Page 31 of The Billionaire's Bargain

The comparison startles me. Dad was charming and unreliable—the complete opposite of Alexander's steadfast intensity.

"He's been here the whole time," she continues. "Every time I've woken up, even in the middle of the night, I've seen him through the door window. Either pacing or working or just...waiting."

I swallow hard. "He feels responsible."

"Is that what you think this is? Responsibility?" She studies my face with the kind of perception that only mothers possess. "Honey, a man like that doesn't sit in hospital waiting rooms for days because he feels responsible. He writes a check and sends flowers."

My heart thumps painfully. "Then what?"

"You know what." Her hand finds mine, squeezing with surprising strength. "I've seen how he looks at you when you're not watching. Like you're water in a desert."

"We barely know each other," I protest weakly.

She laughs, the sound turning into a small cough. "I knew I loved your father the second day I knew him. Time doesn't mean much when it's right. And sometimes..." her voice softens, "sometimes it's right even when it doesn't work out in the end."

I think about that—how she's never regretted loving my father despite how he left us. How she's never closed herself off despite the hurt.

"He scares me," I admit, the truth finally emerging. "Not because I think he'd hurt me, but because...because I could get used to him. To his world. And then what happens when he's done with me?"

Mom shifts again, her expression serious. "That man out there isn't someone who throws people away when he's done. Trust me, I've watched enough people come and go in that diner to know the ones who stay from the ones who don't."

"But we're so different. His world is?—"

"His world is wherever you are right now." She cuts me off firmly. "He's proved that. Question is, what are you going to do about it?"

I stare at her, this woman who raised me alone, who worked double shifts and never complained, who taught me to stand on my own feet. "I don't want to need someone like that. Like you never needed anyone after Dad left."

Something like sadness passes over her face. "Oh, honey. Not needing someone isn't the same as not wanting them. I didn't need your father, but I wanted him every day he was gone." She reaches up to touch my cheek. "Don't make my mistakes. If you want him, if he makes you happy—reallyhappy—don't push him away because you're afraid of what might happen."

Her words sink into me like stones into still water, rippling outward. All this time, I thought her strength came from not needing anyone. Maybe true strength is being brave enough to want someone despite the risks.

"Go talk to him," she urges, settling back against her pillows. "I'm feeling much better, and these medications are making me sleepy anyway."

"Are you sure?" I'm torn between staying with her and the magnetic pull toward the man waiting outside.

"Very sure. Besides," she smiles, her eyes already drifting closed, "I want grandchildren someday, and he has excellent bone structure."

"Mom!" I hiss, scandalized and amused all at once.

She laughs softly, eyes closing. "Go on. I'll be here when you get back."

I check her monitors once more, adjust her blanket, and press a kiss to her forehead before slipping out of the room.

Alexander is exactly where I expected to find him—in the same uncomfortable chair he's occupied for days. His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, laptop open but idle on his lap. Even in sleep, there's a tension to him, a readiness to wake at the slightest provocation. His jaw is darkened with stubble, his usually immaculate clothes wrinkled from too many hours in the same position.

I pause, taking him in. This powerful man reduced to human vulnerability because of...me? Us? Something tight uncoils in my chest.

As if sensing my presence, his eyes snap open, instantly alert. When he sees me, his entire body shifts forward, laptop nearly sliding off his knees.

"Alice. Is everything okay? Your mother?—"

"She's fine," I assure him quickly. "Better. She's sleeping now."

Relief visibly washes over him. He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing in uncharacteristic disarray from previous repetitions of the gesture. "Good. That's good."

An awkward silence falls between us, weighted with everything unsaid. Three days ago, I was in his bed, certain of nothing except how he made me feel. Now I'm standing in a hospital hallway, certain of nothing except that I've never seen anyone look at me the way he's looking at me now.

"You're still here," I say finally, stating the obvious.

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