Page 7 of Kinks of a Billionaire
“I’ll get rid of whoever it is, and you get the tray out of the oven before our food burns.”
I padded barefoot on the cool marble into Royce’s elegant kitchen and pulled a tray from the oven. The scent of lasagna drifted through the air and my stomach promptly growled.
The muffled voice traveled over the penthouse. I stilled, eavesdropping, but it was too hard to distinguish the words.
Worried that Royce needed a rescue from a female stalker, I placed the tray on top of the stove, then followed the hushed voices toward the entryway. I peeped around the corner and found Royce standing in the foyer with a guy who had the most perfect set of pearly whites.
My eyes dropped to Royce’s ass, forgetting for a moment that we were just friends. Even dressed down in a white T-shirt and jeans, he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. The ink covering his arms gave him a touch of bad-boy energy, while his manners remained impeccable. It was what I loved the most about him.
As if he sensed my eyes on him, Royce turned his head and his dark gaze met mine. I stepped around the corner and flicked a glance at his visitor, finding him watching me with a smile.
“Well, hello,” he greeted me, stepping farther into Royce’s penthouse and extending his hand. “I’m Stuart, Royce’s buddy from back in our service days.”
My brows shot up. Royce rarely talked about his days in the Special Forces. I accepted his warm handshake and smiled.
“Willow.” I tilted my head toward Royce. “His buddy from my high school days.”
Technically, we became best friends my first year of college, but I didn’t feel like explaining the specifics.
“Willow and I are about to have dinner. Now is not a good time, Stuart,” Royce said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Shame.” Stuart smiled and squeezed my hand when I tried to tug it back. “Because I brought dessert.”
He lifted his other hand, and sure as shit, he held a pastry box with a clear plastic lid. And inside… sat the fanciest-looking pineapple upside-down cake I’d ever seen. My mouth dropped open and my eyes flitted to Royce, who was studying the pineapple rounds scattered along the iced sponge cake, his grin reaching up his amused face. One heartbeat, two, and we burst into laughter.
We took it as a sign and invited Stuart in to stay for dinner.
Chapter 3
Royce
A Few Months Later
Stuart: Hey, buddy. Where are you?
Iignored the message. Before I even got to put my phone away, it buzzed again.
Stuart: I’ll never be able to repay you for introducing me to Willow.
I gritted my teeth.
Stuart: I have some news for you.
I clenched my jaw and glared at the message from my best friend’s boyfriend. Stuart Harris, heir to the distinguished Harris family empire and an old friend from my combat days, was an alright guy until he started dating Willow.
Hypocritical? Fuck yes. Did I care? Fuck no. Why? Because I knew he wasn’t good enough for Willow.
I didn’t know it then, but when I picked her up from that frat party ten years ago to this very day, it marked the beginning of our close friendship. I refused to let hertemporaryboyfriend—and he would be temporary—ruin my day. In regards to dating, Willow and I were very much the same. The lifespan of our relationships matched that of mosquitos—a week or two, tops. In fact, we often joked thatourrelationship was the longest commitment either of us had ever had with the opposite sex.
“Are you fucking listening to me at all?” Byron, my newlywed brother, shouted, pulling me out of my thoughts. We were seated in his home office in D.C. while he talked about his future plans in that new, blissfully content tone of his. And that was pretty much when I stopped listening to him.
“I’m trying to tune you out,” I said flatly. “But your voice resembles that of a high-pitched opera singer, so it’s fucking hard. Take pity on me and shut up.”
The look he gave me told me he wasn’t amused by my comeback.
“I have no fucking idea how your investments make you so much money,” he muttered. “A two-year-old’s attention span is better than yours.”
That was where he was wrong, because a two-year-old wouldn’t be waiting with bated breath for that breakup text notification from his best friend. It had been weeks—months—overdue, and with each passing day, the same uncomfortable feelings coiled in the pit of my stomach.
