Page 17 of The Damaged Billionaire

“Well, you could have met someone the morning you left me. He’d be an idiot not to put a ring on your finger.” I stop breathing. My heart thuds, literally feeling like it is going to burst out from my chest cavity. I swallow, deciding to skirt over his comment.

“No. Still married to my job,” I offer, because I want to be honest, even if my dull life makes him fall asleep. I am okay with that.

“Boyfriend?” he continues, and again, I sigh.

“No. No boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” he asks, his tone changing slightly.

“No, Tennyson, I am single. Why all the questions?”

“You now know everything about me, so I think it is only fair I get to know you too,” he says, and his argument is sound. We know each other intimately, yet know nothing about each other at all. And he is right; while I have done my research, he wouldn’t know much about me.

“Why are you single?” he asks, and I scoff.

“Probably because I sleep in an old t-shirt and fluffy bed socks,” I say too quickly before I balk and scrunch my face. This bed has me too relaxed; it is like it inserts truth serum into my body.

“Bed socks? How old are you, like sixty?” he teases.

“Bed socks help me sleep. I hate my feet being cold.” I defend my choice of sleepwear, when really, I should just hang up the phone.

“I bet you look good in fluffy socks.” He laughs lightly.

“Tennyson…” I moan his name in frustration as I roll over and bury my beet-red face into the pillow. What am I doing? I should have ended this conversation already. But it feels good to chat. It has been a long time since I talked like this with a man. But he is my client, and I need to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.

“What color are they? Pink? Purple?” he asks, teasing me some more.

“Oh God, stop it,” I say again, now with a smile on my face.

“Blue? Green?” he continues, and I need to stifle my giggle. What the hell is wrong with me? I am a professional. This is so outside the work limits I set, yet I can’t seem to cut him off.

“Yellow, okay. They are yellow. It’s my favorite color,” I say, again not sure why I am sharing so much.

“Hmmmm… yellow is a sexy color…”

“Oh my God, go to sleep, Tennyson, it’s late,” I scold him lightheartedly.

“Maybe I need some bed socks too,” he murmurs.

“Good night, Tennyson.” I hate how hard it is for me to say.

“Tenn,” he says quickly.

“What?” Where is he going with this?

“All my friends call me Tenn. Call me Tenn,” he says seriously. But we are not friends. We can’t be friends. Or shouldn’t be. He is my client. I need to reinstate the professional boundaries before they disintegrate completely, regardless of if he warms me from the inside out.

“Okay. Now go to sleep,” I say softly, vowing to erect a stronger barrier tomorrow.

“Night, Willow.”

I end the call and lie staring at the ceiling, where I remain for the rest of the night, my mind racing, my heart thumping, feeling things I haven’t for a very long time.

For the one person I shouldn’t be feeling them for.

CHAPTER TWELVE - TENNYSON

I stare at the ceiling, willing my eyes to close, but just like last night, I am wide awake. Grabbing my phone, I see it is just past eleven. I know I shouldn’t, but with no whiskey and no women, she is all I have. Our banter is natural, the visions I continue to have of her so colorful and vibrant in my mind, I am struggling not being able to touch her. I shouldn’t call her. I know she wants to remain professional. Our relationship is nothing more than manager and client, but I can’t stop wanting to talk with her. It is too much fun, and I haven’t spoken like this to anyone in such a long time.

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