Page 40 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

We turn down the hall, passing by a doorway that opens into a large bright space with gleaming hardwood floors. We’re a few steps down when the explosiveness of what we just passed registers in my mind.

“Hold up.” I stop, processing a moment, and then I spin around and start back in the other direction.

“Where are you going?” Benny says. “Your room is this way.”

Like he can stop me.

I head into the huge workout space, gliding across the expansive gleaming hardwood floor that screams up to a massive window overlooking West Chelsea. Benny seems to be using the space as a weightlifting and boxing area; there’s a heavy bag hanging at the center of the empty part of the room, as well as benches and a few mats strewn about.

My mind boggles at the extravagance of such a vast, nearly empty space in a private residence.

And piled up at the far interior end, opposite the window, is a mountain of boxes. You can’t even tell how far back the space goes, that’s how tightly piled up the boxes are. It’s floor-to-ceiling boxes opposite floor-to-ceiling windows, and we’re talking twenty-foot-high ceilings here!

“What’s up with all of those boxes?” I ask. “Do you not have storage in this building?”

“Thatismy storage, and this is my space for boxing and weight training,” he says, directing my attention back to the bright window side of the large room.

“This seems like a lot of wasted space,” I say, looking back at the boxes. What in the world could possibly be inside of them?

“You’re to stay out of here. Come on,” he says, beckoning me back to the hall.

“There’s the ballet class I teach with my friend Kelsey,” I say, “and we’re constantly fighting for a practice space at the arts center. LikeHunger Games–level battles for an hour of studio time. If we could move aside your bench and some of these boxes—”

“You are not to touch those boxes,” he says pointedly. “You are not to be in here whatsoever.”

“But I’m your wife now. This is our shared space, and you’re so excited to make accommodations for me.”

“But you’re excited to go on your European tour, and you don’t want to do anything to threaten that,” he says. “So you won’t set foot in here ever again.”

I stiffen. “Are you suggesting to me that if I set foot in here, you won’t sign off on my papers?”

“No, I’m stating it outright.” He comes to me, stands in front of me—so close I can feel the annoyance radiating off of him.

My core goes hot. All I can think of is us in that limo, and the cool edge of his bottle, the harsh heat in his eyes.

“Got it?”

I take a step backwards toward the window. “What if I want to lift weights?” I ask. “And I don’t even touch anything and you don’t even know I was here?”

His gaze locks on to mine. My skin buzzes with aliveness. “I’ll know,” he says.

I suck in a tiny breath. “Have you become a Bluebeard re-enactor? Because you’re doing a great job of it. You know that’s what they call you, right? Billionaire Bluebeard?”

His eyes gleam. I wish I could read his expression. Does he find all this amusing, or is being serious? He stretches his arm out toward the door, pointing the way back to the hallway.

“What if I just want to stretch?”

He takes a step closer. I move backwards and hit the window, cool against my sizzling skin. He says, “Any wife employee of mine who goes in there will be punished.”

My breath hitches. My mind scrambles.Punished?

“Understand?” he rumbles.

There are a lot of words for the wild montage of X-rated images now racing through my mind.

“Understand” is not one of them.

“Uhhh…” I say.

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