Page 119 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

My legs almost crumble as any glimmer of hope I could have clung to that he might haveactually liked me, that he might have meant what he said, that I might really have been special to him, that maybethatpart wasn’t a lie, shrivels and dies inside me.

Until this moment I didn’t even realize I had those hopes. Didn’t even know I’d allowed any part of me to think that perhaps those last things he said to me were the truth, that perhaps Paige was right and the two things can be true at the same time. That he arrived here to do one thing, but ended doing another—falling for me.

That hope just died right here. Right before I’d even realized it was there.

The nice man gives me a kind smile. “I don’t really know much about it. Local contractors are doing the job. I’m just here to drop off the signage.” He rubs his chin as he looks at me. “But I believe this barn meant a lot to a lot of people.”

“It did. It absolutely fucking did.” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “And now you’re going to tear it down like a bunch of heartless bastards.”

“Miss.” He goes to put his hand on my arm but then clearly thinks better of it and withdraws it. “I assure you we’re not tearing down this barn.”

“What? You’re not? Why?” It’s like my brain was speeding forward and someone just slammed it into reverse. “What are you doing then?”

“We’re not tearing it down, no. Look.”

And I turn to see the men on the scaffolding unfurl a huge banner, the words revealing themselves one by one to my shocked eyes and even more shocked heart—The Donna Channing Arts Barn Restoration Project.

My knees choose this moment to lose their ability to hold me up, and I have no choice but to grab onto the nice man’s arm.

“Whoa, steady there,” he says. “Mr. Malone wants to restore this to its former glory. As a hub for family activities and workshops for arty-type people. Like jewelry makers, painters, woodworkers—those types of things. I think it’s going to have a café too. And he’s naming it after someone special. I’m not sure who she was, but apparently she’s very important to him.”

It’s only after he’s been silent for a couple of seconds that I realize I’m staring at him with my mouth wide open as his words wash over me.

“Did you know…” He looks up at the banner. “Donna Channing?”

I look up at it too, to be certain my watery eyes aren’t playing a giant and completely unfunny joke on me.

“I did,” I whisper.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

MILLER

With my heart jumping and hammering like a pneumatic drill and my stomach doing enough somersaults to win a gymnastics gold medal, I haven’t been able to face breakfast. So I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on my kitchen counter in case I can manage it en route, and head for the door.

Half of me wants to sprint out, the other half wants to move as slowly as possible, because the longer I’m here, the longer the possibly hopeless hope of Frankie forgiving me is still alive.

I’d planned to go see her yesterday.

After my talk with Oliver at whatever-the-hell o’clock, I was determined to get a few hours sleep, then drive right over there.

And I had literally just started my car and was reaching for the seat belt when Brooke called to say I needed to go talk the project manager for the PinnacleResidences out of quitting over the ridiculous unmatching toilets issue.

My knee-jerk reaction was to be frustrated as all hell. But later, with the project manager still in place thanks to a hefty bonus offer, I sat on my sofa with a beer and realized that the fact I hadn’t gone to see Frankie meant she hadn’t been able to turn me down. I was sitting there with a faint chance still flickering inside me, rather than a hollow aching hole where all my internal organs used to be.

But if anyone else important wants to quit today, they can go. Because I need to do my best to fix this thing. To go after the woman I want. I need. Even if all the roads are closed, the trains are canceled and flights are grounded. I’ll get myself to Warm Springs on the back of a donkey if I have to.

I push my feet into my sneakers at the same time as I press the button to open the doors of my private elevator.

It’s only 8 a.m. and the drive shouldn’t take me more than four hours at this time on a Saturday.

As the doors slide open, my phone pings.

Nope. Everyone can fuck off.

I can’t help but give it a quick glance, though.

It’s the Commoners group text.