Page 102 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“What the fuck is it about me that makes people deceive me?” The thought spills from my lips as I shove my feet into my boots. Miller was only with me to use me for his own ends, just like Bastard Brandon. “I knew it was too good to be true. I knew my gut couldn’t be trusted.”

“Christ, Frankie, there’s nothing wrong with you. How can you think that? You’re perfect.” Those last two words still me for a moment, stirring something inside me, the part of me that told me I could trust him. The part of me that, just a few minutes ago, would have thought those words meant all my dreams might come true. The part of me that wasso very wrong.

“Just give me a minute to get dressed, then I’ll tell you everything,” he adds.

I snatch my coat off the hook and thrust my arms into it. But the sleeve of my hoodie is too thick and my arm gets stuck halfway and I have to pull it out, wrap the sleeve tightly around my wrist and hold onto it while I try again.

“Please, Frankie,” Miller says softly.

“I’m going to let the donkeys out,” I reply without turning around. “Be gone by the time I’m back.”

“I know I’m the asshole here. But I can explain, let me expl?—”

I slam the front door behind me and head toward the stable of donkeys who never let me down, the greens and browns of their empty field blurring in front of me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MILLER

I look out through my car window at the “Cross & Grain. A Family of Master Carpenters” sign over the door of my dad’s workshop in Southie.

I’ve kept myself as busy as humanly possible for the twenty-four hours since I came back to Boston after Frankie threw me out. Not that immersing myself in work has managed to lessen the sensation of being stabbed in the chest with a spoon. The pain is blunt and puncturing and bruising and feels like it will never stop.

After she walked out of the house yesterday morning, all I wanted to do was chase after her, beg for her forgiveness, take her in my arms, explain how crazy I am about her and that, yes, we met under circumstances of me not exactly being the best version of myself, but that it was a one-off brought about by years of pent-up anger over how Skinner treated my parents.

I wanted to tell her I’d make everything right, that I’dtake care of her and her grandpa and the donkeys and everything would be exactly as she wants it.

But I’m pretty sure that if I’d tried it right then, I’d have gotten a knee in the chain saw boxers.

So I listened to the sensible corner of my brain that told me to at least give her some time and space.

Right before Skinner showed up, I’d thought there might be at least a remote glimmer of hope that I could explain everything to her in a way that might still leave us teetering on the edge of a chance of a future together. But that dick-ass snatched it away, ground it to a pulp, and stomped on it. All with that abhorrent reptilian grin on his face.

But I can’t blame everything on him.

I had so many chances to come clean to her before that morning, but I was too much of a coward.

I’m such a fucking idiot—a fucking idiot who’s fucking fucked up every-fucking-thing.

Last night as I tried to sleep, the image of the way Frankie’s face changed as it dawned on her what had actually been going on haunted the backs of my eyelids.

Again, now, recalling her expression of sadness and hurt combined with a spark of fury makes me hate myself more than I ever thought possible, makes my insides feel like the hollow wreckage of a burned-out car—charred and mangled and beyond repair.

She hates me. I know she does.

And there’s no way for me to fix it.

And no way for me to fix myself. I’ll be blaming myself for ruining this chance for the rest of my life. And I’m not sure I’ll ever get my power of concentration back—it feels like it’s shot for good.

After this morning’s meeting with the city guyobsessed with the sprinkler system in the Seaport project, who finally and grudgingly accepted that our plans are perfectly code compliant, my ability to keep my mind on work was completely drained. So I thought I’d try to reset my brain by going for a drive, and once I was in the car I felt a sudden need to be around my parents.

But first I need to deal with something else that’s been playing on my mind since I got back.

I pick up my phone from the center console and call Brooke.

“Hey,” she says, through a mouthful of something.

“Still working your way through that box of doughnuts?”