Page 51 of The Billionaire's Baby

I smirk. "It’s fine to share your fantasies. In fact," I tilt my head, "I very much want you to share your fantasies."

"No fantasies."

"Aww, come on, don’t hold out on me now, especially since we were finally having a real conversation—"

"Not." She tips up her chin, and walks toward the open plan kitchen that adjoins the room. She takes in the oven, the coffee maker, the counter that separates it from the living room. She opens the refrigerator and whistles, "You weren’t kidding about the caretaker. This place is stocked. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had anticipated coming here…" Her voice trails off. She closes the refrigerator and turns to me. "You hadn’t, right?" She tilts her head.

"What are you asking?"

"You didn’t engineer all this to get me here on an island away from everybody and—"

"At my mercy?"

She swallows.

"And if I had?"

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. "Then I’d have to wonder why you went to all the effort." She frowns. "Although, not even you could have anticipated the storm," she laughs nervously, "right?"

"Right."

I shrug out of the lifejacket, then walk over to the closet by the doorway and hang it there. I proceed to remove my shoes and put them aside. When I straighten, she’s still watching me. "Your shoes." I point toward them, "You’re tracking mud across the place."

"Oh." She clomps over to me, then toes off her shoes. The wind bangs against the door and she shivers.

"You cold? Want to take a shower?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Straight through to the bedroom."

She nods, then walks inside.

I head to my backpack, and pull out the things I’d managed to pack before our hasty departure. Spare clothes, extra flares, a torch, a rope… I lay them on the table.

"What’s the rope for?"

I turn to see her eyeing me from the doorway.

"What do you think it’s for?" I ask.

She juts out her hip and props her hand on it. "You seriously weren’t thinking about…"

I tilt my head, "About—?"

"Never mind." She walks back inside. I hear the bathroom door close, then open again.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

She flounces out and into the living room. "There’s no latch on the bathroom."

My lips begin to quirk, and I turn away to hide my smile. "I tend to be alone when I am here," I reply, then walk over to the kitchen, top off the coffee maker and switch it on.

The sound of the percolator fills the empty space.

"Still." She huffs, "Whoever doesn’t have a latch on the bathroom door?"