Page 139 of The Billionaires

Colossus whines.

Fuck.

I take a deep breath and prepare to deescalate. “It’s fine that they told you. You would have found out sooner or later—and nondisclosure is part of the contract you signed.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” And a good thing too, as what I’m about to tell her I rarely, if ever, share with people.

She stares at me, intrigued. “So… what is it I’m not to disclose?”

I take another breath. “I have misophonia.”

CHAPTER 13

LILLY

I feel like an ass that no dog would ever want to sniff. Jerk or not, this guy has a real condition, and here I am, mocking him about it.

Misunderstanding my silence, he says, “Misophonia is when someone has negative responses to certain trigger sounds. Think nails on chalkboard. In my case, it’s chewing and slurping.” He winces as he says the last bit.

“I know that,” I say. “I took a DNA test, and one of the reports explained what it is and told me I’m unlikely to have it.”

He nods. “TENM2 is the gene involved. I haven’t done that test, as I’m not sure what the point of such a report would be. If you have what I have, you know it.”

Yep. Feeling worse by the second. How does he go on dates with that hot woman from the video if he can’t tolerate the sounds of people eating? How does he attend holiday dinners with his family? Or go to business lunches?

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”

“I meant, I’m sorry for giving you shit about it. Also, I’m sorry I started eating here in the kitchen when I knew it was your dinnertime. I wasn’t thinking.”

Or maybe a part of me wanted to piss him off. Or see him—but I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself right now.

He darts a glance at my plate. “To be honest, for some strange reason, seeing you eat didn’t trigger anything.”

Huh. “Has that happened before?”

He shakes his head. “The dog’s eating doesn’t bother me, but that’s about it.”

Should I feel special, or did he just compare me to a dog? “Well,” I say. “If you want to eat together, I’d be okay with that.”

Wait. What am I saying? What am I going to do if he takes me up on this? But of course, he wouldn’t. Spending time with me is the last thing he’d?—

“Okay,” he says without missing a beat.

“Okay?”

He sets his plate near mine on the bar. “Let’s try this. If I get irritable or?—”

“You’re always irritable.”

He blows out a breath. “Look who’s talking.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”

“If I feel symptoms, I’ll up and leave.”

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