Page 17 of Christmas With A Billionaire

“Like someone turned on all the lights in the room.” She sampled the cheese board between us. “You practically float for hours afterward.”

“I do not float.”

“Yesterday, he called during the board meeting. Your whole face changed when you saw his name on your phone.”

“We’re friends,” I protested. “Best friends.”

“Mmhmm. And how many ‘best friends’ look at you like they want to devour you whole?”

I choked on my margarita. “Latisha!”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone sees. That man is fine as hell, richer than the devil, and looks at you like you hung the moon. Meanwhile, you’re going on dates with Marcus. Don’t get me wrong, Marcus is fine and well off too.”

“It was one date.”

“And?”

“And it was nice. He’s nice.” I picked at a piece of bread. “He sent flowers to my office.”

“Nice?” Latisha rolled her eyes. “Girl, ‘nice’ is what you call your neighbor’s potato salad. The way you talk about Tyson… that’s different.”

“How do I talk about him?”

“Like he’s essential. Like breathing.” She topped off our glasses. “When you told me about the Benefield Project, you didn’t mention the prestige or the money. You talked about Tyson’s vision of showcasing local artists and how you felt you may have inspired him.”

“He’s always believed in me.”

“Exactly.” She pointed her fork at me. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you wearing his old college sweatshirt while lounging in your office.”

My nipples tingled. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s massive on you. And you only wear it when you’re stressed or sad.” She studied me. “Like Tuesday, after Marcus asked you out again.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Please. I know everything that happens at the Institute.” She popped an olive in her mouth. “Including how you haven’t given him an answer yet. Imagine having two fine, wealthy men after you.” She shook her head. “I’m so fuckin’ jealous.”

I swirled my margarita, watching the deep red liquid catch the light. “Marcus is no Tyson. There’s no one comparable to him.”

Latisha pointed at me. “Do you hear yourself? Jesus, you’ve got it bad.”

I blinked at her and took another sip of margarita.

“Don’t go mute now.”

“What do you want me to say? You seem to have it all figured out.”

“Try the truth.”

“Which is what?”

“That your heart’s been occupied for the past twenty years by a six-foot-five billionaire who carries your favorite coffee order in his phone and shows up at every one of your exhibitions.”

“He doesn’t show up at every?—”

“The student showcase last spring? He flew back early from Dubai. The contemporary artists’ panel in July? Rescheduled a hotel opening. That disaster of a pop-up gallery in August? He stayed the whole night, helping you salvage what you could.”

“That’s just Tyson being Tyson.”

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