Loving the Secret Billionaire (Love at Last #1)(2)

“Yes?” The man in front of me was nothing like the monster, or the sad, wizened old woman I’d expected to live in this house. Not this…this…gosh, Amazon was a description just for women, right? Okay, so Superman, maybe. With dark hair, smooth, pale skin and wide cheekbones, and eyes that made me blink a few times and look away from their strangeness. Oh…and the man was clearly not happy with my intrusion.

Following a path created from repetition rather than instinct, my hand opened and shifted to waist level, ready to clasp. Shaking hands with parents was one thing, but as a politician…

I steeled myself against the usual imposter syndrome and widened my smile.

“Hello, I’m—”

“Can I—” He cleared his throat and ignored my hand entirely, his words overlapping mine. “Help you?”

“Hi there. My name’s Veronica and I’m running for city council.” He looked like he might open his mouth to interrupt and, rather than stop and listen, as I’d generally do, I rushed through my pitch. “Are you aware that there’s an election coming up? If so, do you know who you’ll vote for? It’s a decisive moment for policy in our town.” I glanced over my shoulder and gave up entirely when I saw the Rylies trundling up the walkway. So close, I could smell the sanctimony. “Can I come in please?”

“Uh. No.”

“Please.” Why was I so frantic?

I knew exactly why. Because at house upon house I’d struck out. People had no interest in what I had to say. They’d seen Rylie’s signs, had heard of his campaign, knew his family, and didn’t give a crap about his actual platform. He was a known quantity, whereas I was a stranger. A dark-haired, dark-skinned stranger, with a message they didn’t even want to hear. “Please.” This last came out as a whine.

“Are you in danger?” The man’s face tightened, his scruff-covered jaw grew hard, his too-curvy mouth thin and aggressive. I stopped myself from stepping back, and I refused to look behind me, but Rylie and his family were close. I could hear their cultured voices in respectfully quiet conversation.

“Oh my gosh, am I?” I didn’t have to fake the tremors in my voice, because they scared me, or intimidated me, at the very least. I shut my eyes for a second, wishing I’d just headed home.

“I don’t—”

“Are they coming?” I whispered. I couldn’t look behind me. I refused to. But if this man caught sight of them, with their tasteful signage and their strong economic message, I was screwed.

“They?”

I searched for something to make this forbidding person invite me in. “Yes. Um. They’re after me.”

“Who—”

“The perfect family behind me. See them?”

“I can’t see—”

“They’re carrying signs, headed this way.”

“I hear them. They’re not—”

Ok. Change of tack. “Could I use your restroom? Please?” I paused, finally, and listened to him breathe. It was easy, given that my face was right in front of the guy’s lean, muscle-packed chest. I blinked.

Oh no. He wasn’t going to do it, was he? He was going to leave me out here to pit my mess of an existence against the pristine, polished perfection of Wily Rylie. And everybody knew who’d win that battle.

A sigh and a step back were the only invitation I needed. I followed him inside, the door closed, and the last thing I noticed was the Captain America logo on his T-shirt before everything went dark.

What have I done?

“Hang on. I’m turning on lights.”

Why aren’t there any lights on? What kind of person hangs out in the dark?

He flipped on a glaringly bright overhead and I stood, transfixed. There was nothing—or close to it—in this room. A quick swivel of just my eyes showed a clean, bare wood floor, with nothing but a pair of sneakers lined up neatly beside the front door. The rooms leading off the entryway were big and open and mostly empty. I sucked in a breath.

“You know, I should probably go. This wasn’t the best—”

“I’m blind.”

“Huh?”

“That’s why there are no pictures on the walls or rugs and stuff. No pictures because I wouldn’t be able to see them. No lights because what’s the point? Everything’s bright to me all the time anyway. And rugs are just obstacles.”

My relieved “oh” came out sounding like a sigh. I focused on him again—all chiseled cheekbones and wide jaw, with big, light eyes. There was a bump on the bridge of his nose, which was possibly the only thing between him and perfection, but even that was masculine in a charming way.

“I can’t read whatever it is you’re toting around. The thing that’s stabbing me in the leg right now.”

“Shit! I’m so sorry.” Shit! No cussing in front of the voters. One hand flew to cover my potty mouth as I threw my yard signs down and bent to look at his leg. “I mean crap. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He paused. “Am I bleeding?”

“I’m an idiot.” I was babbling, now, but I couldn’t seem to stop. This whole thing screamed lawsuit. “Please don’t sue me.”

I sank to my knees and leaned in close to this man’s shorts-clad leg, words all the while spewing from my mouth. It must have been exhaustion pushing me to this verbal diarrhea.