Page 28 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T he tray’s heavy in my hands, but the smell makes it worth it—biscuits and gravy, eggs, crispy tater tots, coffee still steaming, and a single white lily in a bud vase. I nudge the door open with my shoulder and pause in the doorway.

She’s still asleep.

Raven-black hair spilled across the dark satin pillowcase, lips parted just slightly, face soft without the usual guarded edge. Yeah… I could get used to this. Waking up to her and this view every damn day.

She stirs, a small stretch under the covers, and I step in. “Hey,” She says sleepily.

“Don’t worry… I didn’t blow up the kitchen,” I say, keeping my voice low, teasing.

She pushes up on one elbow and rubs her eye.

“Jaxon, you didn’t have to?—”

“I didn’t,” I cut in. “My chef’s here prepping some meals, so I put in a special request.”

I set the tray on her lap, and she immediately notices the flower, brushing her fingertips over the white petals. I lean down, kiss the side of her head, then move to the other side of the bed and slide in under the covers with her.

She reaches for the coffee first, but her eyes are already darting to the food.

“Ooh, it’s my favorite.”

“I know.”

Her grin widens as she lifts the lid. “Even eggs and tater tots?”

“And sausage biscuits with gravy a little spice the way you like,” I say.

She gets her silverware, building her perfect bite —something she is very insistent on for select meals. A bit of egg on the biscuit, then a tater tot, then a generous scoop of sausage gravy to crown it.

“Mmm.” She closes her eyes on the first chew, sighing like she just bit into heaven. “This is the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but inside I’m doing cartwheels. She likes my breakfast the most.

She feeds me a bite, and, yeah—it’s fucking good. I steal a sip of her coffee, and we fall into a rhythm of sharing the plate between us. I talk about one of my companies—a new datacenter that’s coming online—and she shows me pictures Big Ben sent of Saving Grace and Dominion.

“Not bad,” I say, studying the shots. “He’s actually got a good eye for photography. Would’ve never guessed it.”

She nudges me with her knee under the blanket, mock-offended.

I wait until the moment feels right before I ask, careful with my tone, “Speaking of very talented artists… will you let me sit with you in your studio while you paint?”

She freezes, coffee cup halfway to her mouth, and I can see the flicker of nerves in her eyes. I let her sit with it, no pressure, just quiet between us for a moment.

“I can even throw in this last tater tot as a bribe.” I tease, spearing the last one and holding out the fork to her.

Finally she smiles a little and says, “Okay.”

T he art room I made for her doesn’t look like my space anymore.

Hell, it doesn’t even look like a room I’m letting her borrow.

It’s hers—solely and completely hers. The easel’s set just so, a scattering of brushes and tubes of paint on the table, one of her sweaters draped over the back of the stool like it lives here.

I brought my laptop, but I’m not sitting at the desk. Instead, I drop down onto a floor pillow, lean my back against the wall, legs stretched out with one ankle crossed over the other. I keep my posture lazy, like I’ve got work to focus on, even though we both know I’m watching her.

She puts on some low music and stands in front of a blank canvas, just staring at it. I think maybe she’s nervous with me here. Not everyone wants an audience while they work, and I can be… a lot.

But then she moves, grabbing a brush and a few other tools, and I realize she wasn’t stalling—she was deciding.

And then… it’s beautiful. Not just the painting, but the way her mind works.

How she sees things. She mixes paint with pastels, works in bold strokes and delicate touches, adds gold leaf in places like she’s hiding treasure in plain sight.

Sometimes she dilutes the paint, letting it drip down in chaotic streams that somehow make the whole thing more balanced.

I don’t even realize how much time passes until I’m pulling out my phone and snapping a few shots of her. She doesn’t notice—she’s too deep in whatever world she’s creating.

One picture in particular stops me. She’s bent forward slightly, face tilted in concentration, hair falling loose around her cheeks, brush poised on the canvas. She looks… peaceful.

I turn it black and white, and the light catches her just right, softening the edges while still showing that fire in her expression. Yeah… this one’s perfect.

I set it as my lock screen, glance at it one more time, and slide my phone into my pocket, a smile tugging at my mouth.

She’s stepped back, one arm folded over her chest, the other holding the tip of a paintbrush between her teeth. She tilts her head one way, then the other, studying the canvas like she’s weighing its worth.

I push up from the floor and come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I press a kiss to the side of her head, breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur against her ear.

She leans back into me, her head resting against my chest, and from here I can see the whole thing better. It’s her—painted in deep, layered shades of green, surrounded by abstract lilies that seem to bloom right out of the canvas.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “I thought my mom would like to have it in her room.”

I pull her tighter against me. “She’ll love it,” I promise, kissing her again. “We can take it to her when it’s dry.”

She nods and turns in my arms, looping her hands around my neck.

“What are your paintings, really?” I ask, curious.

She plays it off with a shrug. “Just… silly paintings.”

“I know they’re not,” I tell her, but she just smiles like she’s not ready to give me more, and leans in to kiss me.

Fuck, I could kiss her all day. Her soft lips, the slow sweep of her tongue—it pulls my stomach tight, and my cock’s getting harder by the second. My hands roam over her, gripping her ass and pulling her flush against me.

She breaks the kiss, lips plump, cheeks pink. She looks like sin wrapped in innocence, and it’s mine—at least right now.

She bites her lip and holds her breath, eyes darting away. I narrow mine.

“What?” I ask, suspicion edging my tone.

She hesitates, like she’s fighting herself. “C-can…” Her voice falters, then steadies. “…Can we go sit outside for a minute?”

The way she says it—quiet, careful—puts a weight in my chest. Something’s coming, and I’m not going to like it.

Still, I nod. “Yeah.” I lace my fingers through hers and lead her toward the terrace, the sinking feeling growing heavier with every step.