Page 69 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
She’s singing to the nervous little white donkey, Petunia. And petting from her shoulder down her front leg in long, smooth strokes, exactly the way she did the first day I was here.
My heart beats and swells and soars at how absolutely fucking adorable that is.
Then my hand flies to my chest when I figure out what it is that she’s so quietly singing. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
Is this who I am now? Am I a man who can be brought close to tears by a woman singing to a donkey?
That’s not the man I was when I arrived here five days ago.
Or was it, and I’d just never realized?
And perhaps I never would have, if this woman who’s shaken off her business suit in favor of overalls and has replaced boardroom presentations with donkey serenades hadn’t brought it out in me.
I jump back out of sight at the sound of her phone ringing and scoot back to grab the barrow.
When I wheel it up to the entrance as if I’ve just gotten here, she’s saying goodbye and hanging up the call.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Poor Petunia.” She smiles down at the animal by her side. “She got spooked by a bee.”
“Abee?”
“Yeah, a big sleepy one that was lumbering around. I don’t even know what one is doing out and about at this time of year. But she was really scared. I shooed it out and calmed her down. Think she’s okay now.”
She scritches Petunia’s ear, and the donkey leans her head into Frankie’s hand.
And that’s it. The singing, the bee, the ear scritches, the donkey head tilt, that’s the combo that finally tips me over the edge and cracks me open.
This has to be the end of the road for me.
I can’t keep treating Frankie like a meaningless pawn in my revenge game.
I either need to vanish in the night and never see her again, or I need to come clean, tell her the whole truth about everything, and then figure out how to get her to forgive me when she’s inevitably furious and throws me out just like she did Skinner.
“One bit of bad news, though.” She holds up the phone that’s still in her other hand. “I have to go back to Chicago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FRANKIE
“Please take a deep breath.” On my phone screen, Paige closes her eyes and demonstrates how to inhale a long, slow lungful of air.
I carry her with me while I do frantic laps of the kitchen table. “I’ve tried. It just makes me feel faint.”
“Whether you come back to Chicago briefly or not at all, you’re no good to anyone if you pass out. But maybe your sexy handyman might find you and give you the kiss of life.”
“Oh, God, don’t.” It’s absolutely not okay that my lips tingle at the mere suggestion of it.
Paige gasps. “Fuck.” She leans into her camera, so close that I hold my phone farther away because it feels like she’s invading my personal space. “Have you already kissed him?”
“What? Stop it.” I look away and scratch the side of my neck.
“You have. Thank God,” Paige cries, loudly enough forme to hope her office door is closed, before launching into enthusiastic jazz hands. “Set off the Klaxons, bring out the dancing girls, and blow the moths out of your undies. Frankie Channing is getting some.”
“I am notgetting some,” I say through my teeth, as if concerned that Thelma might hear and disapprove of me. Actually, come to think of it—I scan the room—where is she?
“Your skin’s glowing,” Paige says.
