Page 39 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“What am I supposed to do here? My book is all the way downstairs. And I don’t want you threatening me with a knife again, so I can’t turn on the TV.”

I wordlessly pass him his book, which I’d brought up earlier and placed on the nightstand just in case. Hey, you don’t spend a year working as Griffin’s personal assistant without learning a few pro tricks.

He makes a disbelieving sound, takes the book and tosses it to the end of the bed.

“You sure know how to ruin a perfectly good Saturday night,” he says.

That comment warrants me putting down my book long enough to shoot him a sidelong glare.

“You are a bully who keeps his feelings bottled so deep inside that it’s a wonder they don’t ooze out of your pores.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I say, returning to my book. “Someone needs to break you of all your bad habits.”

“I guess you’re the person,” he says, sounding incredulous.

I lower my book again. Think about it. Shrug.

“If it’s not me, I just hope I live long enough to see who it is.”

I’m about to continue pretending to read when he snatches my book and tosses it to the end of the bed, where it lands on top of his.

“Those are first editions,” I say, outraged.

“How long are you going to keep giving me shit for what I said?” he demands, eyes flashing.

“No idea. How long are you going to keep acting like such a jackass?”

A long and seething moment passes between us. It’s a wonder the toxicity doesn’t rot the beautiful linens.

“Just so you know, this is normally the moment in a relationship when I start blocking numbers and having you send goodbye flowers,” he tells me, his jaw tight.

I freeze, itching for the feel of that knife again.

Now seems like a good time to mention that I’m normally a very low-key and nonviolent person. I’m slow to anger. Quick to forgive. I don’t let much ruffle my feathers. That’s why my sudden volcanic rage is so significant.

I think about the special moments we’ve shared, in bed and out, and wonder if he makes every woman he’s with feel the way he makes me feel. I think about all the flowers I’ve ordered over the past year and the faceless and presumably sad women behind those flowers. I decide that come hell or high water, no matter what else ever happens between us, he will not lump me in with everyone else.

I get out of bed without a word and head straight for the door, treating him to the sight of me in my filmy white tank top and bikinis as he gapes after me.

“I’m on it, boss,” I say, yanking the door open for him. “I think I’ll order myself some orchids this time. Have a great night.”

“Are you serious?”

“Have a great night.”

Scowling, he gets up and stalks over to the door, looming over me. “I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are.” I can barely get the words out. “Get the fuck out.”

“Stop being such a hothead!” he roars, leaning past me to slam the door shut again. “I’m trying to apologize! Why can’t you give me half a chance?”

“I have seen zero signs of an apology from you,” I say, startled by this information.

“That’s because I’m not good at it!”

Truer words were never spoken.

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