Page 50 of The Billionaire and the Runaway

“We will,” Eric assures him as he claps him on the back. Earl nods and tips his ballcap as he walks out of the house and down the path to the parking lot.

Eric looks at me once we are alone. I swear that man is undressing me with his eyes. I swallow. “Should we get going? I don’t want Heather’s to run out of those granny panties,” I tease.

Eric smiles and walks toward me. He boxes me in against a wall and I look up at him.

“I have other ideas of how we can start our evening and they don’t involve any underwear at all,” he says as he leans down and kisses me.

* * *

After an underwear-free hour with Eric, we’ve managed to shower and dress. He let me pick the music on the radio in his truck. When we pull up at the thrift store, I glance over at him.

“We don’t have to go clothes shopping,” I state.

“Why not?” he asks.

What do I say here? Oh, I have access to billions of dollars. My trust fund could buy your farm and a few others. I have a closet the size of your bedroom with every type of underwear ever invented. No. Nope. I need to white lie.

“I don’t really need underwear,” I say because that’s not lying.

“So what? We can just look around,” he says as if he’s the most carefree human on the planet. There’s a lot that seems like a paradox about him. First, he dresses really well for a farmer. I mean, I only know from what I see in movies, but he certainly isn’t shopping at the same place as Buck and Earl. Second, his house is legitimately nice, even by my upbringing standards. His family must have paid a fortune updating it. And the guesthouse is equally well-constructed and decorated. Based on what I’ve seen around here so far, that doesn’t seem to be the case for any other farmhouse I’ve passed by, at least not from the outside of them. And he seems well educated on so many things beyond farming. He said he went to college, but the other night he was listening to an opera while cooking. I’ve never once heard of an opera-loving farmer. It all seems…strange. He mentioned he traveled a lot and then he’s worried about the farm going under, so how did he have money to travel if the farm has been having financial issues for years?

“Earth to Ariana,” he says as he waves a hand in front of me. “You coming?”

I give my head a little shake, trying to clear my thoughts. “Yeah, I’m coming.” He waggles his eyebrows at my answer, and I roll my eyes. Maybe he’s not as cultured as I thought.

I follow him into the thrift store. A woman who I’ve seen before walks over to us.

“Hey, Eric,” she says warmly, her hair pulled up in a bun. She doesn’t look that old, maybe late thirties? She has the most intense gray eyes, and she looks me up and down.

“You must be Ariana. I’m Heather. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says to me.

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply trying to match her enthusiastic smile.

“What are we looking for today?” she asks.

“Well, I’m in need of a new shirt and…” Eric trails off as he glances at me.

“Underwear,” I blurt out as my mind goes blank.

Eric smirks and I glare at him. Why did I say that? I’m such an idiot.

“Great. Women’s underwear is right over there behind the sweaters, and you know where men’s shirts are,” she replies as she motions in the direction of the items we’re looking for. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”

“Will do,” Eric replies, walking toward the front of the store. I walk toward the back and come to a wall of women’s underwear. They are in plastic in sets of four or five, rolled up into little sausages. What is this?

I stare at the wall in confusion. I’ve never bought underwear like this before. Normally, I’d text Katia but I’m not sure she’s ever even bought herself regular underwear. My brain desperately tries to figure out what to do. The sizes are like in numbers but not like regular women’s clothes numbers. I reach for a package and pull it down, examining it front to back. On the back, there’s this weird size chart. Oh, my dimensions. I sort of know those. I did get measured a few months ago for this charity ballgown. I slowly figure out the correct size number and then find that number on the shelf. Great. I did it. I can do this. I can be like a normal person and figure out normal stuff. Take that, Dad!

Feeling proud of myself, I walk up to the register and place my plastic underwear package on the counter.

“All set?” Heather asks.

“Yep,” I reply. Heather does a double take at the package but says nothing and rings me up. I pay and wait for Eric. I glance at my underwear bag and realize it says high-waisted control-top panties. Oh no. I contemplate returning them, but I'm too embarrassed. I get bored after three minutes and meander to the back where I hear Eric in the dressing room.

“You almost done?” I ask.

“Sort of. I can’t get this button undone,” he grumbles.

“Open the door,” I sigh.

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