Page 29 of The Bossy Billionaire

It evokes memories for me. I could close my eyes and read it word for word. I know it so well. I am slowly starting to understand the love of books Lucy has. This is just one book that has this effect on me. She has a whole shop full of them. Her connection to this business is strong and one I underestimated when I took on the role of her business coach.

“Read to me.” Her voice is soft, and I look up, startled. She is standing in front of me with a sweet smile on her face. Her hair flows down her shoulders, her glasses on, in her jeans and sweater, looking more perfect than ever. My heart stutters, and I swallow as I look her up and down. I adjust myself in the armchair as my dick starts to grow just thinking about stripping off her layers. My eyes flick to the bookcases, wondering if they are sturdy enough for my filthy desires. I look back at her, seeing her waiting for my answer.

“You are the professional, not me,” I say, making an excuse and closing the book and clearing my throat, trying to get my mind off her naked frame. What the fuck is wrong with me? There are goddamn kids in this area.

“Yeah, but I want someone to read to me for a change,” she says as she lowers down and sits on the floor in front of me. She doesn’t look at me as she leans her back against the armchair, right near my legs. Her body is warm near mine, and I take a deep breath, her floral scent wrapping around me. I almost growl, the desire building once more. She rests her head back on the chair and closes her eyes. How can I deny her anything? She is so beautiful. I would give her anything she fucking wanted.

I look at the book again. I haven’t read a story in years. Feelings of nervousness blossom in my chest, taking me back to middle school when the kids would laugh out loud as I stumbled my way through a basic sentence. But I look at her, with her eyes closed, and know that I will do it. Just for her. With my hands shaking, I thank God I picked up Ferdinand and memorized it as a kid as I open the book and pretend to read from the pages.

As I start the first sentence, I see a contented smile settle on her face. The afternoon sun streams in through the window, coating us in a small amount of warmth and an orange glow, making me feel like everything is alright in this world. My nerves dissipate, but even though I am reading Ferdinand now, I do so more from memory rather than the words on the page and my eyes remain mostly on her.

I watch her and smile a little when I get to a funny bit in the story, and I see her smile too. Her eyes still closed, she listens to my voice. As I get to the part of Ferdinand entering the bullring, her head leans to the side, her temple resting on my knee, and without thinking, I put my hand down and run my fingers through her hair like it is the most natural thing in the world for me to do. I caress her soft locks, pulling them from her face, and as I do, I notice a small bruise on her forehead that wasn’t there last time I saw her. I make a mental note to ask about that. My hand continues to run softly through her hair, because now that I have started, I can’t fucking stop touching her. I can’t remember the last time I touched someone like this. It feels nice. We remain like that until the end of the story, and she opens her eyes and lifts her head, turning to look at me like I just gave her all my millions.

“My dad used to read this story to me like this. He would sit in this chair, and I would sit here on the floor, and every afternoon, this is how we would end the day. It was almost like it was our transition from working in the shop to going upstairs to our life." The impact of what we just did feels very real, and I am glad I didn’t chicken out and got through the entire story.

“My mom used to read to me as a kid. Every fairy tale she could, but Ferdinand was my favorite. I guess it was something about him being different to everyone else that resonated with me,” I tell her, putting the book to the side.

“Was growing up with dyslexia hard for you?” She asks so delicately, I need to pause to hear her words. Literacy is clearly her calling. But instead of getting caught up in the question, I watch the way the quiet words fall from her soft lips that are highlighted by the afternoon sun.

I swallow because I hate talking about this. I shouldn’t be surprised that she picked up on it. She is smart like that. I never talk about this with anyone. Not even my parents anymore. There is no need to, really. I’m successful. I found my way in life.

“Yeah, it was. I still struggle with reading and decoding words. Hated it growing up. Books always remind me of what I don’t have and can never get,” I tell her honestly, because there is no cure for dyslexia. Just a lot of hard work and determination, but it is always going to be a struggle. For some kids more so than others.

“But you have lots of resources now?” she asks, and she isn’t judging me, nor is she looking at me with pity like people used to. She is just interested. Interested in me.

“More than ever. It is still frustrating. I text to voice to understand contracts. I use voice memos all the time or ensure I have meetings to clarify points rather than go back and forth on email. I prefer to call people rather than text, which is hard because no one accepts phone calls anymore these days,” I huff out. The world is hard to navigate when you have a difficulty. I can sympathize with Lucy. Because that is how people are looking at her now, treating her. She has a hurt leg, but she is fine. They are the worst.

She pulls her glasses from her face and rubs her eyes.

“What happened to your head?” I ask, noticing a small cut near the light bruise.

“Oh, nothing. Just hit my head on the shelf when I was stocking books the other day.” Her gaze shifts down, and I don’t believe her. I frown, worried about her.

“You need a break from here.” I tell her, seeing it clearly now. It isn’t just the fire and her leg. It is the stress of losing her parents. The stress of the business and keeping it afloat.

“I’m fine,” she says, cleaning her glasses, not meeting my eye.

“No, you need to step away from this business. A week off. Clear your mind. Get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” she says, defeated.

“Dwayne can look after it for a week. He is here all the time.” That is something else I have noticed, that she doesn’t have enough staff. She needs at least another few part-timers.

“It's too much to expect of him,” she says, always looking out for other people.

“I will cover his wage.” She puts her glasses back on and looks at me. I know she doesn’t like my suggestion when she remains silent.

“I am a business owner. I currently own about five businesses and have my hand in three others. I take a week off every quarter to rest, strategize, and think. Develop ideas, generate income streams. You are not a bad businesswoman for having time away. It is a smart business decision,” I try to explain to her. I can tell I nearly have her over the line, but the stubborn woman doesn’t budge.

“I’m fine. Really. It’s all good,” she says with a shake of her head, standing.

“Lucy,” I sigh, standing to meet her. “Just tell me you will think about it.” I follow her to the front of the shop. We still haven’t addressed our kiss, what it means, what I want it to mean. But she has a lot on her plate, and I don’t want to push her.

“Fine. I will think about not doing it,” she smarts.

“Luce…” I growl.

“Fine,” she says, stopping and sighing, finally admitting defeat. “I will give it some thought.”

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