Page 17 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

I place the bedding pile on top, safely preventing it from touching any dusty surface.

“I was thinking,” I say, even though it’s actually only just occurred to me. “Do you have any other clothes?” Okay, that sounds weird. “I mean, since all your stuff was stolen.”

He shakes his head. “Just a regular winter coat and sneakers back at the hotel.”

“Okay. Well, before the end of tomorrow this place will have ruined that shirt and those designer jeans.” Goddamn my eyes for drifting over his crotch as I say that.

I run my fingers over the pillowcase to give myself something non-penis-related to focus on. Though, if he does sleep naked, his penis would definitely be sheet adjacent.

Jesus.

I shove my hands into my pockets instead. “So, since you don’t have any transportation, would you like me to take you shopping? Then when we get back we can clean this place up. And after that it’d be time for all the evening donkey chores, and I can show you the ropes.”

There’s that sparkling smile again.

“Perfect,” he says.

And his face lights up, like he just unwrapped a chocolate bar and found a golden ticket inside.

CHAPTER SIX

MILLER

Frankie puts her hand over her mouth and hunches her shoulders, curling in on herself to stifle a giggle. But she can’t hide the glint in the eyes that are scanning the lower half of my body.

“Are theythatbad?” I turn to check out my ass in the mirror outside the changing room of Tractor Trunk—who knew I’d ever visit a clothing store like this, never mind twice in one day.

“They’re a bit, um, roomy.” She removes her hand and digs her teeth into her top lip. “And the crotch is a little…low.”

“Yeah.” I grab the side seams and flap them around. “Hammer pants are back in style, right?”

Now she lets a laugh roll out and grabs her belly.

Making someone laugh is a great way to win them over. I learned that years ago in business.

But it makes me feel unusually good to know I have it in me to amuse this sharp-as-hell, driven, and obviouslycaring woman. The way her face lights up and her head drops back is an attractive bonus.

“Try the cargoes,” she says, shaking her head.

Back into the changing room I go.

Just as I close the door behind me, my phone buzzes. I retrieve it from the pocket of my jeans that are hanging off the back of the door.

It’s Brooke.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, just can’t talk right now. Is it urgent or can I call you back later?”

“Semi-urgent. There’s a drainage issue on the Harbor Towers site.”

“Okay, refer them to the engineer. Then”—I lower my voice even further—“do some research on how to care for donkeys, summarize it in less than ten pages and get it to me before bedtime.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Are you still there, Brooke?”