Page 67 of The Billionaire Is Back

This room is so simple and pretty, I can hardly stand it. It’s not exactly feminine, but the wall paint is bright white, the linens are pure white, and the sheer drapes let in such lovely light.

“I love it, Grady. Thank you.”

He’s still staring at the adjoining door to his room when he says, “Wanna see the view from the roof?”

“But of course.” I realize I’m barefoot. “Oh, do I need shoes?”

“Nah. Rosario sweeps up there daily.”

He leads me up a narrow staircase to his private rooftop terrace, and while it is the exact opposite of being led down a narrow staircase to a dark basement, there is some quiet chatter in a part of my brain and from certain other parts of me who are still somehow worried or excited about being murdered by a sexy billionaire.

Stepping out onto the terrace, I gasp and my heart starts racing, same as when I saw Dominique Ansel’s bakery. There are trellis-covered stone walls, long box planters all along the edge of it. Beyond the ledge is a view of the treetops of Central Park, high-rises and skyscrapers and the rooftops of so many apartment buildings for so many miles. I can’t even remember the last time I was this high up, aside from when we flew here this morning. I’m so used to being at sea level. I can feel my feet on the tiled floor, but I don’t feel grounded. Despite how inviting Grady has made it,Iam clearly not made for the penthouse.

I get a little dizzy and start to sway a little, but Grady reaches out to steady me.

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh. A little overwhelmed, I guess. It’s a very nice view.”

“Come sit down.” He takes my hand and pulls me over to a white canvas–covered love seat with a teak frame. It faces away from the city view so we can only look at each other or the faded slate tiles or the wall across from us.

I stare down at Grady’s hand, which is still holding mine. I do love his hands. I don’t want them touching anyone else. “So, have you always lived here by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah. Do you really like it?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s incredible. It’s very, very large.”

“Well, it only has three bedrooms.”

“I was just going to say, but I mean, if your family comes to visit, Damien could sleep in the library, I guess, along with around twelve other people because I bet it’s huge.”

“Nah. I think he’d be more comfortable in the butler’s pantry. That would be closer to the kitchen, which is where we’d have to set up his lobster tanks.”

“Oh yeah, I haven’t seen the kitchen yet.”

He grins. “Saved that for last because I know you won’t want to leave it.” He glances down, biting his lip.

I realize I’ve been absentmindedly stroking his index finger. Here I was, anxiously waiting for Grady to make a move, meanwhile I’m giving his hand a hand job. “Oops.” I let go and stand up, clasping my hands behind my back.

He slowly stands and adjusts his pants. “Your hands are really sending mixed messages, Claire.”

“Sorry.”

I really am.

Clearing his throat, he says nothing as we take the elevator back down to the first floor. I can’t believe he has his own private elevator. He brings me through the living room again and the dining room, which is tasteful—andappears unused. “This is the butler’s pantry,” he says sheepishly. “But I don’t have a butler.”

I guffaw and open my mouth to make a joke, but then I walk into the kitchen and my jaw drops. I want to slap his face because this is the most amazing kitchen I have ever been in. Top-of-the-line appliances—six-burner Wolf range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, wine refrigerators, a center island, a separate eating nook, and gorgeous molding around the domed ceiling. Everything is sparkling clean and so well organized. It’s wonderful, but it’s also surprisingly charming. I am gobsmacked. My gob is completely smacked.

“You like it?” he asks, smoothing his hand over the marble countertop, and I detect the slightest twinge of nervousness. He really wants me to like it.

I feel like Daisy Buchanan when Jay Gatsby is showing her his mansion, except I’m not a rich girl he’s trying to impress. I’m just the girl from back home with flour on her face. I’m tearing up again. “I love it, Grady.” I laugh. Maybe he’ll think I’m crying because I’m happy. “I really do. I’m so proud of you,” I blurt out, and I don’t realize it’s true until I’ve heard myself say it, but I am.

A landline rings. Grady checks his watch and then picks up the phone. “Yes? …Thank you, Hector. Send them up.” He grins at me, takes my hand, and leads me back out to the gallery.

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