Page 77 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“Hi,” I say. It’s such a thrill to be back in the same room with him that I work hard not to melt with delight. But now is not the time. We have genuine issues we need to address.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate, my cheeks burning. “I was in the neighborhood?”

He dimples but doesn’t hit me with the full smile. Probably a good thing. In my current lightheaded condition, I’d probably keel over in a dead faint if he did.

“Ah,” he says. “I thought you were going to say you wanted your dog back.”

“My dog. I knew I was forgetting something.”

More dimples, creating a responsive swoop deep in my belly.

“Actually, your brothers reached out to me,” I tell him. “They sent the jet to bring me back. They seem to think I’m the only one who can handle you.”

He makes a wry face. “Evil snitches. They staged an intervention earlier, matter of fact.”

“They did seem pretty worried about you.”

“Hmm.”

A beat or two passes, during which it occurs to me that his expression isn’t quite so impenetrable now. The steady warmth emanating from his blue eyes gives me courage.

“So…? What did I miss?” I ask him.

He chokes off a laugh. “I just had the worst fucking week of my life.”

I try to look only mildly interested in this information. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“I barely eat. Can’t sleep. Hate everything in sight. I blame you.”

“Me?”

“For walking out on me.”

“Walking—?” I can’t contain my outrage. “You sent me away!”

“Semantics. We both knew I didn’t mean it.”

“I knew. So is this you getting yourself back onto the playing field?”

“We’ll get to that.” He reaches out. “Come with me.”

Bemused, I take his hand and follow him toward the staircase. But the renewed physical connection sends a shock wave between us, making me shudder. His hand is big. Warm. Strong. So achingly familiar and reassuring that it stops my heart.

Luckily, he’s not immune. He pauses, cradling my hand in both of his as he raises it to his mouth for a lingering kiss in my palm. I feel the heat of his breath. Note the dark intent in his sidelong glance as he leads me up the staircase.

“Griffin…” I say helplessly.

I know we haven’t worked anything out yet, but I need more. More.

“Shh,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Wait. I need to show you something.”

I do my best to swallow my impatience, at least until he turns left instead of right at the top of the staircase. Curiosity gets the best of me.

“Hang on. We’re going to the west wing?”

He nods, heading to a set of double doors that lead to a suite of rooms. He reaches for one of the knobs, hesitates, squares his shoulders and reaches again. By the time he throws the door open and waves me inside, I’m ready to whoop and shout with triumph on his behalf because I know how tough this is for him.

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