Page 39 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“If you wring them out and put them on the shelf above the baseboard vent over there, they might be dry by the time you’ve showered. That thing gets so hot I almost burned myself on it the other day.”

“Sounds like the thermostat might be on the fritz,” I say on instinct, before realizing that someone who works in financial investments is unlikely to have much knowledge of heating and air-conditioning systems.

“Everything’s on the fritz,” she says.

I arrange my rinsed-out boxers on the shelf so they’re dangling over the edge and accidentally knock into a leaf-shaped tray that holds receipts, a pen with ink congealed on the tip, two buttons, and three rubber bands of various sizes. It sits next to a framed photo ofan older couple.

“What was your grandma’s name?” Shit, I’m not supposed to know her grandpa’s name either. “I mean, both your grandparents, what are their names?”

“Sam and Donna,” she says, before blowing on the pot spoon, and slurping from it.

The back of her head waggles from side to side as if she’s trying to figure out what she just tasted. Then she picks up the pepper grinder and gives it a few twists over the pot.

“Smells good.” I clutch at the first innocuous, non-underwear-related topic that comes to mind.

“Thanks.” She turns to face me, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms in such a way that they lift her breasts and make them look full and round and spark an itch in the palm of my hand to touch them. “The produce shop in town always has a basket of misshapen or slightly damaged fruit and vegetables that they sell off. It’s fun to try to make soup from whatever’s there.”

“And what did you come up with?” I ask. “Actually, let me guess.”

While half my brain screamsget in the fucking shower, I take a long deep inhale. “Hmmm. Onion?”

“Yup.”

I take a step closer. “Celery?”

“Yup.”

Another step. “Is that cauliflower?”

“It is.”

“I’m guessing there are carrots in there because you carry them with you wherever you go.”

She smiles, looks at the floor, and nods.

“And I swear I can smell garlic and rosemary too.”

“Yup.” She turns back to the pot and gives it another stir. “And there’s potatoes, spinach, squash, and somegreen beans. But I guess none of those smell like anything.”

“And it looks like you’ve got enough here for every meal until you go back to Chicago.”

“I’m going to freeze most of it. So Grandpa has some easy meals after he gets home. But you’re welcome to”—she cuts herself off and shakes her head—“no…you probably have a lot of work to do.”

“I’m welcome to what?” I ask. Because if she’s about to offer me some of this amazing-smelling, warming, filling concoction to take back to the barn I am not saying no. I’m absolutely starving and it’s way better than anything I could ever get delivered.

“I was going to say you can stay for some. After your shower.” She pauses and swallows. “To say thank you for helping with the hay, I mean. We wouldn’t have enough feed for tomorrow if you weren’t here.”

Oh, she’s inviting me to have ithere. Withher. Well, if that isn’t a sign she’s starting to trust me, I don’t know what is. And I need to grab that with both hands.

“No thanks required. But I’d love some, so thank you.”

I head toward the door in the corner of the room that presumably leads to a hallway or another room that the shower is off.

“You can use whatever you like in there,” she says, as I open the door to discover that this isn’t a hallway, I’m already immediately at my destination—a tiny room with a shower in one corner, and a sink and toilet squeezed in next to it.

And I’m about to get naked and wet just one thin wall away from where Frankie is making me soup.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN