Page 18 of My Forbidden Billionaire

Chapter Seven

Jacob

“Can I come in, Clem?”

“Sure, Daddy!” Her voice is bright and bubbly, as usual.

Oh to be ten years old and not have a single worry in the world.

Although I know that thought isn’t entirely true—not even for her.

“It’s time for bed, darling.”

“Just a half-hour more? Pleeeaaaase?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Ugh … school.” She pouts. “What do I need school for, Daddy? We’re billionaires!”

“And how do you think we got to this position?”

She stops and stares at me, dumbfounded. Obviously, she’s never thought about this perspective before. My family did not come from money—it took a lot of sweat equity and grit to get to where we are today. I joined my father’s meager construction business after college and helped to build it into a multibillion-dollar, national behemoth over the last decade.

“Right … Well, this semester has not been easy, let me tell you that. I had to do these algebra equations today. Ugly stuff. Ugly!” she says, waving a small hand through the air.

I pull the soft covers up to her chin even though it’s quite warm in the room. It’s part of our nighttime routine—something I feel I need to do. Immediately, she kicks the covers off with her bare, tiny feet.

“What else did you do at school today?” I ask, wanting to savor our time together for a moment longer.

“The usual.” Clementine shrugs and yawns without bothering to cover her mouth.

“Meaning what? Math, I presume. What else?”

Her clever eyes fix themselves on mine. Silently, she raises a small finger to her mouth and pretends to play. “What else? Umm … let’s see … chemistry. Dance lessons. Latin. And … one more thing. But I can’t seem to remember what it was…” she teases me. “What could it have been? My brain is all … fogged up.” She grins.

“Clem…” I sigh, settling myself beside her bed, not sure whether to be annoyed or not by her game.

“Literature!” she exclaims. “With Miss Andrews … you know … the pretty one.”

“Is she pretty? I haven’t noticed,” I lie.

“You’re such a bad liar, Daddy. Honestly,” she says matter-of-factly as if she’s telling me about the weather.

“Do you like her class?” I say, ignoring her comment.

“Of course, I do.” She nods. “Didn’t you love literature class growing up, Daddy? We live in a house full of your old books.”

“I sure did,” I say with a smile and reach for the book on the nightstand. “Anyway, it’s time for me to read you the next chapter of Moby Dick.”

“Daddy, look. I can see why you like Miss Andrews … but I don’t think you have much of a chance with her.”

“Thank you,” I reply sarcastically, which doesn’t escape my daughter’s wit.

“Not unless I help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. I’ll keep an eye out for stuff she likes—her favorite flowers, her favorite dessert, movies … stuff like that. Stuff that girls like that you can buy for her. Daddy, you really are hopeless.”

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