Page 27 of The Damaged Billionaire

“Good. Anything else?” he asks, sipping his coffee and taking in all the information.

“You have a quiet weekend next weekend. Nothing is planned so far, so I thought you might like to spend next weekend with Bob.” While I could parade him out and about at a charity function, sometimes keeping my clients out of the spotlight makes room for someone else to step in it and take the focus away. We don’t want Tennyson out of the media completely, but a little space to make him more elusive will provide us some time to build up the positive press in the background.

“That will be nice if nothing else comes up. I have another conference call tomorrow with the Hong Kong team. The project is slowing, but not yet stopped.” I see his shoulders get heavy as the words leave him.

“Good, well, progress is progress, no matter how slow and steady.” I try to be encouraging, but from the look on his face, it’s not helping.

“It would be faster if Newcomb got out of my way. He is looking at cannibalizing the market over there and has people in his pocket. It is getting tougher to get traction.” Tennyson is so deep in thought, I don’t think he realizes I have no idea who he’s talking about.

“Who is Newcomb again?”

“Geoffrey Newcomb owns a large construction firm that produces a lot of buildings here in Maryland. And he is a giant pain in my ass.” From his tone alone, I can tell that they aren’t friends.

“Why don’t you go somewhere he isn’t? Why not start a new foothold? I mean, I know Hong Kong is great, lots of progress and advancement, but you could look at Singapore? That is a really great country, with lots of investment in advancements and infrastructure that pushes the boundaries. Smart buildings that are tech enabled are a new frontier that you should look into,” I suggest, having read something about it in the news just recently.

“You are just a wealth of information, aren’t you? Smart as well as sexy,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m pretty sure I read about it in the Wall Street Journal or something, but think about a new plan of action. Change things up a bit,” I say with a shrug. I have no real understanding of what he does, but I am happy to provide thought starters if they are helpful.

“A new plan of action? Changing things up? Sounds like my current life at the moment.”

“You know what they say, a change is as good as a holiday.” I smile at him, but when he looks up at me, there’s something in his eyes that has my breath catching.

“Why did you leave me in the middle of the night in New York?” I blink, then blink again. I was not even close to being ready for this conversation.

“Tennyson…” I warn again, not wanting to delve into us whatsoever. I am hanging by a thread as it is. The urge I have to be with him is growing stronger by the day.

“I thought we were both having a good time. Your moans were certainly telling me you were.” He looks at me in a way that makes me want to melt, desperate for answers that I shouldn’t give him.

“We really shouldn’t be talking about that weekend,” I say quietly, my eyes flicking to the living room, conscious that Josh doesn’t hear over the TV.

“Not talk about it? Willow, it is all I think about, and I know you do too. I am not going to lie, when I woke to an empty bed that morning, I was disappointed.” His features soften, and I know he is genuinely telling me his feelings. I don’t know how I know, but I think this is new for him to be this open. Something about our connection has us comfortable in other’s presence without even trying. I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge me, wouldn’t throw it in my face, and would always have my back.

But I can’t do this. You love your job, Willow.

“Do you ask all your one-night stands that question? Surely, I am not the only one to skip out during the night?” I push back on him and see his body stiffen.

“You were different,” he murmurs, sipping his coffee, his jaw set hard. “We were different. We are different.” I am not an idiot, I know he is a playboy and our night together was just that. One night. But hearing him now, along with his constant flirtations, it makes me feel a little better about the situation. Like, even though it was one night, it meant as much to him as it did to me.

“David Taylor Smith,” I state his name, and Tennyson’s back goes ramrod straight.

“You left me for fucking David Taylor Smith? The asshole baseball player who is serving time?” he asks, with shock and confusion on his face.

“I did,” I say casually, nodding and sipping my coffee.

“Didn’t he get locked away for drug possession and prostitution?” His brow crumples, like he’s imagining us together.

“He did. He was picked up at a club in DC about seven months ago at three a.m. A massive bag of white powder and a questionable associate next to him. He got one phone call from the police cell. Who do you think he called?” I ask him, watching him closely to see when the penny drops.

“You,” he states, sitting up.

“Yes, me. He was my client, Tennyson. I had just taken him on a few weeks earlier. I knew he was trouble as soon as I met him. There wasn’t an honest bone in his body. But I took the job anyway, me and my optimistic notions that I can save everyone. He is the only client I haven’t succeeded with. My only failure,” I say remorsefully. David really pushed my professional boundaries in a totally different way. He was a challenge, one I didn’t win.

“Married to your job…” Tennyson says in awe, relief evident in his face that I left because of a work emergency, not because I wanted to.

“Married to my job,” I confirm, giving him a small smile, and I see his face brighten.

“So are you going to show me your bed socks?” he quips, his humor breaking any tension, and I laugh.

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