Page 43 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

It was so much the last thing I would’ve expected that I found myself wondering—in what was, admittedly, a slightly messed-up way—if another lover had left it.

Picking it up, I peeked inside. What I think they always called a bold hand in Victorian novels had written To Arthur, with love, L in the front. Neither the name nor the initial seemed connected to Caspian in any way. Which meant I knew even less about him than I thought. Or he’d picked it up in a charity shop one day. Or it wasn’t his at all and the maid—of course he had a maid—had dropped it.

I leaned over the side of the bed, like I was a little kid again, checking for monsters. Nik told me he would pull the duvet over his head and hide. But, me, I always had to look. There were no monsters under Caspian’s bed. Not even normal things like fluff or hair. What there was, though, was a battered cardboard box, which I dragged out by one of the flaps.

It was full of books like the one I’d found on the floor, all of them tatty and yellowing, with fairly cheesy cover art. Barring a few classics like Verne and Wells, it was mostly the sort of sci-fi I checked out of after three pages of “Grand Mardok Ooler Thon Thistlethwaite was sitting at his Steinway grand, while the gardleflumps gambolled majestically around the anterior viewport of his nebula class star destroyer.” Though some I recognized by being told a lot I should read them: Asimov, Russ, Vonarburg, Bradbury, Heinlein, Bujold, Engh, Le Guin.

I nosed through in search of any more mysterious dedications but came up empty. And finally put the box back where I’d found it. I’d already spent enough time going Sam Spade on Caspian’s belongings. Downbelow Station, however, seemed fair game, since it had just been lying there. And I desperately needed something to stop my brain eating itself with unanswerable questions.

So I made myself a little nest and snuggled down to read. There weren’t any gardleflumps but it was sufficiently dense that Caspian’s arrival felt like reprieve. I heard the door open and close, and then the sound of the shower.

Waiting for him in his bed was weirdly nervous-making, not least because I couldn’t guarantee the first words out of my mouth wouldn’t be Are you a serial killer or a bigamist and, if not, what the fuck is that locked door about? Which I didn’t think was the best way to initiate that conversation.

Finally, Caspian came into the room, hair damp and raven-sleek, a few drops of water still clinging tantalizingly to his neck and shoulders. He was naked except for the sexy billionaire pants he favored (and I favored too because they framed some of his best bits so very nicely) and he blushed a little when he saw what I was reading.

“I didn’t realize I’d left that out,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a sci-fi buff.”

“My father was.” He climbed into bed beside me and gently coaxed the book from my hands. “This was one of his favorites.”

“It’s, uh, really serious. I’m not sure I have a clue what’s going on.”

I felt a bit like the we-both-reached-for-the-gun scene in Chicago: my voice was saying things, but they didn’t seem to have anything to do with me. Though if I was doing an unconvincing impression of myself, Caspian showed no sign of it. “It’s probably best to skip the history chapters at the beginning.”

“Why are they there, then?” Like, for example, the locked door in your apartment?

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” For all his casual act, he touched that tatty paperback with such care as he put it back in the box. “I just know this story so well it feels less like reading. And more like…visiting old friends.”

Oh fuck. That was adorable.

And reminded me pretty sharply that Caspian was a human being, not a puzzle I was trying to solve in thirty seconds or less. There’d be plenty of time to ask him about his living arrangements.

Especially now I actually had access to them. Which was a big step for both of us. Even if it had only happened because it would have been majorly harsh to pack me back off to One Hyde Park when I was half naked and covered in come.

Anyway, I didn’t want to argue with him. I wanted to do cuddly post-sexing things with him. Afterglow not after-row. And, besides, immediate demands for explanations and no-holds-barred access to all the areas of the property was what a detective did during a murder inquiry. It wasn’t how a guest behaved.

At least, not a guest who wanted to be invited back.

“Caspian?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m about to kiss you. Is that okay?”

He looked a little bewildered but nodded.

I leaned over. He was very still indeed, his hands curled in his lap. I let my breath brush his lips but, at the last moment, I reared up and kissed his nose instead.

He gave a startled laugh, lashes flickering. “What was that for?”

“You do it to me all the time.”

“Your nose invites me. But I meant the kiss.” He paused. “Regardless of locale.” He’d gone all cool and dry, which made me think he was secretly amused. That, and the hint of a smile in the curve of his mouth.

“I did it because I like you.”

“You like me?” he repeated, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information. “Well, that’s very flattering, thank you.”

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