Page 40 of The Billionaire's Beauty

I take a moment to catch my breath. Then I give him the floor with a sweeping gesture before folding my arms over my chest and hiking up my chin. “Let’s hear it.”

“Jesus, Bellamy,” he says, running his hands over the top of his head and ruffling his hair. “Can you make this a little easier for me?”

“No,” I say flatly.

He shakes his head and mutters something indistinct before looking to the ceiling as though he needs divine intervention. Little does he know that I am also sending up a prayer for lightning to strike him right in his fat head as punishment for being the most infuriating human being I’ve ever met.

“Look,” he says quietly, lowering his hands. “I’ve been gruff pretty much my entire life. I’m not great at communication. I don’t let people in. You know that. That’s why you call me the Beast behind my back.”

I nod impatiently. I’m tempted to give him shit about this non-apology apology, but I decide to let things unfold for a minute.

Something softens in his expression, steadily warming up his face until his blue eyes seem to glow as they look at me. And I feel a responsive tug deep in my belly.

And in my heart, if I’m being honest.

“But it might be time for me to see if I can do better. We’re not going to have that much time together. I don’t want to waste it on my twisted bullshit.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not twisted,” I say. “And I don’t want you to think that I expect you to spill your guts just because I share something with you. But you can’t freak out and push me away every time the topic of mothers comes up.”

“My mother took everything that was good and possible in my life and fucked it up when she walked out.” For a fleeting second, I get a heartbreaking glimpse of the little boy he must have been back then, lost and vulnerable. Bleak. “Am I a grown man now? Yeah. Is that the kind of thing you get over? Not really. It pops up on Mother’s Day. And her birthday. And Christmas. And when other people talk about how great their mothers are. And when it comes to me opening up about my feelings. And that’s all you need to know when it comes to me and mothers.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him from the bottom of my heart.

“Yep,” he says tightly.

There’s a pause.

“Don’t look now,” I say, trying to hold back the smile that wants to break through. Now isn’t the time. I know that. But I also know a breakthrough when I see one. “But I think you just opened up a little bit. How do you feel?”

He blinks and furrows his brow, making a show of thinking it over.

“Shaky. Also lightheaded.” He gives me a doleful look. “But that probably has to do with being starved half to death, since I didn’t get any dinner.”

Well, what can I say? He got me.

I burst into laughter. He quickly joins in and reaches out for me, reintroducing sunlight to my world. He takes my hand and reels me in until I’m hugged up to the warmth of his strong body, a place that probably feels more like home than it should.

“Funny,” I say, clinging to his shoulders while he tunnels his fingers through my hair and rains kisses on my face. “I never heard the word sorry come out of your mouth.”

“Too late now,” he says smugly. “I got myself out of the doghouse without it.”

“True.”

I laugh until his lips find mine and put my mouth to better use. I’m breathless when we pull apart. Triumphant. I know I only emerged the victor from this one small battle, but it sure feels like a significant step toward winning the war for his feelings. I can’t help but notice that a certain part of him seems incredibly happy to be reunited with me. I reach between us, determined to give him an experimental rub or two.

“Not so fast,” he says, gripping my wrist. “I know you can’t keep your hands off me, but I’m on strike until you feed me my dinner.”

“Oh my God,” I cry, wondering when I’ve seen a bigger baby. “Will you move on?”

“No. I’m starving. And that manicotti looked delicious. You’d better not have eaten it all, either.”

“Poor Griffin.” I smile up at him, smoothing the hair away from his temples the way I would a child’s. “I hope you can forgive me for Manicotti-Gate one day.”

I start to lead him toward the door, but he keeps a firm grip on my waist, stopping me. I turn back, ready to ask him what’s wrong, but the sudden blazing intensity in his eyes stops me.

“I’m crazy about you,” he says, his voice husky. “In case you didn’t know. I’m really crazy about you.”

“Good,” I say, even though this whole thing feels way too big for me and moves much too fast. The thing I can’t quite figure out is why I’m so determined to let it all play out. I’m not sure if I have any self-protective instincts left when it comes to Griffin Black. “I’d hate to think I’m in this by myself.”

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