Page 55 of No More Billionaires

“Maybe Ilikeplaying it safe.”

He raised a sardonic brow. “You think?”

My face heated with a flush. “Why do you even care? You’re winning.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I can’t stand to see you leaving so much on the table when you have the chance to win big. You make it too easy to beat you.”

Irritated, I pushed my chair back and stood. “I’m tired of playing, anyway. Let’s roast the marshmallows.”

Maybe a mouthful of sticky-sweet goo would shut him up.

It unnerved me how he paid such close attention, watching me, listening to my every word, as if he were trying to put together a complex puzzle.

Besides, we needed something to do to fill the remaining hours before bedtime. I certainly wasn’t going to suggest going upstairs early.

Larson braved the frigid outdoors to snap two sticks from a nearby tree. We threaded on the marshmallows and settled on the floor, toasting them over the fire through the stove’s open door.

Sitting there with him side-by-side, enacting a familiar childhood ritual, I felt almost too relaxed. We’d finished the box of wine. The room was warm, sweet-smelling, glowing with firelight.

In the shared silence, punctuated only by the pop and crackle of burning wood, I became increasingly aware of the large male body beside me.

The hair on his forearms gleamed golden in the stove’s radiance, and the muscles in his hands took on a mesmerizing beauty, highlighted by the flickering light and shadows as he held them before him, twirling the makeshift marshmallow skewer.

We weren’t touching, but Larson’s solid warmth was only inches away. It was the worst sort of temptation, as if his skin exuded some sort of powerful but invisible force.

My right side ached to lean into him, and I had the craziest urge to lay my head on his shoulder.

I didn’t dare. We’d already gotten far too cozy over the past two days.

Doing something like that would communicate… something to him, and I couldn’t let him get the wrong idea about me.

Chicken,he’d called me. Maybe he was right. I scooted a bit further away.

“You know what’s funny,” Larson said without taking his eyes from the fire.

His tone indicated it was something he’d given some thought to. “You hate to lose. I could see it in your eyes when we were playing cards and dice. I’ve seen it at work, too. You have this fierce competitive spirit, and yet you won’t roll the dice and take the chances you have to take to win.”

He turned to look me right in the eye. “But youwantto—it’s so obvious. Why don’t you?”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud, for sharing your expert observations. Are you ready for your turn?”

“Uh… I guess so.”

“You think you’re such a risk-taker, but when it comes to friendships, to people, you’re just as much of a chicken as I am,” I said. “You hold back. You hide behind your job and this polite facade. You always assume people are only interested in you for what you can give them, for your money, your famous family.”

He clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes. A loud exhale preceded his weary-sounding response.

“Because they are.”

“Not everyone. I—” I stopped myself.

I’d been about to say,I don’t care about all that. I like you.

I likedhim.Shoot.

“You—what?”

“I… think you’re wrong. You need to accept the possibility someone could like you just for yourself and not care about that other stuff.”

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