Page 9 of Christmas With A Billionaire

“I’m sure he did.”

“Don’t.” I turned to face him. “We need solutions right now, not...”

“Not what?”

“Just help me figure out how to save our gallery.”

“I appreciate you, which is why I called, but I don’t need Marcus’s contractors. My guys are just as quick, if not quicker.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I interrupted your… date?”

I locked my jaw, and unfamiliar anxiety that I’d never felt with Tyson filled me to the rim.

He smirked. “Never mind.”

He strolled a few feet away, and I stood awkwardly, unaware of how to feel.

For the next hour, we worked alongside the emergency response team. Marcus made calls, expedited paperwork, and smoothed over permit issues. Tyson directed cleanup crews and documented damage. I coordinated with our artists to protect their preliminary installations.

Finally, the immediate crisis passed. Marcus touched my arm. “Let me take you home. It’s late.”

“I can handle that.” Tyson stepped forward. “We need to discuss next steps anyway.”

They stared at each other, neither backing down. I stood between them, water seeping into my stockings, my perfect date night dress probably ruined.

“I should get home, and Tyson is right. We need to discuss what happens now.” My voice cut through the tension. “Marcus, thank you for dinner. And for your help tonight.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. “Maybe we can have a do-over at Desta. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I nodded, watching him leave. When I turned back, Tyson stood closer than before.

“Dinner at Desta?” he said with an air of contempt. “Good choice. You used to say Ethiopian food was only good when Jasmine made it.”

“People change.”

“Do they?” he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’ve got plaster dust in your hair.”

“Pretty sure my whole outfit is a disaster.”

“You look beautiful.” The words came out rough, almost angry. “He’s a good lawyer.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Smart, successful, probably knows which fork to use at fancy dinners.”

“Tyson...”

“We need to talk about the gallery floor.” He stepped back, professional mask sliding back into place. “Over breakfast tomorrow?”

“I have a meeting.”

“Lunch then. Pearl’s at noon.”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded anyway, gathering my wet shoes.

“I’ll drive you home.” He placed his hand on my back, exactly where Marcus’s had been earlier. But his touch burned through the damp fabric of my dress, setting my skin on fire.

At his Range Rover I turned back to him.

“My car is still at Desta. I drove to dinner but left hurriedly when you called, and Marcus insisted on driving me here. If you don’t mind, you can drive me to the restaurant.”

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