Page 22 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

I even brushed off a text from Paige saying that Dickish Darren’s been bragging about having a professional résumé writer polish his application for the VP gig that I’m striving for.

Mine was scrambled together in the couple of days before I left to come here. I had to get it in then because I knew I wouldn’t have a second to work on it once I got to the sanctuary.

Damn Dickish Darren.

But it does remind me that other than calming Petunia, my only other skill is knowing how to market the shit out of anything. Everyone was stunned when a pair of terrifying doll-like bookends, that resembled Chucky, sold out in every store across the country after I got them into the hands of a couple of cool influencers and they went viral.

If I can manufacture a hit out of an ornament that looks like it could try to transfer its soul into you during the dead of night, maybe I can market the sanctuary out of destitution.

Perhaps Miller will be in some videos for me. He’s definitely easy on the eyes. If I pair him with the cutest and funniest donkeys, it might give us enough exposure for the cash to start pouring in.

I cannot believe that I made that quip about him modeling his underwear for me. Every time I think about it my face burns all over again and I want to bury myself under a pile of dung and never come out.

But I did briefly wonder which boxers he chose.

And I wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s settled into his freshly scrubbed loft room. He seems to have real neat-freak tendencies. But that’s not necessarilya bad thing.

In fact, I can’t think of a single bad thing about him right now.

“Are you going to take that bottle out of the cabinet or just stare at it?” Grandpa says.

“Sorry. I was just having some ideas for social media posts for the sanctuary.” The glass bottle is cool in my hand. “It might help to boost the fundraising. The big barn really needs some repairs. And it would be so good if we could raise enough to turn it into a gi?—”

“Gift shop and tearoom?” He gives me one of his big, beaming smiles. “I swear you first mentioned that when you were about twelve.”

“It would be amazing.”

“Forget about all that for now,” he says. “Just pour us both a drink, grab the Chex Mix from the side, and let me thrash you at blackjack for half an hour.”

And I do exactly that.

While also wondering how I might get the best shots of Miller.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MILLER

For God’s sake, Brooke, pick up.

The uneven floor of the barn loft creaks beneath my feet as I pace, tugging on the roots of my hair.

Why the hell didn’t I think of this earlier?

My call’s already gone to voicemail once, so I hope to shit that she doesn’t have her phone on Do Not Disturb now it’s after nine p.m.

“What the hell, Miller?” She sounds groggy and breathless.

“Oh, thank fuck. I was terrified you might be asleep.”

“I was better than asleep.” There’s a male laugh in the background. “Only three months till the baby comes. We have to make the most of the undisturbed time.”

“Lucky you.”

“Wouldn’t do you any harm to get some too.” She makes a sound like she’s heaving her pregnant body into a sitting position. “But what’s the emergency? Not enoughtick removal instructions in the top secret donkey dossier?”

“No, no, that was excellent. Thank you.” She is truly the most brilliant assistant I could wish for, and I really should show her more appreciation. “I need you to get hold of whoever puts the pictures on our website and remove every photo of me right now.”

“What?”