Page 19 of Christmas With A Billionaire

“But I mean, if you want Marcus instead, be my guest, just let me know so I know who to shoot my shot at.”

I gasped, and she laughed.

“Don’t be surprised. I need me a strong Mandingo, wealthy, warrior too. You can’t have ‘em’ all, shit.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Tell me something,” she said, reigning in her mirth. “When you imagine your future - your dreams coming true, your life exactly how you want it - who’s standing beside you?”

The answer came instantly, without thought: Tyson. It had always been Tyson.

“Mmhmm. You don’t have to say it out loud because I know the answer. The question was for you to realize it, too.” Latisha gathered her purse. “Now, I gotta go.” She took a last swig of her wine. “Talk to you later, ya hear!”

I watched her walk away, her words echoing in my head, but I knew I wouldn’t make the first move. It couldn’t be me. If Tyson wanted more than friendship, he would have to tell me. And to be honest, I was worn down waiting to see if anything would come of us. I wanted to fall in love. Maybe Marcus had been sent for that reason and perhaps Tyson and I, weren’t meant to be.

Chapter 8

Tyson

“You could’ve sent movers over here,” LaMont said, hefting another box onto the dolly. “Several, actually. Yet here you are, hauling my stuff up three flights of stairs.”

I grabbed two boxes and stacked them on top of each other. “What kind of friend would I be if I sent strangers to do this?”

“A smart one.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The late afternoon heat had us both drenched, our t-shirts clinging to our skin. “At least tell me you hired people for the furniture.”

“Already taken care of. The truck arrives at six.” I headed for the stairs, careful not to bang the boxes against the walls. “Besides, manual labor keeps me humble.”

LaMont’s laugh echoed through the stairwell. “Man, there’s nothing humble about those designer sneakers you wear to move boxes.”

I glanced down at my limited edition Jordans. “These are my work shoes.”

“Those cost more than my first car.”

“Your first car was a ‘92 Civic with no AC. That’s not saying much.”

We reached his new apartment, and I set the boxes in what would become his home office. The space was twice the size of his old place, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. LaMont had finally let me talk him into upgrading, though he’d insisted on finding the place himself.

“Water break,” he announced, pulling two bottles from a cooler. He tossed one to me, and I caught it one-handed, and drained half the bottle in one gulp.

LaMont settled onto a stack of boxes. “Are you still hitting the gym five days a week?”

“Seven,” I corrected, stretching my shoulders. “Plus boxing with Coach Martinez on Sundays.”

He shook his head. “I guess you need to stay in shape to keep up with all those society parties and magazine shoots.”

“Don’t remind me.” I’d done three interviews this week alone. “The press attention since announcing the Benefield Project has been intense.”

“That’s what happens when Chicago’s most eligible bachelor decides to revolutionize the art scene.” LaMont’s eyes narrowed. “How’s Autumn?”

I focused on removing the cap from another water bottle. “She’s good. Busy with the project.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Come on, T. I saw those photos from the Art & Design interview. You two looked ready to jump each other right there in the gallery.”

“It wasn’t like that.” I thought about how Autumn had felt pressed against me during those shots, how her perfume had clouded my senses.

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