Page 70 of Forking the Billionaire

“You’re not too far off.”

“Really?”

“Well, people don’t usually try to kiss them, but they do try to pick them up. They damage the beach and crush the eggs. That’s why I volunteer here, to enforce the rules.”

She’d always loved animals. It didn’t surprise me that she’d spend her free time protecting them. It was so very Esme.

She said, “I get to scare off any idiots who try any funny business.”

“Like me and my dastardly lips.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

“About that?—”

“We should just pretend it didn’t happen,” she said.

She was giving me the easy out. I should take it. I needed to take it, but I didn’t want to. I needed to tell her I was sorry I kissed her, but now that I had my chance, I couldn’t say the words.

I wasn’t sorry.

Kissing her had felt so right, I couldn’t lie and tell her it was wrong. I was sorry that my actions had made everything so complicated. But even if it could never happen again, I wouldn’t take it back even if I could. Maybe I could pretend.

Then there was the other reason I needed to talk to her. It was equally difficult, but I found myself changing the subject. “Last night?—”

“Why are you so worried about what I was doing last night?” she asked. “I was at work, then I was here. There’s no exciting secret in my comings and goings worth making a big deal about.”

I wasn’t concerned about where she’d been. But I did need to tell her what I found when I went to her home. “I wanted to talk to you, apologize for upsetting you during our outing.”

“That didn’t happen, remember. Pretending only works if we both play along.”

Apparently I’d fully decided I wasn’t going to do that, at least not when it was just the two of us. I continued, “I went by your house. The door was open.”

She turned fully toward me. A breeze blew through, flapping her dress. The clouds parted enough that I could see her face in detail. Her pink lips pursed. Lines creased her forehead. Her dark eyes assessed me through thick lashes.

My throat grew tight. “I saw the Jenga tower.”

She blinked. Her chest heaved once, twice.

Again I wanted to touch her, pull her into my arms, and tell her everything would be all right. The more pent-up distress I saw rising through her, the more I wanted to try to fix it. Whatever it was she needed, I wanted to give it to her.

“You came into my house and dug through my stuff?” Panic tinged her words.

I took a breath and fought the growingly overwhelming urge to hold her. “The door was open and the tests were on the counter.”

She twisted her features.

“How dare you.”Her words were a curse, an accusation, a plea.

She slammed her fists into my chest, and her whole body followed. She was so warm, so small. All that strength and fire melted away. Her body trembled, and I wrapped my arms around her.

“You can’t. I’m not,” she said on a soft breath. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her again, and I held her.

She twisted her fingers into my shirt and buried her face there. I held her, wordlessly promising that she was safe, that I was here for her.

We were friends. Friends offered support. Friends helped each other carry secrets and work through life’s trials.

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