Page 60 of The Billionaire's Princess

Funny to see all the ways she’s warmed this place up and remember how I thought she was an ice princess when I first met her. Unbelievable, actually.

Have I fucked it up and caused her to walk out on me yet? Not yet. But I’m sure I will.

“It’s her birthday today.” I eyeball the bucket of champagne I have icing on the counter next to a massive bouquet of flowers for the birthday girl. “I’m taking her to dinner when she gets home from the studio in a minute.”

“Good. Don’t do too much navel gazing. I know how you get this time of year. You get yourself into a funk over Christmas and start thinking about Mom—”

The mention of the M-word makes me edgier. The very last thing I need is to discuss her with Ryker at this unsettled moment. I don’t need some deep analysis, especially from my younger brother. Fortunately, the jingle of keys and sound of the door opening give me the excuse I need to head this off at the pass.

“Here’s Carly now,” I say, standing just as she peeks around the corner and beams at the sight of me. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Wish her happy birthday for me.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and toss the phone aside, smiling already.

See? What did I tell you?

“Hello,” she says, bringing enough brightness with her to blast away both the night’s gloom outside and the emotional gloom in my head. “And what are you doing home so early, sir? You’re trying to put together an important deal. You can’t skip out early.”

“I’ve got an important birthday to celebrate. Get over here, birthday girl.”

“Not so fast,” she says, lingering in the archway. “Was that Ryker? How did his meeting go?”

I manage to keep my game face on and my smile in place. Tonight is her night.

“We’re not discussing work right now. Mine or yours. Am I getting a kiss or not? And before you answer, fair warning: no kiss, no gift. And I got you a great gift.”

“I see that,” she says, all aglow as she eyeballs the flowers. She takes off her coat and tosses it on the nearest chair, revealing jeans and a sweater. “Thank you for the gorgeous bouquet.”

“That’s not your present, silly girl,” I say, pleased with myself. That’s another thing she does for me: makes me feel like something special on a regular basis. “Well, it’s not your real present. What are you doing? I’m getting the feeling you’re hiding something over there.”

“I am hiding something,” she says, clapping with excitement before disappearing back into the foyer. “Stay where you are. I’ve got a present for you.”

“For me? It’s not my birthday.”

“Yes, but it’s much more fun to give presents on your birthday than it is to receive them. Here we are.”

And she makes a grand re-entrance holding a large, flat package that’s been wrapped in brown paper. Something that could only be one of her paintings.

“For me?” I say, stunned as she hurries over and leans it against the coffee table.

“Yes, you. Do you see anyone else standing here? Hurry up. Open it!”

Her thoughtfulness catches me by surprise, as does the sudden well of emotion in my throat. I discover that I don’t want to open the gift right now. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m afraid of how much this gesture means to me. She’s already shaping up to be the greatest human being I’ve ever met. I can’t take one more reason for her to mean the world to me. There’s just no room inside me for another big or turbulent emotion.

But she’s waiting. Watching me.

I swallow as much of my fear as I can manage and give her a quick kiss.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve seen it,” she says, laughing.

Her enthusiasm is contagious. I tear through the paper with no idea what to expect, because she can paint anything if she has her acrylic paints and canvas. Landscapes. Still lifes. Portraits. Abstracts. But this is…this is…

“I call it Joie,” she tells me, sounding nervous now. Joy in French. “I hope you like it.”

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