Page 77 of Filthy Rich

There are ten bedrooms. Ten! All with their own bathroom, and most with their own little section of the wraparound balcony. Spectacular views everywhere you look.

And then…

“This is your room,” he says when we reach a set of doors at one end of the hallway.

“My room?” I say, my heart sinking. “You’re exiling me to my own room? Won’t I be sleeping with you?”

This generates a wolfish grin. “You think I suddenly decided I don’t like having you in my bed at night?”

“But you said?—”

“For your things, Tamsyn. You have your own room for your things.”

With that, he swings open the door to reveal a stunning yellow bedroom with all the amenities of the other bedrooms.

“Oh my God. This is gorgeous, Lucien. It’s so cozy. Is this French country chic? And I love the way the— Hang on,” I say, the bookshelf running under the window seat catching my eye. I dash over for a closer look. “These are all historical romance novels. Dozens of them!”

“Oh?”

“Yes! I love historical romance novels!”

“You don’t say. Check the closet.”

He points me in the right direction, and I open the door to reveal?—

“Chuck Taylors? No way!”

The spacious walk-in is empty except for a row of my favorite sneakers in Easter egg pastels on the middle shoe shelf. There’s—I do a quick count—ten pairs, all brand new and all in my size.

Words cannot express how touched and thrilled I am. I glance back over my shoulder to discover him watching me with one of his unfathomable expressions, my heart in my throat. “These are all for me?”

“Well, they’re too small for me,” he says, his voice gruff.

“Thank you, Lucien,” I say, not trusting myself with any more words right now. I’m afraid of what might pop out.

“My pleasure.”

I focus on the room again, determined not to melt into a puddle of tears. There’s a collection of boxes in the far corner, along with several suitcases I recognize.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, gasping. “This is my stuff? From Mrs. Hooper’s apartment?”

“It is.”

“Oh my God!” I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’ve been dreading going back to the apartment and packing up my stuff. Now here it all is. “What did you do? How did you manage it?”

“Made a call. Sent my personal assistant to pick up your things.”

“God, you’re amazing. Thank you, Lucien.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a kiss on the cheek, the only thing I can do to express my immense gratitude. I pull him closer, soaking him in, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief because I think that maybe things will turn out okay. Especially if I have my personal belongings with me, including all my framed pictures of my father and my reminders of home.

Not that I currently have a home, but still.

“You’re welcome,” he says, kissing my temple. “And yellow may not be your color. So let me know. We can call in my decorator.”

“What?” I say, startled. “It’s a gorgeous room. Why would I want to redecorate it? Especially when I’m not going to be here that long. I wouldn’t dare presume. And who needs that kind of commotion?”

Exasperated sigh from Lucien. “It’s an option. If you want to.”

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