Page 56 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
There is something I can do to at least make his malicious threat against Frankie go away. And it’s a chance to—how did Brooke put it?—prove I’m a non-dick who’s just currently giving the impression I am one.
And it’ll have the bonus of earning Frankie’s trust so she might be more likely to take my advice when the time comes for me to nudge her toward my offer.
I take out my phone again and make a call.
It’s answered on the second ring.
“Well, hello,” says the voice whose unconditional love always makes me feel better about everything.
“Hi, Mom. Is Dad around? Wondering if the guys are busy right now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FRANKIE
“How else could we dress up the donkeys for Thanksgiving?” I ask Grandpa. “Everyone loves the antlers they wear when they pull the Christmas sleigh rides. So what could they wear for the Thanksgiving event that wouldn’t bother them so much they’d knock it off?”
“Yes, it definitely needs to be something that doesn’t stress them out.” Grandpa puts the milk and eggs that I’ve just unloaded from the groceries I brought him into the fridge.
He’s getting around much better already. Another sign of the giant ticking clock hanging over my head counting down to when he comes home and I go back to Chicago, leaving him with whatever state I’ve managed to get the sanctuary into by then.
Whenever I think of how little time I have to turn this place around, my body goes clammy all over.
And despite how determined I am to sort it out, lastnight there was a part of me that was so mortified I wanted to sprint away from here at the speed of light.
I haven’t heard a peep out of Miller after what happened yesterday—after the kissing that made me forget about every problem, the groping that turned on a light in my body that has been dark for a long time, and the pressure of his erection against my leg that was about to make my clothes melt off. He didn’t even come to the house for a shower. Or to use the bathroom.
I know he mucked out the stables this morning and refreshed the bedding because I saw him from the kitchen window.
Admittedly, I did wait until he’d finished and was out of sight before I went to do my morning round of hellos to the animals. So, to be fair, I avoided him as much as he avoided me.
But he can’t dodge me forever—he’s so fastidious about cleanliness that I can’t imagine him missing more than one day without a shower and, while he can pee outside, I’m sure that even mysterious hot strangers with mouths that kiss like they’ve graduated with honors from the Ivy League of kissing universities, do need to poop at some point.
To miss out on personal hygiene, he must think what happened was a giant mistake. And…maybe he’s right.
Maybe it was a terrible idea.
A delicious, knee-wobbling, panty-soaking, terrible idea.
But in the short time I’m here, I need to think only about making this place both physically and financially sustainable for Grandpa. I don’t have time to get distracted by strangers with chiseled features who’re handy with a screwdriver.
But something had obviously been building between us from the moment I opened the door to him. Just thinking about it again now, my lips recall the pressure of his and the sweep of his tongue, my mouth waters at the thought of the delicious scent of the outdoors on his skin, and my nipples tighten remembering his touch.
“Are you going to pass me that packet of cheese or hold it until it melts?” Grandpa’s holding his hand out to me.
“How about pilgrim hats?” I ask him, as if that was what I was thinking about and not what that hardness in Miller’s pants might look like. “Small ones that sit between their ears. It could look hilarious. And they’re so good with the antlers, little hats shouldn’t bother them.”
“Perfect.” Grandpa turns to put away the cheese. “If you need anything sewed, I could ask Elsie to make whatever you need.”
“Elsie?”
“One of the residents.” He shuffles toward the sofa, his back to me the whole time. “She was a dressmaker. For a big designer. Diane…something German. Made a famous style of dress.”
Wow. Not in all my life have I ever heard Grandpa mention a single thing to do with fashion, or designers, or even dresses for that matter.
My nonsense with Miller fades away to be replaced with a warm fluffy feeling that Grandpa might have a twinkle in his eye for someone.
A designer with a German name known for making a certain type of dress?
