Page 109 of The Billionaires' Gamble

I take a step toward the stairs to the lower level, seeking solace from the lush garden.

On the entry table is the small potted succulent that King carries around like it’s his pet.

There’s that weird twisting sensation in my chest again. I rub the spot as I descend the stairs.

Gabe’s taking care of Katherine and King by taking care of their things.

I should have done that.

I would have done that.

But this isn’t a competition. It’s nice to have someone else picking up the slack. And if something happened to me, Katherine would have someone to lean on in Gabe and King. Just like Gabe would have someone in his corner.

He follows, and when I pause in front of the windows, hands on my hips, he stares out into the verdant backyard.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” I start, needing the silence to end.

“Me too.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him turn my way. An odd, full-body awareness courses through me, making me cognizant of every nerve ending, every cell, in a way I wasn’t before. Like I’m suddenly teeming with energy. Finger twitching, restless energy.

“I never should have compared my company to Courtney’s murder.”

My fingers flex into my hips, and I release the sigh that’s been building. Turning toward him, I meet his bright blue gaze. He always smells good. Fresh, clean, expensive but understated. But today, the combination of scents that are so distinctly Gabe hit me hard.

Not that it’s overwhelming. More like I’ve missed it.

I missed our six a.m. hoops. The random factoids he’s always peppering me with.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, lips curved down. So serious.

My skin burns hot, and my heart thunders.

He looks tired, like he’s back to not sleeping. But the dark circles beneath his eyes are only the tip of the iceberg. This Gabe is too much like the sullen version of himself he was after Henry Chanler swept through his life with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. I hated it then, and I hate it now. He’s meant to live amongthe stars with that big brain and all those ideas. The chaos he uses for good.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like I’m correcting him. “Your past is yours, and you’re allowed to get over it or not in your own time. I shouldn’t have made that comparison. Your company… it’s your baby. Your creation. I know what that feels like now.”

And just like I fight like hell to protect people, I’d fight like crazy to protect my company.

“Yeah, but companies can be rebuilt.”

“And friendships?” There’s a desperate pounding ofmy heart. “Can those be rebuilt?”

His chin jerks back, sort of slowly, as surprise widens his eyes.

“Does our friendship need to be rebuilt?”

“You tell me.”

He stares at me. Hard. Gaze roaming my face like he’s trying to figure out what to make of me. And that’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t fully understand what’s happening here. We’ve always been steady. Just a constant presence in each other’s lives.

Then, raking a hand through his hair, he turns away. Stalks away. I follow, tugged by an invisible force.

“I don’t get it,” he says, frustration lacing each word.

“Me either.”

He turns back, almost bumping into me.