Page 17 of The Billionaire Experience

“Your father’s brother?”

“You writing a book too?”

“No, but I was right about guessing you were a long-lost cousin. Jean thought you might be in witness protection.”

He sent a glance over at Jean’s house. “She seems…”

“Crazy?”

“I was going to say nice. She brought me a pie.”

“She bakes a great pie.”

“That she does.” They held each other’s gaze for a beat longer than appropriate. Parts other than her face grew warm this time. He broke the silence with, “I assume your next question is going to be if I’m a billionaire.” He didn’t sound arrogant about it, merely factual.

“I wasn’t sure since you didn’t tear down this house to build”—she jerked her head toward the house next door—“that.”

He leaned forward to see beyond the awning. “Pass. You didn’t assume that I wanted to live in this house as-is?”

“Well…if the Italian leather loafer fits.” Her eyes went to his shoes. Sturdy, tied work boots. Damn near spotless though.

“Loafers don’t fit my narrative.” A distracting smirk played on the corner of his mouth before he continued explaining. “My first book was about traveling the country and not living off my wealth. This book is about learning to live like the others live.”

“The others?” She bristled.

“I’ve lived in New York City, London, Madrid, and LA. Never lived outside of Chicago in a small neighborhood with an overgrown maple tree in the backyard. Curious what I’ll learn while trying on this life.”

She made a sound in the back of her throat.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She continued typing her list.

“Tell me. I want to know what you think.”

“Why?” She faced him and their eyes locked. She didn’t look away but neither did he. A lick of heat curled around her belly and then spread across her chest. She shut her eyes and reminded herself that he was just a man. No matter how much wealth, fame, and power he had, he still left his towel on the floor after he showered. But then that introduced the image of him naked, which served to muddle her mind more.

“The idea of you trying on a lifestyle like a pair of pants is offensive. I live this life for real. I’m not playing house.” She straightened her shoulders, doubling down on portraying how offended she was instead of admitting that he was turning her on by merely sitting next to her.

“Playing house? I’m not playing anything. I came here to immerse myself in this environment. Living here might not seem like climbing Mount Everest to you?—”

“Have you done that?” she interrupted.

“Not yet.” His smile was contained but contagious. “All I’m saying is I’m well outside of my comfort zone. I don’t take this experience lightly.”

He didn’t appear outside of his comfort zone, even while leaning back in the uncomfortable iron chair. He looked more like a lazy house cat. A really muscular lazy house cat. With biceps that tested the sleeves of his shirt and pecs that filled out the front…

“I’m sorry.” She gave her head a quick shake and reminded herself to stop objectifying him. “I have no right to judge you.”

She realized she’d made him responsible for the dull ache in her heart. After all, if Brody wasn’t living here, she would be. Then again, Dustin was to blame more than Brody, wasn’t he? But, she amended, censoring her thoughts, everything happened for a reason. Her mother leaving, her grandparents adopting her, Dustin moving to Missouri. It wasn’t fair to hold Brody Crane personally accountable for her problems.

“It’s okay,” he said easily.

“Um. Your quote.” The reason why you’re here. “The top-line items—sketchy wiring for the bedroom ceiling fan and a missing kitchen sink—are the most dire. The rest you can tinker with whenever you have a bout of writer’s block.” She’d meant it in jest, but Brody visibly paled.

“There’s no such thing.” He sat up straight, suddenly alert. “If you put your fingers on the keyboard, words come out. Simple as that.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

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