Page 53 of The Billionaire's Beauty

She winces as though I’ve suggested a quick dinner on the rim of an erupting volcano. “You know what? Let’s just order a pizza. It’s been a long day and I think we’re both tired. I’m not looking forward to you glaring across the table at me for two hours.”

Right. Why would she agree about dinner when we can’t agree about anything else? Why would she be excited that I went to the trouble to plan a lovely evening for her at this great new restaurant in Tribeca? Why can’t I get a bead on where this woman’s head is at any given moment? Most importantly, why can’t I control my temper for two consecutive seconds? It would sure make my life easier.

“Fine,” I say, grateful she’s not canceling the evening altogether.

“Great,” she says, reaching for her bag.

Meanwhile, I reach for my phone to cancel the reservation. By the time I tune back into what she’s doing, she’s got her phone in one hand and her credit card in the other.

It takes me a minute to get over the incongruity of what I’m seeing.

I’ve got a net worth of a Jay-Z or several Justin Biebers, but she thinks I’m letting her pay for dinner?

The fuck—?

“What’re you doing?” I demand.

“Ordering dinner,” she says, looking startled.

“Put your card away. I’ll get it.”

“I can afford dinner, Griffin,” she says, her volume cranking steadily higher.

As if that’s the point. As if I’m the sort of man who’d let her spend one penny on me when she’s about to spend three years as a student with probably little to no income and will need every dime she’s got.

“I’m not letting you pay for dinner. Or anything. Ever. So move on.”

“Oh my God,” she says, hanging up and tossing the phone aside. “Do you even hear yourself? Letting me? I’m a grown woman. I do what I want. Especially in my own damn apartment.”

“Calm down. Stop overreacting.”

In the ringing silence that follows, it occurs to me that I’ve veered deep into dangerous territory and may need a rescue party to get myself out. Even the dog, no doubt sensing the brewing storm, hops down from my lap, gives me a sad You’re on your own now, buddy backward glance and retreats to his bed over in the corner.

Leaving me to face Bellamy’s growing wrath by myself.

Since I can see the slow curl of steam coming out of her ears and her kitchen knives are within easy reach, a little back-pedaling seems appropriate.

“I didn’t mean—”

She gets up and gestures toward the door. “I think we should finish the rest of this conversation at the office tomorrow. Since you seem so determined to bark out orders and bully me. Boss.”

Her unrestrained use of the B-word at this tense moment scrapes over my nerves like using a wire grill-cleaning brush to scratch my sunburned back. Do I have some rough edges? Yeah. But I’m not that monstrous other that everyone always makes me out to be. And I’m trying here. I am trying.

I stand too, the better to look her in the eye so she can see how serious I am about this one point.

“Don’t call me boss.”

She takes an aggressive step forward, puts her hands on her hips and hikes up her chin as though she plans to take a swing at me. I watch her, as fascinated as I am infuriated. Has she secretly been like this the whole time I’ve known her? How did she suddenly become so effective at pushing my buttons?

“If you don’t like the nickname, then stop earning it. You’re not in charge here.”

Ain’t that the fucking truth?

Once upon a time, I was the king of my world. Now I’m just a puppet dancing at the end of her strings while praying my choreography pleases her enough to keep me around for a little while longer.

I think about all the things I’m no longer in charge of. My thoughts. My hormones. My emotions.

The bottom line? She’s right. One hundred percent.

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