Page 46 of The Billionaire's Beauty

13

Bellamy

“Treats?”I squeal, clapping as I swing my apartment door open for Ella early one evening a couple of days later. After work, I raced home, showered and slipped into a cute gold sundress in eager anticipation of Griffin’s imminent arrival. I’d planned to spend some time looking over some of my printouts of available apartments at Berkeley, or maybe reading more of Pride and Prejudice (Griffin let me borrow it from his library), but that can wait. I’m never too busy to receive guests bearing food. “For me?”

“Yes, yes, try to contain yourself,” Ella says, laughing and balancing a platter of beautiful petit fours as she comes inside and heads for my kitchen. Being best friends with a pastry chef who lives in my building is the best thing that ever happened to my sweet tooth and the worst thing that ever happened to my waistline. She’s a bit too generous about sharing all her new recipes, and I’m a bit too enthusiastic in my role as guinea pig. “There’s plenty to go around.”

“Another round of rejects? Too much almond flavoring again?”

“Not exactly,” she says, leading the way to my kitchen table, which is small like everything else in my one-bedroom apartment, where she sits. “The mom who placed the order decided that she wanted sparkly shoes instead of sparkly crowns on her little princess’s first birthday party treats, so she changed her order.”

“It’s hard out there for an Upper East Side princess these days,” I say, abandoning my plans to order pizza and reaching for plates, napkins and a bottle of Prosecco I keep for just such occasions instead. “Great news for me, though.”

“Indeed. Are you going to do anything about that yapping in the bedroom?”

I sigh. While other people have lovely golden retrievers who love everybody and make lifelong friends wherever they go, well-trained and clever German shepherds that protect them from harm or even cute little purse dogs, I have Jeremy the Ill-Mannered. Who has never, to my knowledge, shown one ounce of gratitude to me or my friends for rescuing his furry little ass two years ago.

“I wanted to give you a minute to come in and catch your breath first. Are you ready for him?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Ella says with mock cheer.

Girding my loins, I open my bedroom door and release the Tasmanian devil of dogs. Out races Jeremy, barking his fool head off. He makes a beeline for Ella, dancing and snarling at her feet as though he’s Floyd Mayweather rather than a ten-pound and sandy-colored version of Toto.

“It’s me, Jeremy,” she says wearily, holding out a hand for him to sniff and hopefully remember that she’s a friend and not a foe. “Why do we have to go through this every single time? You know me. I give you treats.”

This makes no difference to Jeremy the Ungrateful, who continues to snarl until I hand Ella a treat to give him. He crunches it down, then immediately stops barking, stands on his hind legs and puts his paws on Ella’s knees for her to pick him up, a loving and conciliatory gesture that fools no one.

Ella purses her lips, shakes her head and drapes him across her lap, a perch that allows him to oversee everything with bright interest.

We settle in happily, distributing petit fours and popping the cork.

“Here’s to your new man,” I say, raising my glass to Ella.

“I don’t have a new man,” she says, working hard to repress a sheepish smile as she scratches Jeremy’s ears. “Here’s to your new man.”

“I don’t have a new man either.”

We clink glasses and burst into laughter.

“Your skin looks bright and healthy. I know what that means,” I say, then dig into my petit four with gusto.

“Oh, no you don’t. You go first. How go things with the Beast?”

“Stop calling him that. He doesn’t deserve it. I wish I’d never given him that nickname,” I say, regretting my snappish tone as soon as the words come out of my mouth.

Ironic, I know. I’m the one who christened him with the nickname in the first place. But I’m feeling surprisingly protective toward him lately, and that unexpectedly tender interlude in his office this morning has only heightened the sensation. Not that I plan to let Ella know about my growing weakness for him. That way lies disaster.

But…too late.

“Oh my God.” Her eyes widen with an unsettling combination of concern and growing horror. “What’s going on?”

The look on her face does nothing to settle my nerves, which are already rattled by the speed and intensity with which things are developing between me and Griffin. Is this an ideal time for me to fall for someone? No. Is he an ideal candidate for anyone’s Prince Charming? God, no. But let’s keep things in perspective. It’s not as though I showed up at a family dinner and introduced Ted Bundy as my date.

“Nothing,”I say, reaching for my glass and then taking a gulp or two because it gives me an excuse not to look in her face while I manufacture one lie after another. I’m not sure whether it’s more important for me to convince her or myself. “We had fun in the Hamptons. Things were a little strange at work the other day, but we got through it. He’ll be here in a minute. That’s all there is to it.”

I try an offhand shrug, but it feels awkward, as though I’m working the shoulders on someone else’s body.

“Bellamy. This is supposed to be just sex at most. No feelings. A summer fling only. We talked about this.”

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