Page 8 of Christmas With A Billionaire

“To unexpected connections.” He clinked his glass against mine, and I drank the rest of my wine.

“Would you like another glass?” He gestured to the wine bottle.

“I should pace myself. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

“About the Benefield Project?”

My hand stilled on my wine glass. “How did you know that?”

“Like I said, it’s a small world. My firm handles some of Tyson’s legal work.”

“Oh.” I reached for my water instead of the wine. “Yes, we’re partnering on a new gallery space.”

“Just partners?”

Before I could respond, my phone lit up with Tyson’s face. I moved to silence it.

“Please, don’t silence your phone on my behalf. I know how important you are,” Marcus said. “It might be important.”

A text came through, and I scanned the message.

“There’s a pipe burst at the Benefield Building. Water is threatening the newly renovated first floor. I’m sorry to interrupt you. If you have a minute, I need you.”

I stood, gathering my purse. “I have to go, unfortunately. There’s an emergency at?—”

“Let me drive you,” Marcus was already signaling for the check. “If it’s an infrastructure issue, you might need legal eyes anyway.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” That slowed my progress as our eyes met. I smirked and nodded. “Okay.” He paid quickly, helping me with my coat.

The drive to 47th Street was quick, the streets empty this late. Marcus’s BMW purred through the light snow, his hand steady on the wheel.

Walking across the street,the scene at the Benefield Building kept my protest about Marcus coming in the back of mythroat - water pooled on the sidewalk, reflecting red and blue emergency lights.

Tyson stood with the fire department, his onyx suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. He turned as we approached, and something flickered in his gaze when he saw Marcus’s hand at the small of my back.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening.” His voice was perfectly professional. “But we need to make some decisions about the affected areas.”

“Marcus Richardson.” Marcus extended his hand. “From Caldwell & Ross. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“Of course.” Tyson’s handshake was brief. “Autumn, they’re telling me the water damage extends to the area we marked for the student gallery.”

I kicked off my heels, holding them in one hand as I followed them inside—water squished under my stockinged feet. The space we’d planned to showcase student work - the heart of our community project - bore the worst damage.

“The specialty flooring,” I said. “It won’t survive this.”

“We can expedite replacement materials,” Marcus offered. “I know a contractor who specializes in gallery spaces.”

“We have contractors.” Tyson’s tone remained professional, but I caught the edge beneath it.

“Who’ll take weeks to source the materials.” I assessed the damage. “Marcus, your contact - they do emergency work?”

“I’ll call them now.” He stepped away, phone already out.

Tyson moved closer, his voice low. “Didn’t expect company tonight.”

“He wanted to help.”

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