Page 6 of Dedicated Billionaire

I blanche, wondering what that will mean, but the driver assures us it’s not that bad, little more than a summer storm. The news had greatly overreacted to the radar and the huge weather event that shut down airports across the country had fizzled out.

The driver sets about ignoring us as he moves toward the airfield exit, and I expect Braden to ignore me as well but a blast of air conditioning from the front has my damp skin breaking out in goosebumps. He immediately asks the driver to turn the air down a bit and whips out a plush hoodie with his team’s logo on it.

“See, isn’t the old logo a million times better?” he says as he wraps it around my shoulders.

What is going on? Who is this guy? Not the Braden I know, or thought I knew, because the way he’s acting has me rethinking everything.

“Yeah,” I agree, still wondering if all this kindness is just the setup for a trap I could fall into at any moment. Then again, it’s been a while since Braden or Matt really played a trick on me. Years, probably. They never gave up on the teasing, but I’d been safe from their practical jokes for a long time.

He sighs. “Marketing experts seem to think it’s time to change branding. I’m against it, the team hates the idea, and I believe the fans will rebel.”

“You’re right, they’ll tear the stadium apart the next time their players run out on the field with that monstrous logo on their helmets.” I’m only half joking.

He nods once, firmly. “I’m going to nix the whole thing. We can roll out some of those designs for t-shirts, but the official team logo isn’t changing.” With a furrowed brow, he takes out his phone, very charmingly asks me to excuse him for a moment, then taps out a few emails. “There, done.”

“Wait, you didn’t just make a major business decision because of me, did you?” I ask, horrified. And intrigued. Why would he do that?

He shrugs one broad, muscular shoulder. A few raindrops still cling to his biceps, bulging out of his snug shirt sleeve. I drag my eyes back to his face, which is pensive.

“Not solely because of you. I had a bad feeling about it from the start. But I do trust your artist’s eye.”

I wait for the punchline, but it never comes. Braden Reynolds is being sincere? I can’t take my eyes off him as he fills me in on the latest charity function he hosted, which had a modern art theme. It’s clear he’s chosen this topic because he thinks it’ll interest me, and it does.

Did flirty party boy Braden finally grow up? He actually seems like an adult, and a thoughtful one at that. One who’s making me laugh at his story about the elderly billionaires getting in such a scuffle over one small wire sculpture that they fell on it and crushed it, then both of them tried to weasel out of paying for it.

“So then the artist, who’s called Liam Starlight— I’m not even kidding about that— comes over and just gives the wires a little tweak. And then he gets this faraway look in his eyes and says ‘this is it. This is the new design. The heavens are naming itDiablo.’The old guys fell for it and the bidding war was back on.” He ends his story with a laugh, shaking his head.

I blush because I had just read an article about that sculpture and the huge sum it fetched. “I think Liam Starlight is actually completely serious,” I tell him. “Or if he’s not, he’s really good at keeping up the ruse. Maybe I should put on an act like that.”

“No, don’t. You’re perfect just the way you are and so is your art.”

Now I’m really blushing. Does he realize what he just said? He rummages in his bag again and pulls out two protein bars, offering one to me. I’m hungry enough to take it since I was too tense to eat the offered sandwich on the plane.

“Mm, chalk and raisins,” I say, choking it down. Thankfully the car has bottled water and Braden cracks one open for me. “Thanks,” I say.

He thinks I mean for the bar and the water, but I also mean for what he did for me on the flight. It meant a lot. More than he probably could ever know, and his distracting chatter had saved me from a panic attack.

I shiver again, but this time not from the cold. From the way my thoughts are leaning. Remembering his warm hand covering mine to drag me back from a full on panic. Braden pullsthe hoodie more snugly around me, his fingers trailing down my arm. I can feel the heat through the thick fabric, and when his palm brushes against the back of my hand, he frowns.

“Are you that cold?”

Before he can chide the driver about the air conditioning again, I tell him I’m fine. Now he rolls his eyes and begins to chafe my hands in his, scooting closer to me on the seat. Our legs brush together and it’s a bit too much for my touch-starved body to take.

“I’m fine,” I say again, a bit too harshly.

Pulling away, I give him a shaky smile to show him there are no hard feelings. But there are. Against myself. Why am I reacting to him like this? Is it because he’s so damn hot? That’s never once affected me before. Okay, that’s a lie, there was that awful crush era back in high school, when I had a bout of temporary insanity.

While I drift off into the past, we lapse into silence, but when I look up at him again, he turns and smiles at me. We’re getting closer to the resort, and I realize I probably should make myself presentable. Sure enough, a glance in my little makeup mirror shows me a ghost with a tangled black mop on her head. With a sigh, I dig around for my cream blush, lip gloss, and brush, so my mom doesn’t stroke out when she sees me.

“You look great,” Braden says as I cluck over my less than stellar appearance.

“I look like the thing that crawled out of the television in that old horror movie.”

He bursts out laughing and runs his fingers through his own hair, setting the unruly waves into order. Stubble dots his jaw, but that’s almost always there and suits his strong features. How does he manage to look so good after a turbulent flight, a dash through the rain, and a long car drive? I tip my chin downinto his hoodie and take a long, slow breath. How does he smell so darn good, too?

“Are you looking forward to this break as much as I am?” he asks.

Now he must be joking, because I feel like I’m actually oozing with dread about the annual retreat.

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