Page 60 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“No, Lucy,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s not. I don’t do that. I don’t get… involved.” He gestures vaguely, frustration evident in the tense line of his shoulders. “That night… you… it broke through. The control slipped.” He meets my eyes, and the vulnerability is back, stark and startling. “And frankly, it...” He swallows. This is obviously hard for him. “It... terrifies me.”
Honesty. Again. Raw and unfiltered. It cuts through my hurt, my confusion.
Ava was right.
It’s fear. Not indifference.
“Why?” I ask softly. “Why does it terrify you?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style for the first time all weekend. “Because control is how I operate. It’s how I survive. I’m afraid that, getting close to someone, and I meanactually closeto someone, will be the end of me and all I’ve built. My father… he equates any emotional connection with weakness. A liability to be exploited. And for years, I believed him. I ran with his rulebook. And I built something important to me. Something, incredible. An empire.” He looks at me, his gaze intense, searching. “But being with you… made me realize... I’ve been selfish all this time. Not caring about who gets hurt in my orbit. Always focusing on the end result.”
He closes his eyes a moment, then looks at me again. “Being with you... it felt…” He struggles for the word. “…real. And the lack of control inherent in that… goes against every instinct I have. I felt like I was coming apart.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavy and significant. He’s not just afraid of vulnerability; he’s been conditioned to see it as fatal. Suddenly, his withdrawal makes a painful kind of sense.
“So you push me away?” I ask quietly. “Build the walls back up?”
He nods grimly. “It’s… reflexive.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Well,” I finally say, offering him a small, cautious grin. “Maybe you need some new reflexes.”
A faint smile touches his own lips. The tension between us shifts, the icy formality melting away, replaced by a tentative warmth. An understanding.
He reaches across the table, his large hand covering mine. His touch is warm, solid.
Grounding.
“Maybe I do,” he agrees.
The connection is back. Stronger this time, maybe, because it’s built on honesty, not just proximity and lust.
“I don’t want to be selfish anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to keep out the people I care about.”
He stands up, pulling me gently to my feet.
“Come with me,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine.
He leads me not back towards the study, but through the house, past minimalist living areas and towards the sound of the ocean. We walk through open glass doors onto a private deck.
The beach stretches out below, silvered by the moonlight. The air is cool, salty.
He leads me along a sandy path, towards the master suite wing of the house.
When we enter, I’m momentarily taken aback. The master suite is huge, but surprisingly serene. More glass walls facing the ocean, a massive bed draped in soft grey linens, a fireplace crackling softly. The sound of the waves is ever present through the open balcony doors.
He turns me to face him, his hands framing my face.
“Lucy,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion now. He kisses me, slowly, deeply. Not the frantic claiming of the other night, but a deliberate, seeking kiss.
A reconnection.
A promise.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, but also… open. Present. He doesn’t retreat this time.
He takes his time undressing me, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. His fingers trembleslightly as he undoes the buttons of my simple sundress, pushing it off my shoulders to pool at my feet.
