Page 5

Five

Tiff

I’m just getting out of the shower when there’s a knock on the door.

I freeze.

It’s late.

I spent the time in between the grocery store (and the minor incident of kidnapping) doing my homework—and I am beyond thankful that I can only afford to take three classes this semester—because after that, I picked up Roxie—the little girl I nanny for—from school and she and I spent the afternoon at the park before doing her homework. Then I cooked dinner for her, leaving the leftovers for her parents to reheat after I was relieved from duty.

From there, I went straight to my parents’ house. I cooked them dinner then cleaned their shoebox of a house that’s become far too cluttered and dirty now that my dad is mostly bed bound and unable to do it. Something my mom, who has never been interested in cooking or cleaning is pissed about it (this being more pissed than normal—and my mom’s normal amount of pissed is pissed ). And while she’s recently been diagnosed with dementia and that likely explains some of her recent behavior, she’s never been a joy to deal with.

Now with a constant circuit of caregivers and home healthcare nurses and my dad unable to wait on her hand and foot, she’s worse.

But there are only so many fires I can put out in one day.

Today was the cleaning.

Of course, best laid plans and all that.

My intention was cleaning, cooking, checking in. But my list grew when my dad’s main nurse stopped me on her way out the door for a chat.

And that little convo resulted in hours of busy work.

Okay, well, it which resulted in a call—or a message, considering everything is digital nowadays (including depositing checks, which was the one convenient thing I did today, depositing Jean-Michel’s check via the mobile app on my cell)—to my dad’s doctor for new medication.

But the message had then resulted in a prescription, a prior authorization, and then an actual call—and because insurance companies seem to want to make everything as difficult as possible—that was punctuated with long hold times, going around and around with which generic of what the doctor prescribed is actually covered on the approved medication formulary list, and then finally getting a supervisor to actually give me some helpful answers.

And then that resulted in another message to the doctor, asking the team to revise the prescription.

Something that won’t happen until tomorrow.

And who knows how long it’ll take the pharmacy to fill it?

And…it means that my dad will go without.

Again.

After they put he put his life and financial security on the line for me?—

“No,” I whisper, gaze going to the mirror, studying my dark brown eyes, my dripping hair.

My head starts to throb. My heart aches. My eyes burn.

I’ll get my dad the medication as soon as I can.

I’ll do the best I can for him.

Always.

The second knock at door makes me jump, and I realize I’ve been stuck in my head instead of doing something about whoever is on the other side of it.

And let’s hope it’s not Dave.

I’m too tired to deal with his shit tonight.

I rip my gaze from the mirror, grabbing my robe and slipping it on, tying it tightly. I bring the towel with me to the door, drying the ends of my hair as I walk.

The third comes at the same time I’m bending to look through the peephole.

The fourth comes when I’m staring through the tiny circle of glass, gaping at the person on the other side of the door.

Because…

He can’t be here.

It just doesn’t make any sense at all.

But then he lifts his fist to knock again—which would be the fifth knock, for those keeping track—and I unstick, fingers moving to the dead bolt and disengaging it, then to the lock above the knob and disengaging that , and then as the sound of Jean-Michel Dubois knocking for that fifth time reverberates through the wood, I twist the handle and pull open the door a couple of inches.

“What are you doing here?”

It’s snapped-out and far ruder than any tone I would normally use.

But…

What the fuck is Jean-Michel doing here?

He doesn’t answer the question I’ve uttered aloud, nor the similar one bouncing around in my head. He just…

Slowly nudges the door in, pushing me back with it.

“I—”

The inches I created when I opened it turn into a foot. Then two. Then?—

Jean-Michel is stepping into my apartment.

Billionaire Jean-Michel Dubois is stepping into my apartment, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a bag dangling from his fingers.

He turns and closes the door behind him, and the click of the lock being engaged is gunshot loud in the tiny space.

This man is used to giant office buildings with walls of glass and mansions and private jets and?—

Oh, God.

My apartment is a mess.

I whirl around—gaze dragging over the space. My laptop is open on the battered coffee table I picked up from a street corner (which sounds bad, but it had a free sign on it and it fit in the trunk of my car so it’s what I have). Of course, the table is scratched and dented and also littered with reference books and index cards and a shit ton of different colored pens (because this is my system and I need what I need, yeah?). That’s not so bad, but the basket of clean laundry that I haven’t gotten around to folding yet is overflowing on my worn loveseat, the other half covered with mail that I haven’t had the chance to go through yet. Then there’s the fact that my bed is unmade and visible (hello studio apartment) and also covered with clean, and unfolded laundry.

Oh, and my dirty breakfast dishes are in the sink.

My mouth opens. “I?—”

His piercing blue eyes come up to mine, and there’s something in his face that I can’t read.

Likely because I’ve rushed over to the sink and I’m quickly putting my dishes in the sink, hiding them from view.

And then I’m doing more rushing—zipping by where he’s standing at the couch…and spotting what I couldn’t see from the door but what he certainly can see in his position.

My bras and underwear hanging over the plastic edges of the laundry basket.

Where I’d placed them to dry.

“Oh, my God,” I hiss under my breath, yanking them off the handle and shoving them into the pile of clothes, hiding them.

Oh, my freaking God.

A billionaire is in my apartment.

A hot billionaire whose body is filling out that suit to delicious fashion and whose smile is sexy and he’s seen my ratty bras and underwear and?—

I can’t do this.

I can’t.

I scoop up the basket and rush it across the room, shoving it onto the far side of my bed, moving the other basket into the same spot.

A flick has my comforter up and over my pillows, solving the unmade bed part at least.

“Tiff—”

I hurry back to the coffee table, start stacking books and papers. “I’m not usually this much of a slob, I swear,” I say, going for light even though I’m dying inside of embarrassment.

I’m supposed to have it all together.

I’m supposed to do everything right.

I’m not supposed to let billionaires into my apartment to see?—

“ Tiffany. ”

I freeze at the commanding tone, the pile of index cards and pens I’d been gathering up shooting from my hands, flying all over the place.

Clunk .

I jump again when the bottle of wine—of Oak Ridge wine—is plunked onto the table next to my laptop.

Then Jean-Michel is crouching next to me, brushing my hands away as he gathers up the pens and papers, stacking them neatly next to my books and laptop.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

His striking eyes lock with mine. “You had to put your wine back.”

For a couple of seconds that doesn’t process.

Then my heart squeezes hard.

“I—”

He straightens, goes back to organizing my scattered mess of school supplies. “I pay my debts.”

“You didn’t have?—”

“I know.” Firm. Final. And in control.

I shiver.

Because I wonder how far that control will extend.

Which is probably why my embarrassment disappears and curiosity gets the better of me.

I glance at the tote sitting next to my coffee table.

“What’s in the bag?”