Page 24 of Forking the Billionaire

“You look pint-sized to me.”

“I’m proper adult sized, thank you very much. Not everyone is born with Biker G.I. Joe genes.”

I chuckled. “Biker G.I. Joe? I don’t wear leather or camo.”

“Yep. It’s the towering bulk. Inked gorilla with beanstalk genes works too. Do you like that better? Graffiti Surfer Ken?”

I just blinked at her.Graffiti Surfer Ken?I was both taken aback and weirdly delighted by her perception of me. There were no words.

“For the record, I live in a little bungalow on the water,” she said. “It’s just outside the resort.”

That sounded really nice, actually. I could picture her waking up to the sound of the sea, stepping outside her front door in a t-shirt and nothing else to wiggle her toes in the cool morning sand. A t-shirt very similar to the one she was wearing, which now that I was looking, was far too threadbare and therefore far too see-through to be worn out in public.

Between the fibers, I could make out creamy skin and the shape of her black bra. I flicked my gaze up to her face and mentally cursed myself for looking.

“Like what you see?” She stood as tall as she could with her small frame and crossed her arms in a mirror of my stance. Amusement sparkled in her chocolate eyes.

“I see my best friend’s little sister digging around in a sofa in the middle of the night.”

She sighed and dropped her arms. With one breath, all the fight blew out of her. “And you think I should be in bed. That it’s not safe for someone like me to be out alone at night.”

Where did that come from? Given the suddenly sullen look on her face, probably from Gabriel. “No. I was thinking if you lost something, maybe you could use some help.”

Why did I say that? I was supposed to be walking the beach alone for quiet time, and here I was roping myself into a search and rescue task to find Esme’s keys or phone or whatever she’d lost.

I was being a good friend. Whatever it was she was looking for was sure to be important. What kind of person would I be to ignore her plight?

“All right, then. I’m looking for a pair of glasses,” she said. “And I’m like sixty percent sure they aren’t inside of this sofa.”

I didn’t know she wore glasses. When did she start? Did she need them all of the time, or just for reading? Or, maybe she meant sunglasses. Given her freakish memory, I was surprised she could misplace anything.

“How many pieces of furniture did you sit on before you lost your glasses?” I asked. “Was it every chair in the lobby?”

She rolled her eyes. “They aren’t my glasses.”

“Then whose glasses are they?” Probably her musician boyfriend. A sudden dryness clawed at my throat. I guessed Ihadn’t drunk enough water today, given the heat. It settled as an ache behind my eyes, and a larger ache in the center of my chest.

Esme looked around the lobby, everywhere but at me. “It doesn’t matter whose glasses they are.”

“It matters to me.”

“Why?”

Because as much as I might feel compelled to help Esme, I had no desire to help the musician. Instead of saying that, I told her, “If I’m going to spend my night climbing into sofas, I should know who it’s for.”

A hint of a smile pulled at the corner of her lips. My pulse picked up at that look, knowing trouble was about to follow. Trouble was Esme’s specialty.

She pressed a finger to the center of my chest. I felt my heart beating beneath that touch, felt the heat and pressure of her fingertip. It was impossible not to focus on that one small inch of skin beneath the fabric of my shirt.

“I didn’t ask for your help.” She narrowed her eyes at me, like I was the one acting suspicious here. “Plus, isn’t Jules going to wonder where you are?”

Jules. Ugh.

“I told her I was going out,” I said.

“But you didn’t say you’d be hanging out with a woman. You couldn’t have known you’d run into me here. Won’t she be jealous?”

Jealous? “Why would she be?”

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