Page 18 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“I am. I just thought you were supposed to buy the donkeys’ land, not the donkeys themselves.”

“Long story. Fill you in later. Just get me some neatly packaged info. Oh, and send someone to pick up my car. I’ll be here for a few days.”

“Oh, Miller, Miller, Miller.” She lets out a long, heavy sigh. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now? Is this going to be like the time you spent weeks learning how to tie nautical knots so you could impress that sailor guy and persuade him you were the best person to develop his land?”

“Kind of. But with more donkey shit and less rope.”

There’s a tap on the door.

“Miller?” It’s Frankie’s voice. “Do they fit or do you need another size?”

“Just putting them on,” I shout. “I’ll be right out.” Then turn my voice to a whisper for Brooke. “Donkey notes. Asap.”

I hang up the phone and shove it back into my jeans.

Thirty seconds later, wearing the dark brown cargoes Frankie picked out, I open the door.

“Oh, hey,” she says. “Thought I heard you talking with someone.”

“I was. My assistant.” Be as honest as possible at all times. Stretch the truth only when it absolutely needs to be stretched.

“Assistant?” She sounds surprised. “You must have quite the business.”

“Yeah.” I turn in front of the mirror to switch the subject back to the pants.

“Those are better,” Frankie says. “Mainly because you couldn’t fit a whole other person in there with you.”

I can’t help waggling my eyebrows at her. This woman sure does bring out the tease in me. “And also because who doesn’t need twelve pockets. All large enough to store a sandwich.”

It takes me a second to remember that making her smile is not the whole point of me being here—it just felt like it for a moment.

Yes, I need her to get to know me, like me, trust me. But this isn’t a fucking date. It’s a mission. With a clear goal. Shaft Wade Skinner so I can finally take something away from him that he really wants. Just like he did when he took my family’s home away from us. It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to cast off the fury that’slived inside me since I was eighteen, before it drives me to an early heart attack.

“Is she okay?” Frankie asks.

“Who?”

“Your assistant. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but it sounded kind of urgent.”

“Oh, just something with…” I can’t say drainage because that has nothing to do with the kind of investing Frankie probably assumes I do.

But man, as my eyes instinctively settle themselves on hers, this plan feels like a heartless trick. She seems like a perfectly nice person who doesn’t deserve to be lied to or misled.

For a moment I wonder if I should scrap this whole scheme, come clean and tell her that the second offer she has is from me, and if it’s not enough, then she and her grandfather can name their price and neither of them will ever have to work a day in their lives again.

But I can’t. Frankie’s been clear she’ll never sell to a “shitty” developer like me. So the only hope of changing her mind is if someone whose opinion she’s come to value persuades her it’s the right decision.

I’m going to become that person of value. And these pants are the start of it.

“…the bank,” I say, finishing the sentence. “Boring bank things.”

“Oh, okay,” Frankie says. “I was thinking, do you want to go back home via the Park ’N’ Sleep so you can pick up your things and check out?”

Fuck no. How would I pretend to check out of a hotel I’m not staying at? And produce the very few belongings I have with me which are actually in the trunk of my car that’s parked just off Main Street?

I’m not fond of this sweaty panicking sensation. Christ, not being truthful is a fucking minefield.

“Oh, no need.” I toy with the button on one of the many pants pockets. “I’ll get a cab later. I need to pick up some toiletries and stuff in town anyway but I want to take some time to think through a list of what I’ll need so it’s just one trip.”