Page 106 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

No matter how many parts of me have died these last few days, I still have to keep up the appearance of someone who is fully alive for my parents.

“Not often we see you on two consecutive days.” Mom pulls me into a hug with her other arm. “Unless this means you’re not coming tomorrow?”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t miss your Thanksgiving stuffing for the world.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t think the five of us have been together in one place since last Thanksgiving. What with Ethan going to what’s-her-face’s parents’ place last year.”

Mom never liked Ethan’s ex-girlfriend and has refused to say her name ever sinceshe dumped him.

“They all had fun on that job you shipped them out to New York for,” Mom says.

“Yup,” Dad says. “Lovely place.” He deliberately fixes me with his eyes. “Lovely client too.”

I turn away from his gaze. Can’t allow myself to hear his words. Can’t bear it. Denial is all I have to get me through the days. “So what did you pick up, Mom?”

“Just you wait and see. But I know you’ll like it.” That means there’s a shrimp and corn chowder with an Italian side salad in there.

“Let’s eat in the office,” Mom adds as she heads toward the back of the workshop.

“Be with you in a minute,” Dad says, pulling his safety glasses down from the top of his cap. “Just want to finish this knob.”

The lathe whirs up to speed and, within seconds, the air is full of that sweet scent of sawdust again. The aroma that reminds me of being a kid, when anything was possible.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

FRANKIE

“Your first task is to stop blaming yourself,” Paige says, as I pace back and forth in front of my laptop that’s sitting on the kitchen table. “And maybe sit down because you’re giving me a crick in my neck. It’s like watching a tennis match.”

“I can’t be still. My whole body is so fucking wired it’s jangling.”

It’s been just over twenty-four hours since I kicked Miller out. Twenty-four hours since I realized I was a total idiot for thinking he could possibly be actually interested in me. Twenty-four hours since the giant gaping hole that he’s bored through my chest made me realize just exactly how much I’d grown to feel for him. And twenty-four hours since I decided I am obviously an asshole magnet who needs to never go near another man again.

“Did you sleep last night?” she asks.

“Barely. I’ve tried to tire myself out by throwing all my energy into the prep for the Thanksgiving open day onSaturday. I’ve made flyers, taken a bunch of pumpkins to the retirement home and shown Grandpa’s new friends how to carve donkey-themed jack-o’-lanterns, made two big photo collages for his talk on the sanctuary’s history, helped set up some of the huts we’ve borrowed from the Christmas festival for the people who’re going to have stalls here, made more orange and brown streamers than I ever thought possible, persuaded Carly from the produce store—who’s quite the artist—to paint some donkey watercolors we can add to the raffle prizes, and tidied up everything outside, which I thought would wipe me out, but no matter how much I exhaust myself, I can’t sleep, because every time I stop moving all I think about is how furious I am at Miller and at myself and what an absolute fucking fool I am.”

“Jesus Christ. All since yesterday morning?” Paige asks. “I need to lie down after just listening to that. What the hell are you on?”

I hold up my mug. “Coffee.”

“You never drink coffee. So your next task is to cut back on the caffeine.”

“Can’t. I’m exhausted from the not-sleeping and still have a thousand things to get ready in three days. And now I have no help because my one helper turned out to be a lying liar who lied about absolutely everything.”

“To be fair, he didn’t lie abouteverything.”

I stop mid-pace and stare at her face on the screen. This is not the right time for her devil’s advocate thing. “He lied about who he was and why he was here. He gave me a false name. Have you looked him up?”

“Of course,” she says.“He was Boston’s youngest self-made billionaire at thirty. He lives in a bougie penthouse with a private pool, stunning views, and a bedroom that’sabout ten times the size of my apartment. He trained as a carpenter but got into developing when he worked for a house-flipper. He owns a soccer team, seemingly for fun, with three incredibly famous people, all of whom you like. And he’s very, very hot.”

“And very, very a liar,” I counter. “Also, in all those things you read, did you see any mention, even one tiny little mention, of anythinggoodhe’s done? Anything that wasn’t for the money? Anything he’s done for anyone except himself?”

“Not all people shout their charity work from the rooftops.”

“Maybe. But he was trying to get me to like him, right? Because he wanted me to trust his completely unbiased advice to sell this place to his company. So he would have said anything he could to make himself look good to me. But he didn’t mention one altruistic thing he’s done with all his…billions.”

Billions.