Page 110 of How to Bang a Billionaire

“But”—Rabbie glanced at me—“you could’ve warned me, Arden.”

“Hey, I didn’t know he’d turn out to be a chess genius.”

Though I probably should have guessed. What couldn’t Caspian Hart do?

“I’m not,” he put in hastily. “I haven’t played for years.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job of it.” Caspian winced visibly and Rabbie took pity on him. “Eh, I’m pulling your leg. But where’d you learn to play like that?”

A moment of silence before Caspian answered, but—to my surprise—he did answer. “My father taught me. And after he died I made something of a study of it.” His long fingers curled idly around a rook. “I appreciated the opportunity to play again.”

Something I would in no way be able to offer him.

“Rabbie tried to teach me—” I began apologetically.

But he cut me off before I could finish. “Our Ardy has other talents.”

“Yes.” To my surprise, Caspian slipped an arm about my waist. “He does. And he has many.”

Eep. Scuff. OMG. Thankfully, I was spared having to respond to this sudden attack of compliments because Hazel shouted through to tell us food was ready.

We always had seafood chowder on Fridays, and it was always served directly from the Crockpot on the stove. Caspian looked so genuinely confused by this behavior that I ladled him out a bowl, making sure he got plenty of mussels and prawns, because they were the best bits. We ate it with Hazel’s homemade sourdough, all smooshed around our tiny kitchen table.

I really hadn’t thought through this “bring your billionaire-not-quite-boyfriend home” plan. I’d been so focused on getting to know Caspian it had never occurred to me to wonder about what might happen when he got to know me. The ordinariness of my life. Caspian was not only accustomed to wealth but had also been born to it, and here we were eating help-yourself-soup from mismatched bowls. What if he was hating this? Or scorning us?

“This is absolutely delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”

And then I could breathe again, a relief-tipped happy wave rolling all the way through me.

Of course the comment led to a lecture from Rabbie about Kinlochbervie fishing, followed by a disquisition about sourdough from Hazel, both of which I’d heard on many other occasions. But right then, it was good to hear them.

It was just good to be there.

Food and my folks and familiar love.

And Caspian.

Who was both nothing like I’d thought he would be and yet still, somehow, everything I wanted. Stern and sweet and rough and gentle, invincible and vulnerable, wickedly sexy and unexpectedly kind. A man who missed his father, didn’t understand his sister, resented his own desires, and, occasionally, made me the center of his goddamn universe. And I knew myself well enough to recognize that I was well and truly fished. All it would take was a twitch upon the line and I’d be arse-over-elbows in love with him.

Once we’d taken the edge off our hunger, conversation flowed pretty naturally. I noticed early on that Caspian was doing his thing again, asking lots of questions, discovering where someone’s passions lay and letting them talk. But he’d already been way more forthcoming than he had to be—all that stuff about chess and his family—so I left him to it.

And simply enjoyed the way he had of making people feel listened to and important. Watched my mum blush and glow as she haltingly told him about the bakery where she worked. Listened to Rabbie’s deep, generous laugh and Hazel’s wicked interjections.

And it was…perfect.

Just like the chowder. Which was rich and creamy and tasted of home. And I ate three bowls.

Afterward we normally bickered over who did the washing up, as fairness dictated it couldn’t be the person who cooked or the person who did it last time, but I was feeling gracious enough to volunteer.

And, to my surprise, Caspian joined me in the kitchen.

I flapped the tea towel at him in mock horror. “No way, get out. You’re a guest. Guests don’t help with the cleaning.”

“This one does.” He caught the end of the fabric and tugged, reeling me in until I was flush against him and I could feel the taut strength of his thighs, the heat of his groin. My lips parted on a “kiss me” gasp and he smiled tigerishly down at me. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

It startled a laugh out of me. “Tease.”

“My sweet, sweet Arden,” he said in this deliciously husky way, “you have no idea.”

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