Page 85 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

“There was no but.”

“But you’re still going home.” I shouldn’t be frustrated at the thought. I should be grateful for the time she’s been here and that I’ve gotten to know her.

A nice guy would feel that way.

But how is a nice guy—or any guy—supposed to spend time with Fenella without falling for her? Without hoping for more.

“That’s where my life is,” Fenella says softly.

“And you’re happy with your life?”

She doesn’t answer. There is a long pause, and I wait for her response until I finally realize it’s not coming. I can only assume that she’s so happy with her life and her friends and the new job that her father will give her, and I can’t compete with any of it.

How could I think I could compete with anything?

“Show me the stars?” she asks.

I can do that.

It’s a short walk to the pier. Some of the fishing boats are in for the evening, but some are out for days or weeks at a time. Waves lap at the hulls, rocking them like a baby swing and lick at the wooden pier jutting out to the sea. The air smells like salt and fish and… pumpkin.

I smell like pumpkin. So does Fenella.

I slow my steps to make the trip out to the end of the pier last longer. The air is colder this close to the water and the odd wave sends a splash of water across the boards, but stars are best seen as far from the light as possible.

“Tell me about your friends,” I invite. Knowing how important they are to Fenella, how influential they must be in her life makes me a little nervous about meeting them.

More information on them might help, or it might lead to an anxiety spiral about how I’ll never be good enough to be a part of her life.

It really could go either way.

“Have youheard of them?” she counters. Her arm is still in mine, and she brushes against me like she’s hunting for warmth.

She wore her toque tonight and a new, warmer coat she bought with Edie. The pink pom-pom bounces against my shoulder when she gets too close.

I don’t mind. I don’t think Fenella could ever be too close.

“I know there’s a group and you seem to move as a pack.” Like hyenas, I ponder, but don’t share that opinion with Fenella. I don’t know her friends—I only see what they put out for the world to see in their posts and ads.

“They… understand,” she says slowly. Warily. “What it’s like.”

“Being you?”

I hear her exhale, almost like she was waiting for me to say something else. Something negative, or judgmental. “Kind of. I sound horrible when I say this, but being me hasn’t always been easy.”

I put my hand over hers. She might have brought a hat but neither of us remembered gloves, and her fingers are cold under mine. “You got exiled from your home because the world is obsessed with your life. I can’t imagine that being easy at all.”

“Yes.” Fenella’s sigh is one of relief and sounds like air escaping from a tire. “You get it.”

“Not really, but I can try to understand.”

“Most people don’t try. They just write me off for having the most perfect of lives. Listen to me.” She shakes her head. “I hate complaining about it, but if I do, my friends would understand. Coral especially—her parents own this winery and half of Napa Valley. She had to fight to work there too. No one else works; Lavinia and Milo are models, and that’s where I met them.”

“That’s considered a job,” I point out.

“Lavinia’s father is an earl and has some relation to the royal family and Milo’s family owns half of England. It’s not exactly a job when you don’t have to do it.”

“Is working for me not a job?”

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