Page 101 of Forking the Billionaire

“Tea?” I asked.

“Trust me.”

I had never been much of a tea person, but I did trust her, and I was curious about what she would concoct.

Esme glided across the kitchen, making tea and prepping candied cherries on sword-shaped toothpicks and glasses with ice. Aromatic notes of smoke and exotic spices filled the air.

A touch perplexed, I asked, “Is that chai?”

“Nope.”

She mixed the ingredients and poured two drinks, topping each with a spiral of orange peel and a skewer of cherries. The look she gave me as she slid a glass in front of me was a wordless challenge.

“Looks like an Old Fashioned,” I said. “My favorite.”

She didn’t react, she simply watched me with that same expectant expression on her face.

She knew Old Fashioneds were my favorite, probably because I’d mentioned it in passing years ago. And Esme always remembered everything.

I still didn’t know what her favorite caramel was, but she knew everything about me. She didn’t use that information only to bring up embarrassing stories of my awkward teenage days, but to show she listened and cared.

I realized then that she told the stories with the same look on her face. The stories weren’t intended to terrorize me. Every time she brought up the past, it was because we shared such a rich history together, and she was using that history to remind me of how connected we were.

I lifted the glass to my lips. The warm spice belonged to what most certainly tasted like some sort of fruit juice. The tea brought in a smoky note that mimicked whiskey.

The flavors were complex, smooth, slightly bitter, with just enough sweetness.

“This is the best version I’ve ever tasted,” I told her honestly.

She took a sip of her own drink and winked at me. “Told you to trust me.”

Warmth filled my chest as I spun my glass on the counter, unable to take my eyes off Esme. She, too, was complex. Now that I was finally seeing her clearly, I wished I could recall every detail of our past the way she could.

The abrasive conversations were as important as the gentle ones. Everything had led us here, to where I found myself falling for the girl next door.

She wrinkled her nose. “I need a shower.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right now?”

“If you want. You should be comfortable.”

“Ah, you want me in my pajamas so you can tuck me into bed.”

“There are many things I’d enjoy doing to you in your bed.”

A wide grin overtook her face. “Okay then.”

I watched her cross into her bedroom and open the closet. She rifled through the few pieces of clothing hanging there and pulled out a long set of pajamas with a zipper down the front.

“What do you think? Sexy, right?” She laughed.

But my focus was entirely set on a piece still hanging in the closet. Long strips of crêpe paper and bubble wrap were sewn in a patchwork of texture atop a sparkling black dress.

I could still remember the feel of those air bubbles beneath my fingertips, the sound of the plastic popping as I thrust the woman wearing this dress against the back of a closet door at a masked charity event in November.

Time seemed to stand still outside of the pounding in my head.

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