Page 34 of Bonking the Billionaire

He poured himself a spoonful and pressed it between his lips.

I watched, in anticipation of his reaction.

Maybe it was the swelling, or maybe it was just a macho stoic thing, but his expression was locked down.

I threw up my hands. “Well? What do you think?”

“Not bad,” he said.

“Not bad?Seriously? Cross your heart and swear to me on whatever you hold most precious that this syrup is not the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

I expected a grin, a twinkle, something. I didn’t get any of it.

Instead he leaned forward, like he was going to divulge a really juicy secret. I leaned in too, eager to hear it.

With all of the levity of a judge laying down a verdict, he said, “I don’t know what I’ve put in my mouth.”

Laughter burst from my throat.

“You what, put too many ground pennies in there, and while swirling them on your tongue you got lead poisoning and forgot every meal you’ve ever eaten?”

“Pennies are made from copper,” he said, still completely serious. “But, maybe.”

“That’s weird. You’re weird.” I ate another spoonful of blueberry syrup.

The waitress delivered our coffees.

Tristan picked up the bottle of syrup and, looking me straight in the eye, poured it into his coffee.

I gasped. “You didn’t. You’re not.”

“I am.”

“It’s going to be so weird.”

He shrugged and set the bottle down. “It could be the best combination ever.”

“It won’t be.”

“Maybe it is. Who knows? I don’t even know if I like coffee.”

I gaped at him as he stirred his Frankenstein concoction. “Now I know you’re lying. Everyone has had coffee before.”

“Not me. Not since—” he pointed at the swollen side of his face. “The name tag says Tristan, so that’s all I know about myself. I don’t know my last name.”

I stared at him, unblinking, stunned by the truth bomb he’d just hit me with.

He took a sip of his coffee, twisted his features, and smacked his lips. “Lumpy.”

It was then that I realized what kind of man Tristan was—a lost soul in desperate need of my assistance. I hadn’t just mangled his face. I’dbrain damagedthe poor guy, andhe didn’t even know who he was.

Broken men were the absolute worst kind, because I was helplessly drawn to the idea of saving them, even though I knew they’d break me in return.

ELEVEN

TRISTAN?

The color drained from Morgan’s face as she stared wide-eyed at me from across the table.

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