Page 31 of The Billionaire's Beauty

Grinning, he pulls out a stool for me. “Can we eat now? Now that our omelets are cold?”

“This looks amazing,” I say, noticing the fresh berries, butter and toast for the first time. All laid out on the most beautiful blue china pattern. “Thank you so much.”

“I can’t have you getting weak and dehydrated.” He heads to the fancy coffee machine and pours a couple of cups, frowns and turns back to me. “How do you take yours? Tell me so I’ll know.”

“I can get it,” I say, startled by this concern and by the role reversal. “I doubt there will be much chance for you to serve me coffee back in the office.”

I start to get up—

“Sit,” he says sharply. “We can’t predict the future. So…?”

“Uh…” I sit back down, bemused. “Cream and sugar. Lots of both.”

He nods with unmistakable satisfaction and returns with a perfect cup of coffee for me.

“Delicious,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Do me a favor,” he says, taking his seat next to me.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s pretend there’s no office. I don’t want to talk about the office.”

“But you’re all about the office,” I say, startled again.

“Maybe there’s more to me.” He raises his cup. “That’s why we need to get to know each other better.”

“You’re right,” I say, then attack the omelet with gusto. “I didn’t know you could sing. Or own jeans.”

He barks out a laugh, nearly choking on his coffee. “What are you talking about? Everyone owns jeans.”

“But I’ve never seen you in them.”

“You never see me naked until recently, either, but I assume you knew I had a nude body?”

“A very fine nude body,” I say, smirking.

“As do you,” he says pointedly, making me blush.

“You’re going to ruin it if you keep serving me cheesy omelets like this—”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the display.

“My father,” I tell Griffin, hopping down and hurrying over to the window so he isn’t in the shot. “Sorry. Won’t take long.”

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

“Hey, Papa,” I say when the picture resolves to show my father wearing his robe and pajamas as he sits at his kitchen table and sips his coffee. With his merry eyes, easy smile, balding head and thick white mustache, he reminds me of a Santa Claus who just had a trim and shave. “How are you? How’d your appointment go? Is your blood pressure still okay?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, flapping a hand before squinting into the phone. “Nothing to worry about. Where are you, Bella? Are those roses behind you? Whose garden is that?”

“Just a new friend,” I say, cheeks burning and uncomfortably aware of Griffin’s quiet presence. I certainly understand my father’s astonishment at my surroundings. I’m sure the hell not in Kansas anymore. “Do you like the garden?”

“Wonderful!” he booms. “But see those yellow leaves? And are those spots? Tell your friend to check the drainage around there before all those bushes die.”

Griffin scowls, gets up and comes to look out the window, taking care to stay out of my father’s line of sight. The poor gardener’s head is probably now on the chopping block.

“So listen, Papa. Can I call you back later?”

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