Page 17 of The Billionaire's Beauty

6

Griffin

“Hey, listen,”I tell my brother Damon early that Friday morning when I intercept him on the roof of our building, right inside the glass doors leading to the helipad. Tonight is the big annual investor reception out at our family estate in the Hamptons. Like me, he’s got his valet bag and briefcase slung over his shoulder. “I need a favor.”

He glances up from checking messages on his phone, gives me a closer look and narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, no. I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Let me take the bird.”

“There’s room for all of us, moron,” he says, trying to edge past me.

I sidestep him, blocking his way. “I’ll send it back for you. I want to ride out alone. With, ah, Bellamy.”

I try to look casual about the whole thing, but evidently, I don’t do a very good job. I find myself getting hot under the collar as I watch his expression slide from confusion to sudden comprehension and then horror.

“You didn’t,” he says.

“I don’t discuss my personal life. The point is—”

“The point is, you either hooked up with or plan to hook up with your assistant. Which leaves our company open to a sexual harassment lawsuit. What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you moved past this. Although, now that I think about it, this is why you’ve been out of sorts all week, isn’t it?”

“I have not been out of sorts.”

Neither of us believe this nonsense. Matter of fact, the last time anyone told a lie this big was back when Cain, noted loving sibling and history’s first recorded murderer, told God that he didn’t know where his brother Abel was.

“Haven’t been out of sorts?” he says, aghast. “I told you the employees all call you the Beast, right? This week, they changed it to TFB. Short for the Fucking Beast. Because you’ve been such a jackass to everybody. You’re going to turn up with your head on a spike if you don’t change this khaki policy, by the way. And your girl Bellamy is the one who came up with the nickname.”

This news bite makes me wince and my morale plummet even further.

“You get your ass sued for sexual harassment, we’re not going to be able to find one favorable witness for you,” he continues. “They all hate your guts. Find someone else to hook up with. Forget Bellamy.”

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” I snarl before I can stop myself. I have a firm policy against discussing my personal life, such as it is, with anyone, especially either of my brothers, who never hesitate to give me shit about something if they sense a weakness. That’s what brothers do. But, on the other hand, it’s almost a relief to vent some steam on this Bellamy thing. Maybe give it the perspective it needs. “Do I look happy to you?”

He seems taken aback and eyes me with a new concern, which I both resent and appreciate. On the one hand, I don’t look that damn bad. On the other hand, I’m a fucking mess and I know it.

The seven days since my glorious and unexpected night with Bellamy have been the worst kind of torture. Honestly, I’d rather have someone clamp my head in a vise grip and be done with it.

I can’t sleep or concentrate at work. Can barely eat. I knew it was a mistake when I didn’t ask any questions and took her up on her too-good-to-be-true offer. I knew I already had a banked attraction to her and needed to make damn sure I kept that flame on low. I knew that playing with fire tends to get idiots like myself burned.

But I didn’t expect this.

I see her face. Every-fucking-where. Her luminous brown eyes. Her mouth. I live for glimpses of her smile, even if it’s never directed at me. I’m like a bloodhound on the trail of her scent (roses), searching it out near her desk and her chair and when she’s in and out of my office.

How did I get like this? Will someone kindly explain that to me?

And to think I was naively worried about hurting her or giving her the wrong idea. At thirty-two, I’m older and no doubt vastly more experienced. I know better than to attach any sort of significance to something that should be purely a physical act. Women tend to get emotionally involved more easily.

And look at me now, boy. Look. At. Me. Now.

I’m a fucking disgrace.

Most shameful of all, I took her shawl thingy. Stole it. Which makes me a thief on top of everything else. I’ve got it on my bed at home, the closest thing to her that I can get. I’ll never tell what I’ve been doing with it during my sleepless nights. You don’t need to know those embarrassing details.

I knew this was going to be a one-time deal. I knew I shouldn’t play with fire at all but that, if I did, I should only play with it once and be grateful to emerge unscathed.

But that’s the thing. I’m not unscathed.

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