Page 60 of The Billionaire's Beauty

16

Griffin—Two Months Later

I’m into Bellamy.Big time. I don’t deny it.

But my dire prognosis doesn’t sink in until late one night toward the end of the summer, when I gratefully tiptoe into my apartment after a week of meetings in Singapore. My gratitude at being back home with her creates a pang in the center of my chest that’s almost as painful as the ache of loneliness I felt without her these last several days. There’s something about knowing she’s in my apartment, waiting for me. Something about the sensation of coming home to her. It does funny things to my head. Makes me think crazy thoughts.

For example?

What if I whisked her away to, say, Barbados for the weekend? Raised the issue of trying to make things work long distance?

Insane, right? Long-distance relationships rarely work, and when they do, it’s gotta be with a guy way more emotionally evolved than me. Bellamy deserves a clean break and a fresh start out west with a good guy. Someone who deserves her. Someone who knows how to open up and let his partner into his life in a meaningful way.

Someone who’s the opposite of me, in other words.

The idea makes me feel dead and rotted on the inside, but I’m not the important one here.

She is.

But…

Is this what it’s like for other guys when they come back home, even when it’s to a largely furniture-free apartment like mine? Do normal guys in healthy relationships get this kind of break from the yawning emptiness inside? More to the point, do they even feel the kind of emptiness I felt until Bellamy exploded into my personal life?

Hell, I don’t know. I’d need to bring in someone way smarter than I am to answer questions like that.

I don’t believe in falling in love, whatever that means. I especially don’t believe in falling in love with someone when you know going in that their time in your life will be shorter than a baseball season. But times like this, when I feel as though I can’t manage another breath without seeing her again, remind me that I need to remind myself that love is for fairytales and for people who don’t mind looking foolish.

In other words, not me.

But tell that to my thumping and lonely heart.

I enter my apartment and stop cold. Why? Because the scene is far too good to be true. Like a dream. Actually, strike that. It’s like somebody else’s dream.

When I left on Sunday, my furniture consisted of a leather sofa, a two-person kitchen table and a king-sized bed in the master. A giant TV. That’s all I needed. Why bother with more? I’m always at the office or traveling anyway.

Now?

The place looks as though it’s been commandeered by some high-octane home-makeover show and turned it into a soothing sanctuary in pale gray and black.

I take it all in as I set my bags down, too stunned to hike my bottom jaw off the floor.

I’ve got sectionals. Coffee tables with coffee table books on them. Chairs. End tables. Lamps. Matching rugs, blankets, pillows and all the little tchotchkes that go with making a place into a home. There are gorgeous abstract paintings on the wall and—I squint, overcome with disbelief—silver-framed pictures of me and my brothers sitting on a console. Wonder of wonders, I’ve also got a real dining room table for adults. With matching chairs, a funky modern chandelier, a sculptured centerpiece and everything.

I can’t fucking believe it. One touch of Bellamy’s magical hands and the place, which has been exactly as welcoming as an empty warehouse with nice windows and a great view, has become a haven that I’ll probably never want to leave again.

And where is the architect of all this change?

Curled on her side under a blanket over on the sectional, dead asleep with the drowsy dog draped over her hip. She’s got a hand under her chin, intensifying the innocent effect. Hard to believe a woman capable of flipping every part of my life upside down and inside out can look that angelic. But anyone who tolerates my bullshit with such grace and good humor is, by definition, an angel.

I stare down at her, drowning in questions.

What goes on in that head of hers? Does she dream about me? Does she wonder what we’re going to do when the clock runs out on our time together? Or is she counting down the days until she’s done with me once and for all? Does she think I’m going to want to come home to this wonderful haven she’s created for me once she moves across the country and won’t be here to greet me when I walk in the door?

And if she does think that—is she insane?

Too many questions. No answers.

Jeremy yawns, stretches, hops down and trots over to give me a welcoming sniff.

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