Page 47 of The Damaged Billionaire

“Speaking of Willow, we need to get her in on this. She needs to be aware of it,” Harrison says, changing our conversation back to the topic at hand.

“I’m not sure she is going to be too receptive,” Ben murmurs again, his eyes flicking to me.

“What? Why?” Harrison asks, his eyes narrowing.

“It will hurt her,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach about that fact. What kind of woman would stick around with a man she just met when he is going to be a new dad? I shake my head to dislodge the thought. It isn’t my baby. It can’t be.

“She is a professional. I am sure she has come across this before,” Harrison says as he stands, and I take a breath.

“Willow and I are…” I start, my voice trailing off as Harrison comes to a stop in front of me, his face in a scowl.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, sitting back, running his hand through his hair.

“Well, it didn’t take you long!” Harrison barks, looking at me sternly.

“We have a history, and we reignited it.” But he already knows this. My jaw clenches as I re-explain myself to him.

“So what, you’re dating? Or just fucking?” he asks, and I do not appreciate his tone. Especially talking like that about Willow. I know he is only worried about me, but I don’t entertain his comment with an answer.

“That is really unprofessional of her,” Harrison spits out, and I know he is stressed. He likes Willow, they all do.

“Fuck off, like you can talk, fucking your events manager for months before anyone knew. You, of all people, know how these things happen. And don’t worry, she is the most professional person I have ever worked with, and besides…” I say, my words falling off again as emotions take over.

“Besides what?” Eddie asks, my three brothers looking at me, waiting.

“Besides, I think… I am in love with her,” I say, holding my breath. They look at me like I am crazy, before their looks morph into acceptance and then sadness and remorse.

“Love?” Ben asks, his eyebrows rising.

“She cooks me cupcakes, she buys me bed socks. She is smart, sassy, sexy, and funny. Her best friend is a twelve-year-old kid with attitude who hates me; she takes in stray cats; Bob fucking loves her; Melody wants to be her best friend, and I think I want to marry her.” The admission whips out from me, almost leaving me stumbling. I grip on to the desk with one hand, half bent over as I pant. I’m turning into a man with feelings, and it’s making my chest burn, the remorse I feel from my actions beyond painful. God, is this what it feels like? Is this what love feels like?

“Shit,” Harrison says, before he picks up the decanter and pours another four glasses, and we remain in my office all afternoon, finishing off a bottle of fine Whiteman whiskey.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT - WILLOW

With Saide out tonight, dancing the night away with some friends to try to forget about her sinful affair, and Josh with his mom, I take the rare quiet evening I have and run a warm bath. My body is still sore, my muscles tight, and as I lower myself in the tub, I feel a sense of calm take over. Sinking into the water, I inhale a deep breath, smelling the lavender oil I put in, hoping it helps me relax.

Life has been busy. My mind is not only focusing on work, Saide’s heartbreak, Josh, Betty, and everyone else, but suddenly also myself. I look at my naked body underneath the water. I used to hate it. The rolls, the cellulite. The curves were fine, they were just big. I rub my stomach. I’ve been feeling good lately. Not a lot of bloating. Not too much period pain. I take in a breath and let it go slowly as I think about the conversation I will need to have with Tennyson. It feels weird bringing this up so soon, but if children are part of his future, then he needs to know that it is not something I can give him. I have no idea what his thoughts are around the topic. But for a woman who has struggled her whole life, I have never once felt sexy in my own body, especially with what I feel I’m lacking.

Until Tennyson.

That night in New York was magic. I never thought I would ever feel like that again. A wanted woman. A desired lady. Now Tennyson makes me feel like that every day of the week. He can’t keep his hands or eyes off me. The sexual desires he has awakened in me, the need I have to have him all to myself growing. It feels almost selfish. I have always thought of others first. Always looked after everyone else, then myself. But now I want to run full steam ahead, and it is freaking me out, because that is not like me at all.

I hear the doorbell go off, and I sigh. I wasn’t expecting Josh tonight since his mother is home, so I locked the door. No doubt he wants some ice cream or something, although it is late, and he should be in bed already. I jump out of the bath, wrap a towel around me, and run, knowing that the ringing won't stop because nothing stands in Josh’s way of a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. My body is dripping, and I leave wet footprints on the floor as I race down the stairs to the front door, hoping to let him in and dive back into my warm bath before I catch a chill.

“Josh, what are you…” The words die on my lips as I see Tennyson leaning against the doorframe. His eyes are red and half-closed. His clothes are crumbled, shirt buttons undone at the neck, his tie loose. His hair is a mess, like he has been pulling at it. And he stinks of whiskey.

“Tennyson?” I have never seen him drunk before, and as his large frame stumbles into my place, nearly knocking over a vase, I wonder if I can handle him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, opening the door wider so he can get in. He looks sad. He is clearly intoxicated, and I am not sure what is going on. I shut the door and pull my towel around me tighter, now regretting not putting on my robe.

“I wanted to see you,” he slurs. Whatever he has had to drink, he has had a lot of it.

“You’re drunk!” The shock is now wearing off, and my voice grows louder and accusing. Disappointed in him. It’s not like he can’t drink; he doesn’t have a problem or anything. But he should limit it and not drink to excess. This is clearly excessive.

“You’re cute when you yell, Cupcake,” he says with a smile as he staggers toward my living room.

“I’m not yelling!” I say even louder, following after him, now just proving his point.

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