Page 78 of The Billionaire's Beauty

But I keep quiet, determined to move at his pace.

“This was my mother’s room,” he says.

“I see that.” It’s quite the elegant sanctuary. Massive bed. Golden wallpaper. Silk drapes and matching upholstery that look as though they’re the work of whoever decorated Versailles. There’s even a fainting couch. French doors lead to a balcony that overlooks the sparkling ocean and a sun that hasn’t begun to set yet.

The overall effect?

A moment out of time. Sadness. Nostalgia.

He sits on the bench at the foot of the bed, where he rests his elbows on his knees and makes prayer hands in front of his mouth. His gaze slides out of focus.

“My parents. My mother. They did a lot of damage.”

“Those were her selfish choices,” I say vehemently. “Her bad choices. She threw away her family. It had nothing to do with you.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

There’s a pause.

“I’m working on it,” he says ruefully, lowering his hands and staring down at them as he rubs them together. “To start with, I’m taking over this wing. Redecorating. The whole works. It doesn’t need to be a shrine, and it’ll help me make new memories. Be done with that chapter of my life. Hopefully, anyway.”

“Wow. That sounds like a great start.”

“There’s more. I’m going to find a shrink to help me work on it. It’s not the coolest thing I ever did. Admitting that I have mommy problems at the age of thirty-two. But I need to do it.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, my pulse rate speeding up.

“Because it’s the only thing standing between me and my dream life.”

The silky note in his tone catches my attention, as does the way the heavy fringe of his lashes intensifies the vivid blue of his eyes when he looks up at me again.

“Your dream life?” My voice turns husky. “What does that look like?”

“Who knows?” he says, staring me in the face. “The only thing I know for sure is that you’re in it.”

My breath catches.

“I’m in your dream life?”

“You’re in the middle of it, Bellamy. You know you are.”

“I’m not sure I know anything,” I say shakily.

“I propose that you transfer to NYU next semester. That’ll give you time to help your dad get back on his feet, wrap up his business and come with you. We need a new head groundskeeper around here to make sure our roses stay alive.”

My father? He wants to include my father?

The sudden surge of joy inside me makes it hard to talk. I’m too busy battling happy tears.

“I’m not sure my ears are hearing right.”

“Come closer. I’m happy to tell you again.”

That’s the cue I’ve been waiting for. I can’t get to him fast enough, fueled by euphoria and excitement. He surges to his feet, opening his arms wide, and I hop. The upshot? We come together like lovers during the proposal scene in some cheesy reality TV show, swaying together in each other’s arms with my legs in a death grip around his waist.

“I don’t know what I thought I was doing,” he says in an urgent whisper, cupping the back of my head to bring me closer. He presses his nose to my hair and breathes me in, a shudder working its way through his body. “I’m terrible at living without you. You’re all I think about.”

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