Page 20 of The Billionaire's Beauty

She hesitates but doesn’t take long to warm to the topic. “I like problem-solving. Getting organized and figuring things out. I love researching things. And I love helping people. My mother was an immigration lawyer. She took me to see an induction ceremony for new citizens when I was little. It was amazing.” A hint of sadness sneaks into her expression, but she catches herself before it takes root. “Anyway, I’m thinking about immigration law. We’ll see.”

I have zero doubt that she’d be a stellar immigration lawyer.

“Didn’t you also get into NYU?”

“Yeah. But my mom went to Berkeley, like I said, and my father still lives out there. I’m an only child. They were older parents, so he’s already close to seventy. He starting to have little health issues here and there. I don’t like being on the other side of the country.”

Only child. Loving and dutiful daughter. Noted.

“But you like living here in the city?”

“I love it. My friends are here. I love the restaurants and the hustle and bustle. There’s always something exciting going on. I’m really going to miss it.”

I silently receive this information the way a patient receives news that his test results came back normal and file it away for later.

“So why not move him east to be with you?” I ask.

“I’d love to, but he’s got his business and employees. He’s a landscape architect. He’s too young to retire when he loves it so much and too old to rebuild it all from the ground up somewhere else. So…” Rueful shrug. “That’s that.”

“Huh,” I say, not liking her answer.

Not liking it at all.

Not that it’s any of my business. But I can’t stop myself from looking for loopholes that might keep her here on the East Coast.

Where I live.

“Tell me about your estate,” she says, shifting in her seat to face me. “I’ve seen pictures in Architectural Digest, but I’m sure they don’t do the place justice. What’s it like?”

I shrug and try to keep it moving before the shadows start to collect over my mood. This is not the sort of thing I want to discuss with her.

“It’s beautiful, yeah. Your father would love the gardens. Lots of roses and hedges.”

“So you spent weekends and summers there?”

“Yep,” I say tightly.

She nods, giving me a shrewd look. “I’m sure it was very cool, but I’d think it would be kind of lonely for three little boys.”

“Yep,” I say again, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Especially when their mother takes off without a backward glance and hooks up with their father’s best friend. And then gets herself killed in a car accident.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

“It’s fine,” I say. I’m having a tough time with the compassion and warmth and those brown eyes as she looks at me, so I turn to stare out my window. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her to see me as weak. Anything but that. “Ancient history.”

“Well, you win,” she says glumly. “You had the worst childhood. There’s no way I can keep whining in good conscience about all the times my father forced me to help him weed our vegetable patch. I hope you’re happy.”

I break into startled laughter, my sour mood lifted in the blink of her gorgeous brown eyes. Caught up in the moment, I allow myself to do something truly stupid.

I face her again.

Our joint laughter converges into something deliciously electric. I feel it shiver across my skin and ache inside me, in my chest and my gut. I feel it as an absolute truth that goes way down deep.

Bellamy and I are not done with each other. Not by a long shot.

Maybe a smarter man would take the time to digest his feelings and formulate a plan without blurting the first thing that comes to mind. But that’s the thing about this new phase of my relationship with Bellamy.

There’s no place for logic here. It’s all about feelings.

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