Page 23 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

“Why do you sit on the counter?” Oliver asks from behind me.

I turn my head, watching him enter the kitchen of the hotel suite. But then I almost choke on my coffee when I notice he’s not wearing a shirt.

My cheeks heat as I dart my eyes away from his toned body and stare at my cup. The reality of our situation hits me… We’re actually married. Yesterday’s ceremony still feels like a dream, and waking up in this suite together makes everything more real.

“I like to drink my coffee in peace,” I say.

When I cautiously glance up, he’s flashing me a grin that does funny things to my stomach. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and I can’t help noticing how relaxed he seems with this whole arrangement. “And I’m the opposite. I love to talk in the mornings.”

I roll my eyes and mutter into the cup, trying to hide the smile tugging at my lips. “It’s going to be a long marriage.”

This is temporary , I remind myself. A business deal with an expiration date.

He leans in a little closer. “You’ll miss me when you get your peace back, I guarantee you.”

“I doubt that.” I bring my gaze to the window to avoid looking at him, but not before he catches the flicker of amusement in my eyes.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as he bangs cupboards and drawers. It pulls my attention away from the window and onto him. He’s looking around for something.

“Yeah, are we going to grab breakfast?”

He closes a drawer and looks up at me, his blue eyes brighter today. “Well, I had another idea.”

I laugh. “Of course you did.” And because he’s facing me, I can’t miss how his shoulders are broad, round, and toned. I can see just a dusting of hair on his chest. His black sweatpants hang low, so I catch sight of his hipbones.

He moves in front of me to stand between my legs, and my breath catches.

Before I have a chance to ask what he’s doing, he grabs my hips and moves me effortlessly in his arms to another part of the counter.

My heart is thumping, but he looks completely unfazed.

Meanwhile, my skin’s still tingling where he touched me.

“Here it is.” He holds up a booklet, which I guess is room service. Something I haven’t experienced before, and suddenly the thought excites me.

He holds it out to me, and I take it from his hands, his ring catching the light. My heart swells at the sight… He didn’t take it off.

I didn’t either.

I shake my head and focus. Lowering the cup, I scan the menu as he still stands in front of me. My eyes widen at the prices. Twenty dollars for pancakes? I debate between playing it safe with something familiar or taking the opportunity to splurge.

“Do you know what you want?” he asks.

“Pancakes sound good.”

As he calls up our food, I finish my coffee and then slip off the counter.

“So before we head off, I was thinking we could go check out a gallery here in the hotel?”

“Planning to buy something?” I ask, putting the cup in the sink and keeping my gaze firmly on my task to avoid looking at his naked chest.

“Maybe, if I see something I like.”

His morning voice is a little huskier. I can feel it on my skin.

I make the mistake of looking at him. God, his abs .

You could grate a cheese block on them. But I bring my focus back to his words, wondering what it’s like having people buying your pieces as they walk into a gallery. It would be a surreal moment.

“I’ll shower and pack up while we wait for breakfast.” I walk out of the kitchen, needing to get some distance between us.

My heart is beating too fast, and I’m not sure if it’s from attraction or panic.

Either way, being alone with a half-naked Oliver feels like playing with fire.

I need a moment to remember this isn’t real; that I’m not supposed to notice how his eyes follow me or how easily he lifted me off that counter.

I shower, pack my bag, and then hear a knock at the door. Room service is here.

When Oliver opens the door, I barely contain my excitement at the sight of the silver trays being wheeled in. The server arranges everything on the dining table with an effort that makes me feel like royalty.

“This is amazing,” I whisper after the server leaves.

Oliver looks genuinely pleased by my reaction. “Dig in before it gets cold.”

We eat quickly, but I savor every bite.

“That was incredible,” I say as I finish the last strawberry. “Almost worth getting fake married for.”

Oliver laughs. “Just wait until you see the gallery. The Bellagio has one of the best collections in Vegas.”

Once we’ve checked out and our bags are stored with the concierge, we make our way toward the gallery.

As we approach the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art, I notice how the entrance stands apart from the casino’s glitz.

There’s an understated elegance to the facade, with clean lines and soft lighting.

Oliver walks close beside me, not quite touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating from him.

When we reach a narrow corridor, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward.

The gentle pressure sends a shiver up my spine that I try desperately to ignore.

Once we arrive inside, I’m struck by the calm and elegant atmosphere, with soft lighting and perfectly spaced displays.

The marble floors and muted tones set a peaceful backdrop for the bold, detailed art on the walls.

“I wanted to show you this place,” Oliver says quietly. “There’s something special about how they organize each exhibition… They understand that art needs room to breathe, to speak to the viewer.”

I glance at him, surprised by the passion in his voice. “You really love this, don't you? It's not just business for you.”

“Never has been,” he admits with a small smile. “The business part came second. I fell in love with art long before I thought about selling it.”

Each piece feels intentional, telling a story or capturing a moment with raw energy. It’s so different from what I’m used to back home. Some pieces are bright and abstract, while others, dark and realistic, but they all seem to pull you into another world.

I stop in front of a painting. It’s of a woman standing alone in the middle of a crowded street, her face turned upward, though no one around her seems to notice. The colors are muted, mostly grays and blues, but there’s a light shining on her face.

I can’t look away. Something about her expression resonates deeply with me. I’ve spent so much of my life feeling invisible, yet still searching for my own light.

“This one speaks to you,” Oliver says softly.

I nod, not trusting my voice. How long have I been standing here?

When I finally tear my gaze away from the painting to look at him, he’s closer than I expected, his eyes warm with something I can’t name. “We should probably keep moving. There’s a lot more to see.”

We continue through the gallery, occasionally brushing against each other. I find myself both avoiding and seeking these accidental touches.

After we’ve seen everything, lingering longer than I expected, we make our way toward the exit.

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy anything,” I say as we step back into the hotel’s main corridor.

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, expression thoughtful. “There were a couple I liked, but I just… know when it’s right. It’s like a feeling. You look at a piece, and it moves you,” he replies.

Does my art do that to people? Does it make them feel something? I’d like to think my art brings happiness. My work is feminine, mostly flowers in watercolor, though I’ve done birds here and there. But flowers are what feel right to me.

“All set to go home?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I smile, though there’s a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. Going home means starting this marriage for real—no more hotel bubble, just the daily reality of pretending to be Oliver’s wife. “You’ll have to show me this mansion I’ll be ‘enjoying’ now.”

“It won’t be so bad,” he teases.

“I’ve lived in worse places, trust me,” I say. “It’s been…a journey.”

The air gets a bit heavy, and I see a flash of something in his gaze. Concern? About what I’ve just hinted at. But instead of pushing, he just softens his voice. “I’ll try to make it as comfortable as possible. But don't get any ideas about taking the main bedroom.”

His playful energy instantly lifts me. “Why not? I might like it better than the guest room.”

“No chance. That’s mine. You can have any room. But I’m keeping mine.”

“How desperate are you for the gallery?” I ask, lifting my eyebrow.

His jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”

I wink. “I’ll decide when we get there.”

“Evil,” he murmurs.

I hide my smile, enjoying the way we’ve fallen into this. Almost like a game between friends.

On the plane, I settle into my seat, more relaxed this time.

The same pilot and flight attendant welcome us, and I gaze out the window, thinking about what comes next.

Before I know it, we’re back and in his car, heading toward my place.

I run through what I have to do: what to pack, what to throw out, how to organize my new life without losing myself in Oliver’s world.

“Why don’t I just meet you there?”

He glances at me curiously. “The movers will handle everything. That’s why I hired them.”

“I know, but there are some things I’d rather pack myself,” I explain, thinking about my sketchbooks, art supplies, and old journals, specifically the ones where I’ve written about him.

“No, I’ll help direct the movers. And as my wife, you could use my driver.”

“To work and school? I don’t need a driver for that,” I say, laughing. “When I’m with you, fine, but I don’t need the driver every day.”

He sighs. “Alright, but will you at least take one of my cars?”

“Oh, really? Does that include the Aston Martin?” I grin, remembering the sleek car I’d admired from afar.

He shrugs. “Sure, take it.”