Page 42 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

WILLOW

I wake to the unfamiliar sensation of silk sheets against my naked skin and warm, golden sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am.

Then a strong arm tightens around my waist, and it all comes flooding back—Damien, the fundraiser, the dancing, the incredible night that followed.

The hours upon hours of incredible sex. And the tenderness of the man who not only gave me the night of my life, but also listened to me spill my entire sad childhood to him afterward. The man who made me feel protected and heard. Cherished, even.

He's still asleep, his face softer in repose than I've ever seen it.

No furrowed brow, no calculating expression, just Damien.

I allow myself a moment to simply look at him, to trace the strong line of his jaw with my eyes, to silently envy his inky dark eyelashes.

He's devastatingly handsome, even with bed-rumpled hair and morning stubble. Maybe especially then.

I carefully extract myself from his embrace, curious to explore his home in the daylight. I pause when I feel the cool weight of something around my neck—the diamond and pearl necklace. I'd completely forgotten I was still wearing it.

As I ease out of bed and carefully unfasten the gems to set them on the nightstand, Damien stirs. "Where are you going?" His voice is deliciously rough with sleep.

"Just looking around," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."

Instead, he rises up on one elbow, eyes traveling appreciatively over my naked body. "I have a better idea. Shower with me."

I have to admit, the thought of a nice hot shower sounds heavenly. So much the better if he’s joining me.

His bathroom is bigger than my entire bedroom at home, all gleaming marble and glass. The shower alone could fit four people comfortably, with multiple showerheads positioned at different heights.

"This is ridiculous," I laugh as Damien adjusts the water temperature. "You could host parties in here."

He smirks and I feel my eyes go wide. “How many other people have you had in here with you at one time?”

"Only one—you," he replies, pulling me under the spray with him, his hands immediately finding my waist.

The hot water cascades over us as he kisses me, slowly and thoroughly. His body is hard against mine, making it clear that morning has brought no diminishment of his desire. His hands slide over my wet skin, leaving trails of heat that have nothing to do with the water temperature.

"Turn around," he murmurs against my lips.

I comply, and he begins shampooing my hair with skilled fingers that massage my scalp until I'm practically purring.

It's shockingly intimate, this mundane act turned sensual by his touch.

When he moves on to soaping my body, paying special attention to my breasts and between my thighs, any hope of making it out of the shower quickly evaporates.

I return the favor, relishing the opportunity to explore his body with soapy hands, to feel his smooth muscles tense beneath my touch. By the time we finally emerge from the shower, we're both clean, slightly breathless, and definitely behind schedule.

"I don't have anything that will fit you properly," Damien says, rummaging through his massive walk-in closet. "But these should work for now."

He hands me a pair of dark gray luxury brand sweatpants with a drawstring waist and a white dress shirt with monogrammed cuffs.

The pants are comically large, but manageable once I roll the waistband and cinch the drawstring tight.

The shirt drowns me, but it smells like him, so I'm not complaining.

"My housekeeper, Eliza, can provide a garment bag for your dress," he says, nodding toward the bedroom doorway. "She'll take care of packing it for you."

"Thank you." I glance down at my feet. "I suppose I'll need to wear my Louboutins home."

He grins. "You won’t hear me complaining."

"Maybe not, but my neighbors might wonder," I reply with a smile.

Breakfast is a surreal experience. The dining room could comfortably seat twenty, with a chandelier overhead that probably costs more than a year's rent on my apartment.

A middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform—his housekeeper, I assume—serves us fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee in delicate china cups.

"Is this how you eat every morning?" I ask, taking a sip of coffee that's better than anything I've ever made .

"Actually, I usually grab something at the office." Damien looks oddly out of place in his own formal dining room, dressed casually in dark jeans and a light-knit sweater. "I asked Eliza to prepare the full service just for you."

"Well, it's lovely." I smile at the housekeeper when she returns with more coffee. "Thank you, Eliza."

She seems surprised at being addressed directly, but returns the smile with a small nod before disappearing back to the kitchen.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me, pulling me away reluctantly from my breakfast with Damien. I check the display: Silver Hearts. Real life doesn’t wait simply because I’m enjoying a pleasant morning with the man I adore.

"I should take this," I tell Damien apologetically.

He gestures for me to go ahead, his attention already on his own phone.

"Willow Harper," I answer, slipping into professional mode.

"Willow, it's Jane." My office coworker’s voice bubbles with excitement. "Have you seen the donations coming in this morning? We're up another hundred thousand since the event ended last night!"

"What?" I nearly drop my delicate coffee cup. "That's incredible!"

"Word is spreading about the event. The Times ran a small piece, and apparently several guests have been talking us up on social media." She pauses. "Also, I heard Damien was quite... supportive last night."

The innuendo in her tone makes me blush. Jane knows Damien well enough by now to tease me about him. "He's been incredible throughout this entire process," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral .

There’s a giggle in her tone. "I'll bet he has."

Before I can respond to that, my phone beeps with another incoming call. "Jane, I've got to take this. We'll talk later?"

I switch calls without waiting for her answer. "Willow Harper."

"Willow, thank god!" It's Miguel, one of our volunteer coordinators. "Mrs. Reynolds fell this morning trying to get her mail. The ambulance just took her to Mount Sinai. Her daughter's out of town, and she's asking for you."

My heart sinks. Mrs. Reynolds is one of our oldest clients, stubborn and independent to a fault. "I'll head there as soon as I can. Did they say how bad it is?"

"Possible broken hip. You know what that means at her age."

Crap. I do. It could be the beginning of the end of her independence. "Tell her I'm coming. And Miguel, can you phone Jane at my office and tell her what’s going on, please?"

"Sure, no problem."

I end the call with a sigh, looking up to find Damien watching me, his expression unreadable.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"One of our seniors fell. I need to get home and change so I can run to the hospital." I push back from the table. "I'm so sorry to cut our morning short."

He shakes his head. "Don't apologize. It's important."

As if on cue, his own phone pings with an incoming message. He glances at it and his jaw tightens. "Alfred," he mutters, his fingers flying over the screen as he types a response.

The moment feels ironic somehow—both of us pulled back to our separate responsibilities, our separate worlds. Last night seems suddenly distant, like a dream I'm just waking from.

"Time for this Cinderella to get back to her pumpkin, I guess," I say with a light laugh.

Damien looks up sharply from his phone. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing." I offer a smile I don't entirely feel. "Just... real life returning."

He sets his phone down, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Willow, last night wasn't?—"

His phone rings loudly, cutting him off. He glances at the display and frowns. "It's Guardian Productions. I missed several voice mails from them last night."

"You should take the call," I tell him. "It sounds important."

He hesitates, then picks up the phone. "Langley speaking."

I excuse myself to find my Louboutins, giving him privacy for his call. By the time I return, dress bag in hand, he's pacing the length of the dining room, his expression drawn into the focused, professional mask I recognize from our early days together.

"Yes, I understand the urgency," he's saying. "I can be there in thirty minutes." He pauses, listening. "No, that won't work. We need the architects to sign off on the changes before... Right. I'll handle it."

He ends the call with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I understand." And I do. This is his world—urgent calls, multimillion-dollar decisions, people waiting on his word. "I should get going anyway. Mrs. Reynolds doesn't like to be kept waiting, especially when she's the one in the hospital bed."

"I'll drop you at your apartment on my way to the office," he offers .

"You don't have to do that. I can grab a cab."

"It's on my way," he insists, though I'm fairly certain the hospital is in the opposite direction from his office. “I’ll call my driver to bring the car around for us now.”

I don't argue. Part of me wants to prolong our time together, even if it's just a car ride through morning traffic.

I feel suddenly uncertain, suspended between the magic of last night and the reality of today.

Damien seems equally distant, his mind already on Guardian Productions and whatever crisis Alfred has manufactured.

We ride the elevator down to the garage in silence. The car that awaits us isn't his Mercedes but a sleek black town car with a driver at the wheel.

"Heinrich has your address," Damien explains. "I need to make some calls on the way."

I nod, clutching my garment bag closer, feeling oddly like a one-night stand being politely dispatched.

Which is ridiculous—everything is different now.

We've known each other for weeks, shared conversations far more intimate than sex.

Yet something has shifted this morning, and I can't quite put my finger on what.

As we slide into the back seat, Damien immediately opens his laptop, though he places his free hand on my knee in what feels like an apologetic gesture.

I watch the city pass by outside my window, trying to recalibrate my expectations.

Last night was extraordinary, yes, but it was also the culmination of our professional arrangement—the fundraiser we'd been working toward.

What happens now?

My phone buzzes again. Another call from Silver Hearts, another emergency to handle. I take it, discussing medication schedules and transportation arrangements while Damien conducts his own business beside me. Our shoulders touch, but we're each in our own worlds, speaking different languages.

By the time we reach my neighborhood, I've fielded three calls and Damien has responded to at least a dozen emails. The distance between us feels wider with each block.

Damien closes his laptop, finally turning his full attention to me. "I'll walk you up."

"No need. You have meetings to get to." I gather my things, suddenly eager to escape the confines of the car, to get back to my chaotic apartment with my needy pets and mismatched furniture. Back to where I know who I am.

He frowns slightly. "At least let me get your door."

Before I can protest, he's out of the car and coming around to my side. He opens the door, extending his hand to help me out. The gesture is courtly, at odds with my borrowed sweats and rumpled appearance.

"Thank you," I say, for lack of anything better. "For everything. Last night was?—"

"Perfect," he finishes. His eyes soften as he looks at me, and for a moment, I see the Damien from last night again. He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay." I'm not sure I believe him, but I want to.

He kisses me goodbye, a gentle press of lips that feels both intimate and oddly formal. Then he's back in the car, the door closing behind him, the window rolling down so he can offer one last smile.

"Later," he promises again.

I nod, stepping back as the car pulls away from the curb and heads up the street. Clutching my dress bag against me, I watch until Damien’s vehicle disappears around the corner .

The fairy tale might be over, but I'm not sure what story we're in now. All I know as I turn to enter my building, my phone already ringing with another Silver Hearts emergency, is that I'm caught between two worlds—the one I've always known, and the one I glimpsed last night in Damien's arms.

And I have no idea if they can ever truly meet.