Page 36 of Enticing My Off Limits Billionaire

I snap my head up to look at Delia, my face hot with shame. I just got busted, and she's not even angry. She just looks amused. "Yeah?"

"You still with us?"

I nod. "Yes, absolutely."

She raises an eyebrow. "Your mind seems to be...elsewhere."

I roll my eyes. "It's fine. I just..." I look towards Madison. She's watching me intently, cocking her head in a show of—I don't even know what that is.

Dominance?

As if she's trying to prove just how wrong I was for kicking her out of my apartment over the weekend.

"We were just talking about the timeline for the theatre," Delia says, the smirk still on her face. She knows me too well to miss how flustered I am, and I'm sure Madison is reveling in it. "The investors asked for no more than six months. Do you think that will be doable?"

"That's more in Ryan's wheelhouse," I say, looking over at him and clasping my hands. "Ryan, do you think we can make that happen? Maybe bring the cast in for the final month of construction?"

"Absolutely," Ryan says. "They might need to pay a higher dollar amount for overtime, though. I make sure my guys get paid."

"Consider it done," Delia says. She looks at Madison and gives her a knowing smile before she stands up. "Well...if we're all good to go here, I've got to get back to Salem before tonight's show. Are we set?"

"We're set," I nod. I stand up in a hurry, and I think we all hear Madison's foot land on the floor with a smack. Ryan looks confused, and Delia looks like she's barely holding back a laugh.

"Let's finish up the initial blueprints this week and shoot for next Monday to start construction," I say. "Ryan, do you think that's doable?"

"Definitely," he says. "I've got a team on standby that we can bring in. Let's make this happen."

Delia and Ryan collect their things, and I rake my hand back through my hair. Madison stays sitting down, calmly stacking up her papers and notes and putting them in her satchel. She's still there when Delia and Ryan bid us goodbye, and then we're alone.

But notcompletelyalone. We're in a room with windows for walls, and other people are working in their individual spaces and in the large art studio just outside.

"I'm going to make a pot of coffee," I mutter. "You're welcome to stay and work if you want. I'll be in my office."

"Okay," Madison says coolly.

I stride down the hall and into the breakroom, focusing on making myself some coffee. I can't believe she did that—that she's still pressing the issue when I had asked her not to. My knuckles are white as I take my coffee and go to my office, sitting at my desk with a groan and taking out my laptop.

Then I hear her footsteps at the door.

"We need to talk."

"I know," I say, my voice quiet.

I turn around to find her standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and her satchel over her shoulder. She looks...

Stunning.

And hurt. Like I hurt her.

My heart aches as I settle back in my seat, gesturing at the armchair in the corner. "You should sit," I tell her. "And close the door behind you."

She steps through and closes the door as requested, and puts her bag down next to her as she takes a seat in the armchair. She's so tense that she doesn't look remotely comfortable, her hands clasped in her lap, her knees pressed together, and her shoulders hunched.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be."

"But I am," she says. "I can't...I can't stop doing this, Quinn. I wish I could, but I'm in too deep."

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