Page 15 of Resisting the Billionaire

“Can you tell me about Kaia?”

We walk around the shop looking at flowers as he tells me about an eight year old girl who wants to be a teacher when she grows up, loves fairy tales, and desperately wishes for a horse of her own, despite living in the city. A girl who’s had a rotten hand dealt to her, but is dealing with it the best she can.

A ghost of a smile crosses his mouth. “The kids there bring things into perspective, you know?”

“Of course.” I push open the door to the small area in the back where Diana keeps the flowers not ready for display and head over to the floral sprays and dyes. I take a moment before asking the next question. “What happens when… have any of them ever…”

“Not made it?”

I nod.

He lets out a heavy sigh, bracing himself against the edge of the counter. “I’ve been fortunate that every kid I’ve gotten close to has left the hospital in remission. But the wing has enough beds for two hundred children, so I don’t know all of them really well, especially if they’re only day visitors for their chemo and aren’t admitted long term.”

He picks up a metallic silver spray, one that I plan to use on roses for Serena’s bouquet, and glances at the back of the can. “I offer to pay for funeral expenses for any that aren’t so lucky. Some families take me up on it, some don’t. Maybe they feel like it’s charity,” he shrugs, the solemnity surrounding him so different from the rakish attitude he sported at the bar two nights ago.

My hand reaches out halfway toward him before I realize what I’m doing, and I quickly snatch it back. “That must be incredibly difficult to deal with.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“Why don’t your brothers help?”

He shakes his head. “They’re busy with actual work.”

I frown. “Nonprofit work is still work. Even if you’re not getting paid.”

“Nonprofit?”

“That’s what it sounds like to me. You meet with the kids, with their families. Offer them financial assistance. And it’s all in connection to the wing your family donated. If you haven’t started one already, you should.”

He turns to me, both serious and earnest. “But I don’t have any money.”

Now I pause. “Aren’t you a billionaire?”

He rolls his eyes. “My dad is. I assume I’ll inherit something one day, but who knows?”

“So how do you pay for the… funerals?” I whisper.

“I charge it to one of his credit cards.”

“And he doesn’t notice?”

“That money’s a drop in the bucket for him. He’s not missing it.”

“You sound like some Robin Hood figure.”

He grins, the first true one I’ve seen from him in the last hour. “Should I get some green tights? One of those vest tunic things? Cap with a red feather?” He squints. “Or is that Peter Pan?”

I laugh, then suddenly remember what we’re supposed to be doing. I take the can from him and spray a white rose until it’s gleaming silver. “What do you think?”

He takes it from me and the stem shifts in my hand, catching a thorn. “Ow!” I stick my thumb in my mouth, the copper taste making me wrinkle my nose.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” His fingers encircle my wrist, tugging until my thumb pops free, and bends down to look at it. “I didn’t even think of thorns. Here.” He grabs a paper towel off the counter and folds it quickly to apply pressure to the cut. His hand is warm against my own, something about those long, dextrous fingers making my stomach flip disconcertingly.

I follow the line of his arm up past his wrist to a sinewy forearm, up further to that bicep, flexing subtly as he concentrates on his task.

I break away, the paper towel fluttering to the ground, unexpectedly breathless. “I’m just going to wash this out. I’ll be right back.”

I squeeze into the minuscule bathroom in the corner, turning on the sink to let cool water flow over my thumb, glancing in the mirror at my flushed cheeks. Good Lord Mackenzie, get it together. He was innocently touching you. There’s no reason to get all flustered.

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