Page 20 of The Billionaire and the Runaway

“Ariana?” I start. She turns to me.

“Yes?”

“How about we have a business meeting dinner? I’ve been meaning to go over my business plan with you and things have just been so busy since you started. Anyhow, I was going to get cleaned up and start making some gnocchi,” I suggest.

“Sure. Do you need help? I…can…well, do whatever, just show me what to do,” she stammers.

I raise an eyebrow. “OK,” I say slowly. “Come with me. Barkley, dinner,” I add. Barkley, who’s been sleeping under Joy’s desk, where he’s pretty much a permanent fixture now, lifts his head and looks at me.

“Come on,” I urge him as I pat my leg. I swear if that dog could roll its eyes, it would.

I walk into my kitchen with Ariana in tow. She’s become familiar with it over the past couple of weeks, joining the rest of us for my weekly homemade lunches and using my microwave here and there.

I wash my hands and grab a towel to dry them, turning back toward her. “Do you cook a lot?” I ask.

She shakes her head and her cheeks flush. “No. I didn’t cook at school,” she explains.

“Oh, right, like a meal plan or something. Well, how about I get you to rinse off some vegetables and chop them?” I ask as I drop some food into Barkley’s bowl, trying to distract myself from thinking about our age difference. The mantrashe’s just an employeekeeps playing in my head as I inhale her perfume. Barkley hobbles over and begins eating while I start pulling things out of the refrigerator and set them on my kitchen island. I grab a knife and a cutting board.

“Here,” I add as I show her the onion, mushrooms, and spinach.

“Uh, sure, right,” she says, and I glance at her face. Her lips are twisted, a sign I have recently learned means she is deep in thought.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

She quickly smiles, but it’s more like she’s pulled a mask over her face, like she’s practiced this before, smiling when she isn’t happy. And something about that makes me angry. Surely, this angelic creature, this innocent, kind, young woman would never have a reason to need to hide her true feelings.

I watch as she carries the vegetables to the sink. Clearly, she doesn’t want to discuss anything because she’s made herself busy with a task.

Reading her mood, or trying to, I decide to head up to my bathroom. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say as I go to the stairs.

“OK,” she says quietly.

I rush up to my shower and turn it on, opting for cold water. I hurry through motions that I’d normally take longer with, but I don’t want to leave her for too long.

I finish cleaning myself and turn off the showerhead as I grab a warm, dry towel from the drying rod on the wall. Joy had told me to put one in when I redid the house, and every time I get out of the shower, I want to call and thank her for the suggestion. I walk into my closet and grab a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt. I leave my feet bare and don’t bother drying my hair. I walk back downstairs and see Ariana carefully cutting the mushroom while watching something on her phone.

“Hey,” I say, and she startles and gasps.

“Shit!” she squeaks and holds her finger.

I rush over to her. She’s cut herself, but not too badly. I grab a paper towel and take her arm, putting her finger under the tap where I run warm water over it. She winces.

“Sorry, we need to get it cleaned out,” I say, lowering my voice like she’s a wounded animal.

I guide her to a chair and pull one in front of her. I wrap her wound with a towel and press it until the bleeding stops. I reach for a drawer and pull out a small first aid kit. I use an antiseptic wipe to clean it and then place a bandage around her slender ring finger.

“There. With any luck, we won’t have to amputate it,” I tease. I realize I’m still holding her hand in mine as we both stare at the bandage.

“A-amputate it?” she stammers as she looks up at me.

I chuckle. “I’m kidding, Ariana. It’s just a small cut. Doesn’t even need stitches. You’ll be right as rain in a few days,” I assure her. Her worried face has me wondering if she doesn’t often get injured, which would be surprising based on all the little accidents she has around here.

“Not one to use bandages often, huh?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. My da—I mean my family is kind of strict, so I guess I didn’t really do things that caused injury when I was growing up, and well, the last few years, I’ve mostly just been in a classroom studying…” She trails off as she looks back down at her finger.

I slowly pull my hand away and she drops hers into her lap. Standing, I happen to see her phone and I chuckle. It’s playing a cooking video that shows how to chop mushrooms.

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