Page 64 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“Either that or a fool,” she says grimly.

I snort. “Your words. Not mine.”

“Do you want me to leave?” The quiet reproach in her tone slices through my bullshit like a hot samurai sword through a stick of butter, leaving me wounded and ashamed. Her silent condemnation is a million times more effective than the authoritative voice I use at the office. A million times worse than any explosion could ever be. “If that’s what you’re going for here, why not just say so?”

That’s when it hits me in a moment of clarity so stunning that it almost knocks me on my ass.

I do want her to leave. I want her to leave now so I won’t have to keep living with the terror of knowing she will inevitably leave. The dread is killing me. I can’t take it for another minute of another day. And I can’t keep falling deeper under her spell when I know she’s going to rip my heart out with her absence.

“Oh my God,” she says, eyes widening. I’ve never been a good actor, and any skills I’ve developed over the years are worthless at a high-stakes moment like this. “You do want me to leave.”

I open my mouth to tell her…something. But, surprise of surprises, I’ve got no words. Just that fucking brick wall.

Her phone pings and lights up on her nightstand, startling us both. She glances around, frowning, while I check my watch. Two fourteen.

My dread intensifies. This can’t be good.

“That’s my father,” she says, then lunges for it and answers midway through the second ring. “Daddy? What’s wrong?”

She listens, her frown deepening. I hurry over to her side of the bed, take her free hand and give it a supportive squeeze. She shoots me a weak smile.

“But you didn’t hit your head?” More listening. “So when is the surgery? Okay. Okay. I’ll be there soon as I can. Of course I’m coming. Daddy. I’m not arguing with you. Okay. I’ll keep you posted. Okay. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

She hangs up, tosses the phone on the bed and rubs her upper arms.

“He got up on the stepladder to get a snack from the cabinet,” she says, sounding a little shaky. “Cheetos. He missed a step on the way down and landed hard. Sounds like he splintered his ankle like a dry twig. He needs surgery.”

“Ouch. Sounds painful.”

“No kidding.”

“Cheetos are a worthy snack, though.”

She manages a weak smile. “Not sure he’ll agree once he has a bunch of pins stuck in his leg and has to stay off his feet for several weeks.”

My brain cranks into problem-solving mode. If he needs anything, I plan to make sure he has it.

“Several weeks? What about his landscaping work?”

“I don’t know,” she says helplessly. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Has he got health insurance?”

“Yeah. Thank God. I have to go.”

“I know. You can take the jet.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Take the jet.”

“Thanks,” she says after a pause, rubbing her chest. “I want to be there when he comes out of surgery.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” she says, grabbing her clothes from the chair and starting to change. “I’m not sure how long they’ll want to keep him and what will be involved with making his little house accessible. It’s just one story, but he’s got steps. I guess he’ll need a ramp for the time being if he’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t have anyone nearby since his brother died last year. And I don’t see him letting the neighbors help. He’s too proud and stubborn for that.”

“Understood.”

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