Page 45 of Marrying the Billionaire

Serena

Ispritz my Dior perfume on my wrists, rubbing them together to distribute the scent, and inhale deeply, loving the mixture of roses and peonies. It’s always been a confidence booster for me, and I’ve been relying on it more than ever the past week. It’s a shame my bottle’s nearly run out.

Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I fuss with my hair for a few minutes and end up leaving it loose around my shoulders, unable to commit to a hairstyle. Butterflies dance in my stomach as I double check the sash on my silk robe, then wipe my sweaty palms on a hand towel. It’s not nerves - just excitement.

Archer basically said he liked me visiting his office, right? That was the underlying message behind his words last night. And I promised to visit. I can’t back out now.

I’m giddy as I head into the kitchen and fill one of the heavy tumblers with Scotch, willing my hands not to shake as I carry it to his office door.

There’s no reason to be nervous. He practically invited me here.

I think.

I knock softly and enter, his gaze not focused on me but his laptop, squinting at the screen. Does he need glasses or something? Every time I see him at his computer, he’s squinting.

“Hi.”

He straightens in his chair, eyes catching mine. “You came.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” I’ve been looking forward to it all day, only half paying attention to the board meeting I sat in on for a local museum.

I hand him his Scotch, but there’s no lingering this time on my cleavage. I’ve never been so disappointed to have a man not ogle me before.

He takes a long draw from the glass, pinching at the bridge of his nose afterward. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“If you ever need anything, just let me know.”

He sets the whiskey down, rubbing at the back of his neck, but otherwise stays silent.

“How was work?”

“Lots of meetings today.”

“And no breaks?”

His lips twist wryly. “No breaks.”

“Can you take one now?”

He watches me for a moment, his blue eyes holding me in place. If I could only figure out what’s going on in his head. He finally nods, shutting his laptop.

I circle around to the back of his chair, once again whispering my hands up his strong arms, all the way to those broad shoulders, massaging at the heavy muscles, his whole demeanor changing. He lets out a long breath, relaxing into his seat. “I’m starting to get spoiled.”

If you think this is good, let me show you what I can really do.

No, I can’t actually say that. “I like doing it.” It’s the truth. And can be taken in a totally non-sexual way.

He chuckles lightly. “Why?”

Of course he’d ask me that. “I like helping you. There’s so little I can do otherwise.”

His shoulders tighten. “You don’t owe me anything.”

I dig my thumbs in until he relaxes again. “I know. But I’m saying I want to.” I close my eyes, immediately wishing I hadn’t phrased it like that. “Not owe you. I just mean it’s something easy for me to do, and you seem to enjoy it, so why not?”

Ugh, that’s just as bad, like I don’t care one way or the other.

I keep my mouth shut after that, not wanting to make things worse, and after I’ve done as much as I possibly can, my hands aching, I gradually stop, smoothing my palms along his shoulders. I linger for a moment longer, the ready made excuse to touch him dwindling, and eventually step back.

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