Page 93 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
He could so easily have stayed in the warm, dry house. But he didn’t. He sacrificed his own comfort for theirs.
There’s a fluttery twinge in my chest from just thinking about finding him lying there asleep next to Petunia, his hand resting on her back.
So, after tonight, not only do I know the outside of him drives me wild, but I know the heart that beats inside him does too. And that my attraction to him isn’t purely superficial.
Surely, any man who would care for Petunia like that has proved himself trustworthy and dependable.
No matter how much I’ve doubted my own judgment since Brandon, what bigger qualifying test could I possibly put someone through than making sure the donkeys are safe in a thunderstorm?
Maybe Paige is right. Maybe I should allow myself to believe it’s possible for someone to simply like me enough to treat me well and not deceive me.
After all, it can’t possibly be that he’s using me for anything the way Brandon was. Miller seems to alreadyhave enough money at his disposal to do whatever he likes whenever he likes, certainly way more than I am ever likely to have. He has literally nothing to gain from being involved with me. So it could only be that he’s doing it because it’s what he wants.
My poor, sexy, donkey-saving hero was so desperate to get cleaned up and dry that when we left the stables I sent him straight back here to jump into the shower while I ran to the barn to grab him some dry clothes. And when I picked out the underwear with chain saws on them, I couldn’t help but smile.
The microwave pings on the first container of soup, and I switch it for the second.
The movement makes me conscious that I still have on my dress pants. I pull at the waist and squirm. I’ve worn these probably once a week ever since I got them a year or so ago and never once thought they were uncomfortable. But right now, they feel like they belong to someone else, someone who’d never be at home in this crumbling kitchen.
“Hey, do you have a sec?” Miller’s voice bellows through the wall. “I forgot something.”
I freeze with my thumb still tucked into my waistband.
Jesus.
He wants me to go in there and pass him something?
While he’s in the shower?
Is this okay? Can I let myself do it?
My hands start to tremble, matching the quaver in my chest.
I could pretend I can’t hear him. Or that I’m outside. Or upstairs. Or have headphones on. Or have moved to a small uninhabited island off the coast of Tahiti.
“Frankie?” he callsagain. “You there?”
Oh, sweet living hell. Seeing him in there and having to resist him would be torture. But do I need to resist him?
“Sure,” I call back, or try to—the word sounds all froggy in my throat, so I cough and try again.
“Sure.” That’s clearer, but has a tremble in it that he hopefully can’t hear over the running water.
This is all so goddamn confusing.
But here goes.
My pulse quickens as I approach the door and crack it open.
I ease into the steam-filled room sideways, my back to the shower because for some reason it seems wrong to look at him standing there naked, even though we were totally naked together the other day and he gave me the two best, most mind-shattering orgasms of my life.
“Hey,” he says, and my body automatically turns at the sound of his voice.
Shit.
I fix my eyes firmly on his face—a face that looks even more handsome with water running down it and his wet hair slicked back.
“I forgot to bring something into the shower,” he says as the water pounds onto his chest.
