Page 36 of The Billionaire's Beauty

And died a few months after. In a car accident.

“I’m not a big fan of the holidays anymore,” she says ruefully.

You and me both, sister.

“And you know all about terrible car accidents, don’t you?” she says. “I read somewhere that it takes at least three years to get over a big shock like that. I’m not sure I’m over it now.”

I nod, my lips twisting with the effort of swallowing back some of the emotion that seems determined to rise in my throat. I had no idea that Bellamy and I had so much in common. I also have no idea what to do with this new knowledge. And I doubt that my sphinx routine is helping her in her time of need.

“Anyway,” she says quietly, turning back to the sunset and giving me a reprieve from the heartbreak in those big brown eyes. “I was just standing here thinking how much she would have loved your view. She loved the ocean. And then I remembered that today is her birthday. I’ve been so busy with you that it slipped my mind. Which makes me feel like a bad daughter.”

“You’re not a bad daughter,” I say. “You’re human.”

“You think?” she asks, brightening.

“Yep.”

“It’s kind of strange, isn’t it? The way we both abruptly lost our mothers?”

I’m having a tough time breathing. It takes me a long beat or two to dredge up an answer.

“I don’t talk about my mother.”

“Oh,” she says lightly. “Ever?”

This is tiptoeing around the edge of talking about her, so I decide to infuse more steel into my voice.

“Not if I can help it. I also don’t do emotions.” My voice gets gruffer by the syllable. “So you’ve got the wrong guy if that’s important to you.”

One of her brows hikes up. “I’ve got the wrong guy if it’s important to me to occasionally engage in basic conversations about my life?”

I decide that this is as good a time as any to outline the parameters of this casual relationship. Make sure we understand each other.

“That’s right. I’m good at sex. The occasional dinner. I can be generous with my money.” I pause to clear my tight throat. My intention was to give her a hard stare while I made my little speech, but I discover I’m having a tough time getting the words out while looking her in the eye. “That’s all there is to me. I’m a workaholic. You know that. I’m not good at relationships or feelings. Just so we’re clear on what to expect from each other.”

She stares at me, expressionless and unblinking.

“I see,” she says when the ringing silence turns awkward. “Thanks for the heads-up. So I need to be one hundred percent sex machine at all times when we’re together and zero percent actual human woman whose feelings sometimes seep out. Is that what you’re telling me?”

I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. I’d thought it was a decent speech.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I say, beginning to feel sheepish.

“Good to know.” She gives me a tight smile as she brushes by me on her way back inside. “I wish you’d mentioned that before I went to the trouble of making this delicious manicotti dinner. Now I’ll have to eat it by myself.”

“Huh?”

She grabs a long and hairy-looking knife from the magnetic block on the wall and starts slicing a crusty loaf of bread. The sight of it, along with the savory scent of the manicotti, makes my mouth water as I follow her and shut the door behind me

“Dinner is a shared activity for people who want to get to know each other better. That’s clearly not you. So you can vacate the kitchen while I eat, then come back later for, I don’t know, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or something.”

“You’re kidding,” I say.

“I’m not kidding.”

“It’s my food. In my kitchen. In my house!”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, leveling her murderous gaze on my face. “But you’re not eating one bite of this food.”

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