New York Billionaires Series

“I suppose we’re not in a rush,” she murmurs, smiling at me where we lie sprawled on the couch. Her hair is golden and glorious around her head. Eyes liquid blue.

“We’re not,” I say. Though it feels like parting with a limb, I push myself off the couch. “Which means it’s time for me to say good night.”

“Do we have to?”

“My self-restraint only lasts so long.”

The smile she gives me is so hopeful it’s like shards of glass through my heart. “You have too much of it,” she murmurs.

“No,” I say. “I don’t have nearly enough.”

She re-ties her dress and kisses me one last time, on her tiptoes. “I’m already looking forward to tomorrow,” she says.

I sleep in the next morning, waking up to the summer sun announcing another beautiful day through the window. Sit up, check my phone, down a glass of water. Run a brush through my hair and try to calm my feverish cheeks.

Anthony and I made out last night. And he’s right on the other side of the wall, in his own bedroom, only a few feet away.

In the bathroom mirror, my reflection looks back at me with the same level of excitement I feel inside.

He’s no less intriguing now than he was the first time I met him. I don’t understand the reason he’s holding back, but whatever it is, I’m confident it’s not related to me. Not with the way he’d kissed me last night. Like it was an art, rather than a sport.

I’d felt like something to be savored.

Ace nudges my ensuite bathroom door open and presses a cold nose to my hand.RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

“Sorry,” I say. “Let’s go for our morning walk.”

He dances away on light paws with a doggish grin, and perhaps he can sense my mood, because I feel like dancing too.

Or running.

Which is what we do, the two of us on the beach, under the morning sun. I’m whistling when we finally return to Anthony’s house. Scale the steps two at a time and wipe sweat from my brow.

The patio chairs are empty, as are the lounge chairs by the pool. He’s not in the kitchen, either, when I’ve showered. The door to his bedroom is still closed.

A quick glance at the clock puts it at eleven. I wouldn’t have pegged Anthony Winter as a late sleeper.

It’s another piece filling in the puzzle of his character, added to the tableau already in place. The man whose humor is dry and black, who is hard-working and reserved. Cynical but kind.

I’m still humming to myself as I look through his kitchen cabinets. If he’s sleeping, I might as well make us some breakfast.

Everybody likes pancakes, right?

Ace keeps me company as I cook. I sing old tunes as I find the butter, eggs, flour and milk.

Anthony must have called ahead and asked some anonymous staff member to stock the house for us. It’s a small reminder of just how different a life he lives from me.

But, I tell myself, he’d sat opposite me at the beer tasting. He’d helped when I needed him that night, with Ace’s chocolate poisoning.

When the batter runs out, I’ve got a high stack of pancakes ready. I set the kitchen table and find an unopened bottle of maple syrup.

But still no Anthony.

It’s almost midday.

I send him a quick text. Is everything all right? I’ve made pancakes for brunch.

The minutes pass by in slow agony as I wait for a reply that never comes. Worry gnaws at my insides, warring with hunger. I pad down the corridor and stop outside his shut bedroom door. There are no sounds from within.

He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who stays in bed till midday.

I knock. “Anthony? Are you okay?”

A faint rustle on the other side, and then his voice. It’s hoarse. “Yes!”

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” he says. There’s a long pause. “Coffee might help.”

“I can get you coffee.”

“Okay.”

I make a cup in record time and return to his bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

It takes him longer than it should to answer. “Yeah.”

I push open the door just as he props himself up in bed. The drapes are half-drawn and the sunlight that filters in sends uneven patterns across his king-size bed.

“Summer?” he asks. He’s shirtless, dark hair dusting across his chest. The sheet pools around his waist.

“Yes, it’s me. I’ve got your coffee. Here. Be careful, it’s hot.”

“Mmm.” He closes his eyes as soon as he has the cup in hand and leans against the headrest. Raises it to his lips and takes a sip.

“Are you okay?”

He lowers the cup with a sigh. “Yes. It’ll pass.”

“What is it?”

“Migraine.”

“Oh.” I take the cup from him and put it on his bedside table, beside an ebook reader and a pair of glasses. I’d never seen him wear them. “Do you want me to pull the drapes?”

“No. Thanks.” He sinks back down on the pillow, eyes closed. The lines of his face are drawn.

My mother used to have migraines. Not this bad, perhaps, but I remember what she used to do.