Page 62 of The Billionaire's Beauty

That’s me, folks. I never met a conversation I couldn’t sour or a mood I couldn’t ruin.

“Everything okay?” she asks carefully.

“Yep.” I try to sound more upbeat, but upbeat and I go together like a squid and a mountain bike. “Just need a shower and some sleep.”

I start for the bathroom—

“Griffin,” she says behind me, the wounded note in her voice clearly audible. “How do you like your apartment?”

I freeze. I know what she needs, but I’m incapable—or unwilling—to open myself up enough to give it to her. It’s like I’ve built a brick factory somewhere inside my brain, cranked it up to full capacity and required all the workers to put in double overtime to make sure the wall keeps growing as tall as possible. Otherwise? I’m afraid of what might come out of my mouth. Worst-case scenario? I open up enough to tell her that in my entire life no one has given me such a loving and meaningful gift as decorating my apartment and out springs something like I still don’t believe in love but I think I’m falling in love with you or I seriously think I’ll die if you disappear from my life the way my mother disappeared from my life.

And what would happen then?

Confusion. Chaos. Some sort of personal Armageddon, the outlines of which I can’t quite comprehend now. I only know that it would be bad,and I don’t want to risk it.

“It’s good.” I make a show of looking around as though I’ve just noticed everything for the first time. This sorry performance is the best I can do. “Thanks.”

With that, I take off for the bathroom, congratulating myself on a respectable performance while pretending I don’t see her crestfallen expression.

I linger in the shower’s driving spray for as long as I possibly can, well past the point where my scalded skin resembles a boiled lobster. My thoughts don’t clear. By the time I towel off and head to the bedroom—I don’t bother with pajama bottoms when I’m in bed with Bellamy; never have, never will—I’m both physically and emotionally exhausted but too wired to sleep. I’ve never been one for pills, not that one would work on me tonight anyway. The way I’m feeling, nothing short of a shot from an elephant tranquilizer gun would do the trick. Still, I’ve got to close my eyes. Just for a little bit.

Bellamy’s already in bed (she’s worked her decorating magic in here, too), stretched out on her side and facing away from me. Just enough moonlight filters through the drapes to hit the top of her head where it rests on the pillow and create a gleaming beacon for me to follow. I climb in behind her and eagerly spoon her up into our nightly position, with her round ass settled in my lap, my top arm draped around her waist and my nose buried in her hair as I root for the warmth of her scent. Given my performance in the living room a few minutes ago, I half expect her to kick me out of bed and doom me to a miserable night out on the sofa with one of her new decorator pillows and blankets.

But she doesn’t.

To my eternal gratitude, she snuggles closer and puts her soft hand on top of my arm. I say a million silent prayers of gratitude and kiss her shoulder. It takes everything I’ve got not to let my hand stray higher or lower, which she can no doubt tell from the size of my erection. I’m dying to fuck her again, but I don’t want to press my luck.

“I missed you,” she says quietly. “I have no idea why.”

This information should make me feel happy. Instead, it only makes me feel bleak. A spectacular woman like Bellamy deserves so much more than a jackass like me.

“You shouldn’t,” I tell her. “I’m not worth it.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

My exhaustion, the lateness of the hour and the fact that we’re not looking at each other create the perfect storm to allow me to confide for second. Just enough to share one of my biggest fears.

“You will decide I’m not worth it. It’s only a matter of time.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’ve got to give me something to work with, Griffin,” she says, and I’d swear tears have a sound, because I hear them in her voice. “I can’t hold this relationship up all by myself.”

Does she think I don’t know that? Doesn’t she understand that if I could access the part of me that’s locked behind a wall, broken and probably ruined, I would?

“Tell me how and I will,” I say.

“You need to figure that out for yourself. And I need to figure out if there’s any way for me to stick around without getting my heart broken.”

A shiver of alarm runs through me. I don’t like the sound of that at all.

“Bellamy—”

“Go to sleep,” she tells me, pulling away and making me regret my choice of a king-sized bed. “I’m tired.”

I want to pull her back, but I don’t dare. Not if I want to keep both of my arms. I flop over onto my back and give my pillow a frustrated whack, trying to get comfortable by myself. Which I used to be able to do, in the Before Bellamy period of my life.

I drift off after a good amount of blearily staring at the far wall, but it’s a restless, exhaustion-fueled sleep. The kind that’s more like watching TV all night than getting any rest. So it’s no surprise when I slide into my childhood nightmare.

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