Page 29 of The Billionaire's Proposal

“You don’t need it,” Winslow replies.

Dr. Singh does all of the normal tests: blood pressure, oxygen, checks my body temperature, which is one hundred and one degrees. He says, “More than likely, the bath dropped it a couple of degrees. If your temperature reaches one hundred and four, I want you to get to the hospital.”

He does three other rapid tests for flu, COVID, and strep just to rule it out. All come back negative.

Winslow’s driver brings him his laptop, ginger ale, Gatorade, and crackers. Every time I wake up, Winslow is beside me, working. He hasn’t left my side other than to refill my drink or wet a new cloth.

He spends all weekend with me until he’s nursed me back to the land of the living, holding my hair when I throw up. He’s comforted and confided in me. He’s a keeper. But does he want the same thing?

He persuades me to cancel my excursions for Monday and Tuesday, not wanting me to get sick on the ocean. Orlando finds other excursion companies for my clients, so they won’t be disappointed. So now, I’m scrolling on my phone, looking at vacations. As soon as peak season is over, I’m taking a trip somewhere, but will I go alone or have some company?

Late in the afternoon, Winslow calls.

“Hey. Are you feeling better?”

“Much. I’m sorry you had to babysit me all weekend.”

“Don’t be. I was where I wanted to be. Today is a different story.”

“You don’t want to come back to sickly me?”

He chuckles. “That’s not what I meant. I had my fourth date today. Well, not date but you know, meeting with the fourth woman for the show.”

“And?”

“It was the worst. I thought it would be interesting to meet a professional sleeper, but wow, was I wrong.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing. Other than meeting her and the doctors who study her sleep patterns—nothing. I literally watched the girl sleep for four hours. She’s given different sleep aids, and they monitor her brainwaves, bloodstream, and reactions. I asked a few questions from the doctors and watched the little magnetic lines on a chart,” he explains with a sigh.

“Did you take her to lunch or are you having dinner?”

“We had a late lunch. I don’t know how the production crew is going to get a segment out of this.” He sounds frustrated.

“They’re professionals, and they’ll make it happen,” I say.

“She went to Harvard for undergrad and graduate school and has three hundred fifty thousand dollars of debt. Now, she’s a professional sleeper but wants to get her PhD. She loves to learn and wants to use the rest of the money for that.”

“Did she take the million?”

“Yep, she’s risk averse. So far, you’re the only risk taker.”

Taking a risk on my heart? Yeah, I know.

Chapter Sixteen

WINSLOW

Jet lag is real. I flew to Australia and back within five days. That’s forty-four hours of plane time on our private jet. Now, I’m currently in the Chicago office with Benson, Wells, and Warner for meetings with Fortune 500 companies interested in using our satellites for various purposes.

Between meetings, I shoot Cameron a text.

Me: One more day.

Cameron: Till what?

Me: Until I’m balls deep inside you, licking that sweet center, sucking you everywhere.

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