Page 62 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“Luke,” Dad says with a tone that suggests he fears I might Frisbee one of these plates across the table and decapitate my brother. “How about you go take the first shower?”
Frankie rises from her dish-stacking. “I’ve put fresh towels in your room,” she says. “The bathroom is right between yours and mine. And I made up the rollout. It’s pretty comfy.”
“Luke’s taking that,” Ethan says.
“Says who?” Luke snips back.
“Me,” Ethan says. “I’m older.”
“By twelve minutes,” Luke says.
“Jesus Christ.” I place a glass on the top shelf of the dishwasher and drop a handful of knives and forks into the cutlery basket. “You guys are twenty-seven, not seven.”
“And you’re twins?” Frankie says. “I hadn’t realized. You don’t look alike at all.”
“Not one bit,” Luke says. “I’m the handsome one.”
“I’ll come with you, Luke.” Dad rises from his seat. “We made good progress this afternoon. Another full day at it tomorrow and the barn should be good and safe. Then we’ll fix a few things I spotted on the stables the day after.”
“That sounds amazing,” Frankie says. “I can’t even tell you howgrateful I am.”
Dad stands behind my brothers and taps them both on their shoulders. “Come on, you two.”
Frankie and I finish loading the dishwasher in silence while the other three get themselves together and head up the creaky stairs, bickering about who gets the rollout on the way up.
I’m about to lift the door when Frankie says, “Hang on.”
She reaches in and moves the glass I put in there three inches to the left.
“What difference does that make?” I ask.
“You’re a little bit irritated now, right?” Her smile is impish, coy, and absolutely fucking delightful.
“Nope. My blood pressure is completely normal. It didn’t even remotely spike at the thought that the glass is no longer located correctly between the two mugs and the force of the water might knock it over and it could chip or crack or, horror of horrors, end the right way up and full of that weird cloudy dishwasher water when the cycle’s finished. Not irritated at all. Completely fine.”
She emits a low sexy giggle, and I know with every fiber of my being that I would willingly say those words over and over if it meant I’d get to hear that sound every time.
I leave the glass where it is and raise the door. My arm accidentally brushes against her thigh. Shit. Even just that tiny reminder of what physical contact with her feels like is an electric shock to my system.
Clicking the door shut, I do my very best to look one hundred percent relaxed and throw my palms to the ceiling. “See. I’m totally devil-may-care about the whole glass-placement thing.”
“Sure.” She rests her butt against the counter barely two feet from me.
The easy familiarity between us is intoxicating, and the mental intimacy makes my head swirl. I didn’t know this was something that really existed. That you can meet someone and your minds can almost instantly meld, like they’ve been hanging out inside both our heads all this time, just waiting for the other one to come along so they can slot together.
The mere idea of it makes my brain spin.
In such a short time I feel like I know her. Like,reallyknow her.
I definitely relate to her life dilemma of chasing her career while also wanting to do the best by her family.
And I’m absolutely certain that she gets me—dishwasher correctness and all.
“Thank you for going to all this trouble for my family,” I say. “It’s generous of you to invite three perfect strangers into your home.” And it says everything about who she is.
She smiles. “Hah. Everyone in Chicago would think you were talking about a completely different person if you told them I’d done that.”
“They don’t think you’d be warm and welcoming to strangers? Are you someone different when you’re there? A hard-edged corporate businessperson who lays down the law in the boardroom?” I thump the counter with the side of my fist like my imaginary corporate businessperson would.
