Page 34 of Billionaire Devil

“Hope you’re hungry, Sunshine.” Colton contemplates me for a second. “Hey.”

He closes the space between us and tilts my chin up to him with two fingers. His face is stunningly handsome, and being forced to stare directly at it shocks me a little. Even tired after a late night and a full day of intense driving—or maybe because of it—he’s mind-numbingly beautiful. His blue-on-blue eyes are rimmed with dark lashes, blinking at me. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he has a scar, a thin line across one cheekbone.

Colton uses a rough thumb to wipe an errant tear I hadn’t noticed. The concern in his eyes…shouldn’t be there. It’stoo caring. Tooinvested for what this is.

“You’re crying,” he tells me, his perfect eyebrows furrowed, like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world.

I take a step back, wiping any other tears that might have given me away. “It’s nothing. I’m happy. I just sold a bunch of my garments—tenin one day—thanks to Sloanewearing one of them to an influencers’ lunch. I really can’t believe it. And dinner’s on me.”

“Dinner is not on you, gorgeous. Dinner is most definitely on me, but that’s great news, Lila. Congratulations. It’s a big deal.”

“Thanks.” Itisa big deal and it’s nice of him to say that.

A channel of something passes between us I’m not sure I want there. A feeling that we’re on the same wavelength, when we shouldn’t be. We’ve known each other for exactly one day. This is a very temporary…friendship? Roadtrip buddy camaraderie?Four-night-stand I need to maybe enlighten me before I get on with my life?

No, because you’d totally fall for him along the way and we all know he doesn’t commit.

So what? It could be purely for educational purposes.

But what about Troy?

Troy is not an issue here! Why are we even talking about him? He’s nothing and he never was. Even if your tequila-soaked subconscious pined for him last night to anyone who would listen like he was The One Who Got Away.

Ugh. This is way too complicated to think about when I’m this hungry.

“Come on,” he says, “we’re both starving. Let’s eat.”

Colton serves me up a heaping plate of food and pours us both a glass of red wine. We eat at the table outside on the balcony. The moon is full and the stars are out. Live music drifts up from the restaurant patio. “This is without a doubt the best food I’ve ever had in my life,” I say, when wefinally come up for air after eating most of the food and half the chocolate cake.

“The chef is French and very highly rated. It was one of the reasons we bought this hotel. We offered him a total refurbishment of the hotel, the wine list of his dreams and a ten-year contract. He’s been awarded two Michelin stars since then. People come from all over the world to stay at this hotel just for the food and the wine.”

“Wow.” What a world he inhabits.

I feel myself relaxing into the moment, in a way I haven’t in a long time. I don’t feel so exhausted, after my extended power nap in the RV. I’m excited about my business. If it keeps growing, I might be okay. I might be able to work on it full-time, and the future seems unusually bright tonight. The good food and obviously-incredibly-expensive wine has a calming, luxurious effect. And Colton is so easy to be with, I almost forget about all the potential minefields of the next few days and weeks. Everything, in this moment, feels sort of perfect.

But then Colton pushes back his chair and grabs the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. “And now I’m getting changed and meeting you in the hot tub, baby girl. I have no intention of breaking my word. I made you some promises last night and it’s time to deliver. Get ready for your first lesson.”

8

“Are you coming in, or what?”he calls from the balcony. “Don’t make the Terminator come in there.”

“I’mcoming, Mr. Impatient,” I call back. I protested, of course, but he keeps insistingwe shook on it. Like whatever we agreed on is now carved into granite. I vaguely remember shaking his hand at one point last night, not realizing that I was entering some kind of my-word-is-my-bondpact. I mean, he filled me in on a few details on the drive but I can’t actually remember all the intricacies of our conversation. Or his promise. All I know is that it involves thelessonswe keep skirting around. “Just give me a minute. I need to find my bathing suit.”

“Need help with the ties?”

“No, I do not need help with the ties. It doesn’t have ties.”

Digging around in my overnight bag, I pull out the white bikini I packed specifically for topping up my tan in L.A., and cringe. It’s easily the tiniest piece of clothing I own and was packed with zero intentions of hanging out in a fancy-ass suite with an almost-stranger under a rare super moon (I only know this because someone mentioned it on Instagram).

I wiggle into my bikini, trying to adjust it for maximum coverage. Which doesn’t help at all. My boobs aren’t huge but they’re big enough and basically on full display except for two tiny strategically-placed triangles. And the bottom piece isn’t exactly a thong but might as well be.

Oh, what the hell.

I’m fromL.A., for god’s sake. People wear this kind of thing all the time and I don’t have to feel self-conscious about wearing a bikini. Even if Iampractically naked.

And I refuse to be nervous about a ridiculous pact I may have made while mildly intoxicated.

All I have to do is call it off. Easy.

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