Page 36 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

“I can check out that fine ass as you go up,” he teases.

“Do you ever stop?” I snap.

He shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

I roll my eyes, but he notices my hesitation regardless. Even his pestering can’t make me hide how scared I am.

“You’re looking a little pale there.”

“I’m not fond of heights.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Is that why you didn’t want to jump off that rock into the creek?”

“No. I was trying to avoid you.”

He scoffs. “Was? Past tense?”

I narrow my eyes. “Still am.”

His smile is slow, and when he presses his top teeth into his bottom lip to prevent it from becoming a full-on, cocky grin, he clears his throat. “All right. No heights, then.” He taps his hand to his chest. “I’ll save the day and volunteer as tribute.”

“I don’t need you to save me.”

“Hmm. That sucks. Because I really”—he walks up close to me—“really”—he pauses a breath away as he looks down at me seriously with that lusty gaze I recall from last night—“wouldn’t mind another dose of hero worship from you.”

I shove him back. “Hero worship? You’re delusional.”

“Yeah. I’m your hero, offering to help paint this place.”

“You mean you’re the pain in my ass, taking over my project?”

“This is a big house, sweetheart. Trust me, you’ll be happy I stepped up.”

I snatch a brush and can of paint. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He doesn’t reply, preparing to start on the uppermost levels while I work from the ground. I manage to avoid him by starting in the back while he addresses the front. We both go without a break, and as he makes a clockwise loop around the house, I circle it in the same direction, avoiding him and his progress.

I’m determined not only to ignore him and his obsession with flirting, but I also have enough common sense not to stand beneath him and have paint flung on me. The few times we get near each other or reconvene to load up with more paint, he teases me and makes a comment that entices me to laugh or smile. Still, I remain stubborn and refuse to give in. I don’t know how he does it, but he knows exactly how to tease me to get a rise out of me. Like he knows me, but he doesn’t. He can’t truly understand who I am after a night of browsing for gossip about me online.

We round the house, slapping on bright, sunshiny paint around the trim, windows, doors, and other structures. By the time we’re ready to move on to rollers, Marian shows up with lunch.

“I love this color, honey,” she gushes. “You chose well.”

“It’s so bright and cheery,” Caleb agrees before leaning in close to whisper in my ear as he passes me. “Unlike you.”

I elbow him.

“Ever since you woke up, you’ve been grouchy.”

“Because you’re a thorn in my side.”

“What’s that?” Marian asks, coming up closer to the picnic table we’ll break at.

“Nothing,” I reply quickly as Caleb walks away, taking a call on his phone. Something with Dalton? Or his assistant? I heard him all morning, doing business and checking in with whoever is handling his company in New York. If I was feeling generous—which I’m not—I’d confess how impressed I am. He’s here volunteering to scale that ladder and paint while he also multitasks and keeps up with his life in New York.

Because he’s not running away from his life. Just taking a break.

“It’ll look so bright in the drab days of winter,” Marian comments as she munches on a sandwich. She’s smiling at the progress so far, but the reminder of the upcoming season hits me hard.

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