Page 67 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

But I’ll soldier on, trying to pretend I’m not fucked. Even though I know I am.

“I just hope the repairs make that asshole Skinner go away,” I say, sticking to the one hundred percent truth.

“Oh.” Her face breaks into a wide, delighted grin. “I forgot to show you this.”

She reaches under her jacket into the pocket of her overalls and takes out her phone. After some clicks and swipes she holds it up to face me, her sparkling eyes obviously eager for my reaction.

It’s a video, taken from inside the kitchen, of Dave opening the window, then Frankie’s hand appearing in shot to feed him a carrot.

I can’t help but chuckle at how fucking adorable itis. “That’s great.”

“But look at the views,” she says, pointing at a number on the side. “More than five thousand. And I only posted it this morning.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Well,” she says, her eyes filled with affection as she watches the video play again, “I’ve gotten more for a Crimson Finch mirror collection. But they have a couple of million followers. A few thousand is certainly good for a little dead account that I’m trying to revive.”

And there it is, a glimpse into her other life—the other Frankie. The one with the corporate job in Chicago, who deals with social media data and targets and projections.

Is that one so different from the woman in front of me with her ponytail hanging down the back of the flannel jacket she’s wearing over denim overalls tucked into muck boots?

She slides the phone back into her pocket. “Let’s go check that the donkeys all have enough feed.”

That certainly sounds like a good way to avoid the awkwardness of our renewed aloneness.

“Does Dave’s impending social media stardom mean you don’t have to consider selling?” I ask, remembering why I’m here. But the way the cool late afternoon sun catches her eyelashes as she turns away, showing a slight auburn tint to them, could easily make me forget again.

“Skinner can fuck off,” she says.

“That’s something we both agree on.” I fall into step with her and realize my innate hatred of that bastard was probably clear in every syllable of that sentence.

Frankie turns her head to look at me, slight furrows in her brow. “You sound as pissed off with him as if you’d heard him say all those awful things.”

“Of course I’m pissed off he’d treat you like that.” Ifonly she knew how much I’d wanted to throw him off the property myself.

We take a couple of steps in silence.

“Does that mean you might sell, but are thinking about the other offer instead?” I venture, trying not to sound like I’m pushing the question too hard.

“Huh.” She gives awho knowsshrug as we get closer to the stables. “I had really good reactions from everyone in town who I spoke to yesterday about the Thanksgiving event. Polly from the produce store is going to donate a load of pumpkins. I thought I could carve some in advance to line the paths and use the rest for a carve-a-donkey-jack-o’-lantern competition. The guys from the coffee shop said they’d set up a stall here and donate all the profits. Jerry, the shoe repair guy who runs the pig tail game at the Christmas festival?—”

“Pig tail game? That doesn’t sound very Christmassy.”

“It’s a long story. But he’s going to adapt it into a donkey tail game. Mrs. Bentley said she’d run the volunteer recruitment drive. And I know for sure she won’t let any slackers through.”

“I wonder if I’d have passed her strict screening process.”

“You passed mine,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “That’s all that matters.”

Her flirtatious tone sends a flame shooting from my belly to my groin.

And it’s one mighty dangerous sensation.

Thank God we’re at the stables and I’ve spotted a distraction.

“That feeder is looking a bit low for the miniatures.” And it’s a fine way to remove myself so I don’t risk grabbing her face and kissing her again. Infact, being in a different county is pretty much the only way I can stop myself from doing that. “I’ll go get some hay.”

I move away swiftly and, once inside the feed shed, shut the door and sit on a bale to try to pull myself together.