Page 133 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“You can come visit whenever you like.” I wipe her alcohol-flushed face dry. “It’ll be a while before the new house is ready, but as soon as it is, you have to come.”
“When do I get a billionaire to buy land next to my family’s home and build me a mansion too?” she pouts.
“It’s definitely not going to be a mansion,” I say.
Miller’s just completed the purchase of two acres adjoining the sanctuary, and we’re in the initial stages of working on plans with one of his architects. Though, I have already knocked two bedrooms off Miller’s initial idea—we do not need six. And I’m probably going to have to hold him back from some of the finishes he’s used to putting into his luxury condos and teach him how to build an actual home, rather than a party play pad.
It’s give and take. So far I’ve vetoed an internal sound system with speakers in every ceiling. He’s vetoed…well, nothing yet. He keeps saying he wants to create my dream home.
He’s also going to renovate Grandpa’s farmhouse.
I think it’s fair to say, constructing and repairing buildings is Miller’s love language.
And it’s a fun process. We’re building something that’s a part of both of us, somewhere we can settle and be ourselves.
Once the house is ready, Miller will run his business from the home office—a room where he has free rein, so is installing all the bells, whistles, and speakers he wants—and go to Boston just a couple of days a week for site visits, in-person meetings and the like.
I don’t doubt life will throw up someissues along the way with this plan, but I have no doubt that together we’ll figure them out.
“Your grandpa’s lucky to have you,” Paige says, as we stumble out of the bar and into the cold December night air, the whole street bathed in the red and green glow of Christmas lights.
“Nowhere near as lucky as I am to have him,” I insist. “Without him and his bad knees, I’d never have met Miller.”
“Ah, I bet you would.” She slaps me on the back. “Bet you’d have ended up working on a campaign for a set of nesting tables or whatever and used one of his fancy buildings as a place to stage it for the photos and bumped into him there.”
I pause for a second. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
“But you’re drunk.”
“Not drunk. Just…nicely tipsy.” She taps me on the cheek with her finger. “And no more tipsy than you.”
Right on cue, I stagger into her a little.
“It’s the way the world works,” Paige continues her Moscow mule-induced theory of the universe. “If you’re destined to be with someone, they’ll come to you via some route or another.”
“Is that what happened with you and Sean?”
A laugh spurts out of her so hard her head flies back.
“God, no. He’s not my destiny.” Then she leans into my ear and whispers, “He’s just very hot and has a magic tongue and is excellent for right now.”
She straightens, or at least as much as she can. “But he’s no fun to talk to. After breakfast, all I want is for him to leave. Actually, before breakfast.”
“All men are shit,” I declare.
“No, they’re not.” She shoves me. “Gandhi was good. Mr. Rogers, he’s another one. Oh and your new pal, Prince Oliver always seems nice in interviews.”
“That is one bizarre collection of men who just sprang into your mind all at the same time. And Oliver is Miller’s pal, not mine. Ooh!” A cab with its roof light illuminated heads toward us, and I dive out to hail it.
“Whoa.” Paige reaches for a lamppost to support herself in my absence.
I swing open the cab door. “Here you go. Video call me tomorrow. Then it’ll be like we haven’t really said goodbye at all.”
“And at least Dickish Darren didn’t get the job.” She gives me one last quick hug. “That new woman from Miami is going to have him for breakfast.”
She giggles and tries to get into the back seat headfirst before remembering how to actually get into a car.
