirely true.

Partially true, yes.

But fear—fear has been a major factor for most of my adult life.

Fear and denial.

And now Begonia has brought back to life a part of myself that I’d sworn to bury forever while pretending love and companionship were overrated.

The worst part?

I’ve missed that part of me, that part that connected with people, that enjoyed people.

I didn’t truly understand how lonely I was until Thomas died, and even then, it took Begonia charging through my walls for me to realize I want to trust someone again. I don’t want to go through the rest of my life regretting not spending time with the people I’ll miss when they’re gone, and I don’t want to go through the rest of my life avoiding pain to the point of sheer loneliness.

Begonia signed our contract extension this morning, but all the while, I couldn’t help but wonder how I might manage to keep her past the summer.

I know the easy answer.

Ask her.

But the easy answer requires a leap of faith I’m not ready to take.

It would require me to let her all the way in.

To fully trust her.

To be worthy of having her trust in return.

And that means not hurting her.

If I can avoid it.

“Do I really get to see her as part of this trip?” Hyacinth asks.

“Naturally. She needs a new dress for a charity gala in the city tomorrow. I assumed you’d be her preferred shopping companion.”

“Can I go to the gala?”

“The Rutherfords are known for not making scenes.”

She cackles, and I know I’m toast.

Begonia will ask, I’ll say of course, my love, because that’s what a doting boyfriend would say, and tomorrow night, my fake girlfriend’s twin sister will stuff her bra with cocktail shrimp, drink too many virgin mojitos, pretend to be drunk, and tell the wrong reporter that she thinks we’re faking this relationship.

Or so I presume, having met both twins now.

And then I’ll have every reason I need to take Begonia on a romantic getaway, where I’ll be caught on camera slipping a ring onto her finger, as we contractually agreed to this morning.

I have zero desire to hurt her.

I just want to keep her.

For as long as possible.





29





Begonia



I’m cursing at a lumpy, wet clay cup that’s flopping about on the pottery wheel like a flaccid penis on a naked old man riding the tilt-a-whirl wrong, considering if I can blame the lump in my stomach after signing that agreement with Hayes this morning for my poor art skills, when the door to my art studio opens.

“Don’t let Marshmallow in!” I shriek.

“Oh my god, you still make penis art!” Hyacinth shrieks back.

I gasp, blink, gasp again, and then I leap to my feet, all thoughts of my pending fake engagement fleeing my brain. I hurdle the spinning pottery wheel, and dive toward my sister.

My sister.

What is my sister doing here? “Look at your belly! I have to hug him!”

“Your hands!”

“Washing machine! Showers! You should see the showers here!” I kiss her belly. I smother her in a hug. I pet her hair. All with hands coated in goopy water. “You’re here!”

“Oh, B.” She’s laughing as she hugs me back, the two of us swaying back and forth and hugging and swaying and possibly crying. “I think you just got clay in my mouth.”

“There’s toothpaste! And spare toothbrushes! That’s fixable! What are you doing here?”

“Hayes said you missed me so he sent a fucking private jet to get me and a private nanny to stay behind with my kids and we’re going to the spa and taking you shopping for a new fucking dress and what did you do and how did you meet this man and does he have a secret twin? I don’t want another husband, but I could totally do with a rich lover who buys me fancy dresses and takes me to fancy balls. Oh my god, Begonia. Just oh my god.”

“You can’t go to the ball! Rutherfords don’t make scenes.”

She cracks up.

I crack up.

And I can’t stop hugging her.

Not until she oofs and shoves me away, squatting and rubbing her belly.

“Aww, did he kick?”

“He does not like it when I talk too much.” She blows out a breath. “I’m not having a baby this time. I’m having a demon spawn. I know I called Dani a demon spawn when I was pregnant with her too, but I think I mean it this time.”

“Oh my god, there are two of you?” Keisha’s in the doorway, in a feathered jumpsuit today—bright neon blue feathers, for the record—and she’s clinging to Marshmallow’s leash as he tries to get to Hyacinth.

Or me.

Or the clay.

“The clay!” I shriek.

I let Hyacinth go to leap back across the room and kill the power to the pottery wheel.