Page 29 of The Billionaire's Beauty

9

Bellamy

I wake to a sun-streaked room,a delightful reminder of last night’s activities in the form of the sweet ache between my thighs and a note on the pillow next to me:

Kitchen.

I take a quick shower, grateful I had the foresight to bring my overnight bag to Griffin’s room with me last night, throw on a sleeveless blue maxi dress with a nice slit up one side and hurry downstairs. Where I’m greeted by the smell of coffee and bacon and an extraordinary scene.

Griffin. In jeans and a T-shirt. Cooking. And singing.

I freeze in the doorway, my sleep-deprived brain too sluggish to process everything at once.

Actually, no. Let’s start with his body in those faded and worn jeans that highlight every flexing muscle in his athletic ass and thighs. Let’s give honorable mention to the way those endless shoulders taper to a fat-free waist, making a perfect inverted triangle of his torso. Let’s give a gold star to his robust arms and the way they fill out those short sleeves.

It takes me a beat or two to shift gears, stop drooling and turn my attention to his kitchen mastery. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m surprised that he knows how to flip an omelet in the pan without dropping it on the floor and ruining his breakfast. He does everything else with surpassing excellence, so why not cooking?

And speaking of excellent, what about his voice? I’m no musical expert, but he sounds like a tenor and possesses one of those blue-eyed soul voices that have made people like Ed Sheeran into superstars. His song of choice? My new all-time favorite, “I’ve Got Love on My Mind.”

But the most mind-boggling thing about what I’m seeing right now is the change between the surly and buttoned-up Beast from the office and this guy. This guy is mellow. Possibly even happy. Happy.

The idea that I might have had anything to do with this transformation is too astonishing to even consider.

He flips the omelet onto a plate, neatly folds it in half, turns to set that plate and another one in front of the barstools at the vast marble island and catches sight of me for the first time.

He stops singing and goes perfectly still as our gazes connect. The power of that connection feels like a blow from a superhero in a Marvel movie, one of those gut punches that makes the villain fly through the air until he’s stopped by a well-placed tree and crumples to the ground in a heap. I don’t know what to do with this sensation.

I don’t know what to do.

I’m a sensible person. I know that feelings—true feelings—take time to develop. I don’t go around falling in love with men willy-nilly, even men I’ve had my eye on for a while. But I cannot overstate what it does to me to see Griffin Black smile at me while the morning sun makes a streaked halo of his rumpled hair and turns his eyes to sapphires.

Am I falling in love with this man?

God, I hope not.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a swift and appreciative once-over.

“Hey.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead.” Staying right where I am, I put my hands in my pockets and try to focus on a few relevant questions so I don’t lapse into full-on simpering. “Hard to believe there was a party here last night. Where is everyone?”

“My brothers are around here somewhere. The caterers cleaned up before they left and most of the household staff has the day off to recover. None of the guests stayed over. I’m guessing most of them are back in the city by now. So it’s just you and me.”

“Interesting,” I say, determined not to set my hopes too high about anything that may or may not be going on here. “So when are you and I going back to the city? Do you want me to grab my bag, so I’ll be ready for the chopper?”

“Ah, the chopper,” he says, launching into an exaggerated frown. “The thing is…it’s down for maintenance. It’ll be out of commission for a day or two.”

“Oh no. Your brand-new helicopter?”

“Mechanical things. What can you do?” he says, shrugging with what looks like complete indifference.

I decide not to mention that day last month when he threatened to fire me and sue the mechanic who serviced his beloved Porsche but didn’t have it finished by the close of business as promised.

“That’s so frustrating,” I say. “Luckily, your fleet has two choppers. So when will the backup chopper be here?”

“Also down for maintenance.”

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