Page 104 of The Billionaires

“I wanted to apologize,” Lucius says, oblivious to the cat menaces surrounding him. “I wanted to tell you how I feel. In person.” He reaches toward the camera and the video cuts off. “A limo is waiting for you. Or if you want to take a cab, the place is called Purrville Cat Cafe.”

“Wait!” I shout. “Go outside.”

Except it’s too late. The call disconnects before he can hear me.

Fuck! Shouldn’t a cat cafe check if a patron is allergic to cats before letting him in? Or did he lie to them?

Whatever.

I run for my shoes, glad I was dressed reasonably well when this whole thing started. If he went into anaphylactic shock because I had to change, I don’t know what I’d do.

Sprinting outside, I leap into the limo and shout, “Go!”

Elijah must know of Lucius’s folly because we get moving at a Fast and the Furious pace.

Watching the streets blur, I can’t help but picture Lucius’s gorgeous features swelling up, his throat closing, and then?—

The limo stops.

Whew. At least Purrville Cat Cafe is close enough to my place.

I dash inside, ignoring the front door people saying something about waivers and fees.

Cats are everywhere. It’s actually a struggle not to step on a paw or a tail, but I do my best.

When I reach Lucius, he’s surrounded by enough cats to give even the most vicious, battle-weary sewer rat nightmares.

“You came,” he says, his voice slightly muffled by a fluffy tail wrapped around his face.

I remove the fluffy monster and glare at Lucius’s red, swollen eyes. “I refuse to talk here. Outside. Now.”

Nodding somewhat gratefully, he stands up and quickly exits Purrville.

As soon as we’re on the street, I give him my most seething glower. “Are you out of your mind?”

He shrugs and sneezes violently. “I had to see you.”

“So you staged a fucking suicide?”

“Nothing so dramatic.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an EpiPen. “I just needed to show you how serious I was. My life wasn’t in danger.”

“Bullshit.” Still, I sigh in relief, then say with feeling, “You asshole. I was worried.” Then, to show him just how much, I push him. Or I intend to.

He captures my wrists and then my gaze. “You were worried about me?”

“Yeah. Obviously. Unlike some, I have human emotions and?—”

“I’m sorry.” He squeezes my wrists gently. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Sure you did. And you’d better have a good fucking reason.”

“I do,” he says solemnly. “I need to tell you something.”

The look in his eyes makes me feel light and bubbly all of a sudden—like I might float away, or burst. I fight the feeling because I’ve been deceived before. Keeping my tone cranky, I say, “Fine. Out with it.”

“Okay.” He tugs me closer. “I love you.”

Or at least, that is what I think I hear him say. It’s so shocking that I reply with the dumbest comeback since the times of Ancient Rome: “What?”

---