Page 345 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Knight

"If only she’d give me a chance." I rub behind Tiny’s ear, and he yawns, then clambers onto the sofa next to me. The mutt’s the size of a pony, but he clearly thinks he’s a poodle. He prefers to curl up on the settee in the living room and thrust his nose into my lap.

The first time, he took me by surprise. I admit, I’d been worried the sectional wouldn’t bear his weight, but it held up.

Also, when I tried to push him off, he sulked until I relented and allowed him up.

And so most evenings, after my run with Adam—we’ve taken to running twice a day, once in the morning and once after work, now—I sprawl out on the sofa and watch gardening shows with Tiny.

Y-e-p, you heard that right. The man who used to hold a gun has found an affinity to holding flower bulbs.

In fact, I’ve taken to cultivating them in pots on the balcony of my penthouse.

Something about the undemanding routine of working with your hands in the earth, surrounded by greenery and nature, seems to soothe the churning in me.

Something only she’d been able to do previously.

Thoughts of her are never too far away from my mind.

Especially because I know I’ve hurt her again.

Why didn’t I have the courage to tell her about Bobbie's daughter? I haven’t seen her yet, and the social worker who’s been assessing me for the adoption hasn’t been impressed by me.

I wasn’t surprised, at first, considering I was a single man.

But as far as they know, I'm not anymore. Of course, it doesn’t help that they've never met my wife, and I'm also an emotionally wounded man with too many issues. Hell, I’d be the first to say I’m not fit to be a parent.

In a way, that’s why I was relieved when Penny told me she wasn’t pregnant.

Not that I wanted the disappointment I glimpsed on her face, but considering I had to figure out the details of how I was going to push through the adoption, it seemed prudent not to rush into being a father of another child.

So why didn’t you tell her about it? Bobbie escaping from the hospital and her caregiver that day and walking into my office provided the opportunity to clear the air with Penny, but I didn’t take advantage of it.

Fact is, I was a coward. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but I didn’t want her to feel burdened by the promises I made to my friend and teammate.

That's my burden to bear. But isn’t that what marriage is about?

Sharing your burdens? Sharing your most intimate secrets?

Are you ready to share yours with her? Besides, how long did you think you'd be able to hide a child living in your house from her?

The absurdity of trying to keep this secret from Penny doesn't escape me. I'm an idiot.

I slump back into the cushions, legs kicked out on the sectional.

I’ve turned down the volume on the television, so there’s no commentary.

The screen shows images of the English countryside in autumn.

Greens and browns and golds. The color of her eyes when she’s angry or when she’s experiencing high emotion.

Everything reminds me of her. Pink roses of her favorite color, sunflowers of her sunny nature, dahlias of her delicate beauty, the symmetry of her features, and sweet, star-shaped asters of her good-nature. I took advantage of her.

She’s the very opposite of me. She lights up the corners of my existence, and I never once told her how much I appreciate it.

Instead, I wanted to bury myself in her, draw from her grace and beauty and kind-hearted nature.

I was greedy and selfish. I was drawn to her because I needed her to heal myself.

And what did I given her in return? Secrets, disappointments…

and orgasms… Which would have been so much more fulfilling if I'd told her I love her. If I’d opened myself up, mind and body and soul, and made love to her.

It’s not too late. You can tell her everything. You can drop the final walls you’ve put up between the two of you. You can trust her. You can—

Tiny begins to bark.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

He barks again, then whines.

“It’s okay boy, there’s no one here but you and me, and—”

His ears perk. He jumps onto the floor and bounds toward the elevator doors. He barks even louder, then prances about in front of the elevator.

I frown and rise to my feet. “What’s up boy?”

I walk toward him and glance at the indicator to find the cage is on its way up. Tiny jumps up and plants his paws on the elevator doors, which are still shut.

“Sit, boy,” I grab his collar and manage to coax him back.

He whines, begins to plant his butt on the floor, then changes his mind, and once again, straightens.

He barks so loudly, the sound reverberates off the walls.

It stabs that part of your ear that only responds this way to barking dogs and screaming children.

“Whoa, quiet down," I yell. "Whoever's coming up will here soon enough and—"

The doors slide open, and he straightens and leaps forward with such enthusiasm, my hold on him loosens. He half skids forward with a joyful bark as she steps into the hallway.

"Hey, boy, did you miss me? Uff—"

Tiny bumps his head against her, and she staggers back.

"Penny!" I move so quickly my feet don’t seem to touch the floor. I reach her and grab her waist, then draw her to me before she can fall over.

"Tiny, sit," I scold him.

His ears droop. I swear, his jowls hang more than normal, and with a whine, he plants his butt on the floor.

"Aww, poor baby. You didn’t mean it, did you?"

Tiny’s tail thumps with enough force that the ground seems to shake.

She pulls away from me; I release her. She steps toward Tiny, and bending only a little, throws her arm around the big brute.

So, the mutt gets a hug, and I— I’m greeted by the sight of her perfect, heart-shaped behind clad in sweats—pink, of course.

She scratches him behind his ears, and his eyes roll back in his head.

I know the feeling. Lucky bastard. He gets to feel her touch, to be at the receiving end of her limpid gaze, to feel her warmth as she hugs him, and whoa…

Hold on, are you jealous of a dog? Get a grip, man.

I shuffle my weight from foot to foot; she ignores me. I clear my throat.

Tiny woofs, and she makes an "awww" sound and pats his head. He, of course, plays it for all it’s worth. He places his paw on her shoulder and looks into her eyes and—

"Okay, that’s enough."

I step forward and glare at the mutt. "Down, boy, and I mean it."

He looks from me to her, then back at me, before he lowers his head and lies down on the floor. He continues to watch us with those big, melting eyes, and that gets the intended reaction from her.

"Why did you do that?" She turns toward me. "I was petting him."

"And you’re done now."

She scowls. "I’ll say when I’m done."

"Oh?"

She firms her lips. "And I thought you’d changed."

Clearly, not enough. I throw up my hands. "You walk into my place. Then, you ignore me. You walk past me without acknowledging my presence and then, you shower this—this—mutt with affection."

She blinks. "He’s cute."

"I’m cute."

"Ha!" She laughs. "You and cute?" She shakes her head in disbelief.

"I can be cute." I can be anything you want, if you give me a chance, baby.”

"There are many adjectives I associate with you, but cute is not one of them."

"So, there are adjectives you associate with me, hmm?" I try to keep the gloating out of my voice, but I don’t think I succeed; her brows knit.

"They’re really not anything to be proud of."

"The fact that you spend time thinking of me at all is something I’m proud of."

Her gaze widens. She seems taken aback, then with a last pat on Tiny’s head, walks past me and toward the view of the city from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She pauses halfway. "There’s an armchair by the window," she murmurs.

"Indeed."

"And a bookshelf next to it."

"Mmm-hmm."

"With books."

"Don’t you want to see what they are?" I murmur.

She reaches it and runs her fingers across the spines. "These are fantasy novels."

"Romantasy," I correct her.

She whips her head around to stare at me. "Did you say—"

"Romantasy?" I walk over to stand next to her. "There are also fantasy romance novels, all spicy and with the tropes you love."

"Wait, hold on"—she gapes—"you know about tropes?"

"I might have done a bit of research to understand them, but yes, I do know about tropes. Also,"—I pick up a tablet and hand it to her—"take a look."

She shoots me a confused look.

"Go on. You’re going to love it, I promise."

She pulls up the screen, browses for a few moments, then gasps. "Oh my god, this has all my favorite apps where I can read Dramione fan fiction?" Her fingers fly across the screen. "And a lifetime subscription, too?"

"Also—" I hand her another device.

"A brand-new Kindle paper white?" She places the table aside and snatches the Kindle from me. She switches it on, then stills. "You filled it with my favorite smutty fantasy romance authors?"

"Those whose books are very similar in themes to Dramione. I also took the liberty of adding some enemies-to-lovers contemporary romance novels, which I’m told remind readers of Dramione."

She swallows, then blinks rapidly. "You didn’t have to do this."

"I did." I round the armchair then place my palms on it. "Have a seat, milady."

She half laughs. "You know what? I think I will."

She drops her bag to the floor, then slides in. I reach forward and touch a lever and the chair reclines back. Then, with a smooth mechanism, the lower half extends out so she’s able to stretch out her legs.

"Whoa, this is so comfortable."

"The best on the market. Also…" I press another button and one of the arms extends out. "Now you have a place for your devices and books to be close at hand."

Her eyes round. "I’ve never seen anything like this before."

"And you shouldn’t have. This was made for you."

"For me?"

"I called up the best designer in the world, gave her my expectations, and—"

"She delivered it so quickly."

"I asked for it to be."

"Oh." Her lips part. A myriad of expressions flit across her features. She opens her mouth to say something, but I shake my head.

"Not yet. Let me savor this feeling; it’s not one I’m used to."

"You mean doing something nice for someone?"

"Doing something for you.” I squat down next to her, so we are at eye level.

“I’d do anything for you, Little Dove. I’m sorry for not telling you about Bobbie or her child.

I feel responsible for what happened to my team.

If I had been more vigilant, she wouldn’t have lost a husband, and her child, a father.

Those men trusted me, and I let them down.

My teammates put their faith in me, and I couldn’t save them.

I’ll never be able to forgive myself for what happened. "

She peers between my eyes. "So, are you going to go through the rest of your life beating yourself up for what happened?"