Page 52 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she says quickly, her smile turning brittle around the edges as her face floods with color. “We’re just getting to know each other. A little. It’s all very, ah, casual. And I’m leaving soon anyway, so…”

“As long as he knows you’re not afraid of a good sexual harassment lawsuit if he doesn’t treat you right,” he says, and there’s that booming and good-natured laugh again. “I’m keeping my eye on you, Griffin.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” I say, stung more than I’d like to admit by Bellamy’s vehement disclaimer. But I’ll circle back to that in a minute. “When are you coming east? The three of us can grab dinner.”

This seems to be a bridge too far for Bellamy.

“We need to let you go, Daddy,” she says hastily before he can respond to my invitation. “We don’t want to be late for our dinner reservation. Love you. Bye.”

She hangs up, tosses the phone aside and looks at me as though I’ve grown three new heads.

“What the hell?” she cries. “What was that?”

I twitch my shoulders in an irritable shrug. “I wanted to meet your father.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I echo blankly.

“Yes, why?”

Good question, genius. Give it your best shot coming up with an answer.

“I want to know more about you,” I say.

She presses a hand to her neck, clutching mock pearls. “Careful. You’re getting dangerously close to crossing a line.”

“Your flagrant line crossing started us down this road in the first place, didn’t it?”

She frowns. “Are you complaining?”

“Not at all,” I say, giving her an appreciative once-over that lingers on a few pertinent body parts.

The air shifts in the room.

We regard each other warily for a beat or two, like opponents entering a ring and circling each other just as the bell rings for round one.

I don’t want to come on like a sledgehammer, but subtlety is not a skill I seem to possess right now. Or at all when it comes to her.

“Not your boyfriend, huh? That seems like a firm line,” I say, categorically unable to keep the bite out of my voice.

“It’s a big word,” she says on a laugh that has more than a tinge of awkwardness in it. “I would never presume to—”

“What was the point of our discussion at the office the other day?” I ask. “I thought we’d settled this. What’s the term for when you start fucking someone you’ve known well for a year and you’re crazy about them? Special friend? Companion?”

“You’re asking me?” She can barely contain her outrage. “You’re the one who freaked out when I tried to get too close the other night and ask about your mother. And now you think I’m going to throw around a label like boyfriend? Why would I do that unless I wanted to drive you away forever? Why do we need labels anyway? What is this? Seventh grade? What’s gotten into you?”

Like I know. Maybe I need to check in with the scientific community. See if there’s a word for when someone sneaks under your skin and into your bloodstream when you least expect it, commandeering your every thought, breath and heartbeat like some emotional virus.

Am I being illogical and absurd? Sure. I’ll cop to that.

But I need some official standing in her life. It feels important that we both understand that what the two of us have isn’t the same old, same old.

If only I possessed the words and the composure to explain that to her.

But I can’t. It’s locked up too deep inside me.

“Nothing,” I say instead. “Forget I said anything. Are we grabbing dinner or not? We have reservations and this conversation is going nowhere, so…”

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