Page 36 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
Her expression is full of surprise, her eyes roving my face, mine absorbing the rosy glow in her cheeks that extends down the fair skin of her neck, the fullness of her lips, the bits of hay that now litter her dark hair.
“Sorry,” I say. “That bale was about to knock you out.”
She says nothing as her chest rises and falls with deep, shocked breaths. Every rise pressing it into mine.
Fuck. What is this? This energy between us right now? This surging sensation inside my ribcage? Is it just adrenaline from the surprise of me grabbing her and us falling to the ground? Or is it something that started the moment we collided in her kitchen just after I showed up?
Whatever it is, it’s causing a stirring in my pants that she’s going to feel any second if I don’t move.
“Sorry.” I put a hand on either side of her gorgeous face and push myself up and off her.
The moment I’m upright I turn away, trying to gather myself.
“Yeah,” she says, sounding like she’s getting to her feet behind me. “I mean, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I grab the fallen bale and try to redirect the energy inside me that’s rushing to all the inappropriate parts of my body into swinging it back to the top of the pile.
“Everything okay?” I ask. “I mean, I didn’t hurt you when I knocked you over or anything?” It seems necessary to clarify what I’m asking about, in case she thinks I’m referring to whatever that weird moment was between us just now that’s made my body do whatever the hell it’s doing.
“No, no. I’m fine. And it was my fault. I was the idiot who stepped back and hit the hay.” She lets out a small, nervous laugh. “So to speak.”
“Ha, yes.” Christ, this is all super fucking uncomfortable now.
I study her from the corner of my eye as she dusts herself off and runs her fingers through her ponytail, teasing out bits of hay.
Shifting my hips as subtly as I can, I try to make what’s going on inside my pants more comfortable and less obvious. “I’ll, er, finish off unloading the truck.”
“Yes. All right.” She half turns on the spot as if unsure what to do or where to go. “I’ll leave that to you. Since you’re better at it than me.”
“Not better,” I say. “Just taller.”
“Tall is helpful.” Her gaze is straightahead as she walks past me. “And you can come use the shower whenever you’re ready.”
“Great, thanks.” I’d thought that would be fine. But now it feels like it’s going to be the most awkward thing imaginable.
But the only alternative is the cold tap I fixed earlier in the donkey barn. Perhaps I should just stick myself under that and be done with it.
And, as my eyes refuse to tear themselves away from the sight of Frankie walking toward the house, a blast of icy water seems like just what I need.
It’s ridiculous to feel like this. Ridiculous.
Why the hell can’t I bring myself to knock on the front door?
I just need to go in there, use the shower, and leave.
It’s not a big deal.
Or even a medium deal.
Or any kind of a deal at all.
Christ, I just need to get this over with so I can get back to the loft and handle all the texts and emails that have been piling up all day.
Taking a deep breath, I tuck the pile of clean clothes tighter under my left arm and pull my right hand from my jacket pocket. Just as I’m raising a fist to knock, the door swings open.
I take a startled step back.
“Thought I saw you walking over,” Frankie says.
