Page 83 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“Against?” he asks.

Me, Oliver, and Chase raise ours.

“Why did I ever agree to a partnership with such terrible business people?” Leo asks.

“Because you fucking love the Commoners,” Oliver says.

“And you’ve grown to love us too,” Chase adds.

Leo pulls a rueful smile. “Let’s go. I have a multimillion dollar controlling partnership to negotiate. And Miller has donkeys to keep dry.”

Oliver rocks with a belly laugh.

“Yup, we’ll let you get on with whatever scheme you’ve got going on over there,” Chase says.

Is it a scheme?

It certainly was the day I overheard in the coffee shop that Frankie was running this place.

Is it still one now?

I have no fucking clue. But I am absolutely certain that I can’t bear the thought of having to explain to Frankie that a single hair on any of those animals’ bodies has come to any harm on my watch.

“See ya.” I close the lid of my laptop, dodge around a pile of boxes of supplies for the Thanksgiving event that arrived this morning, and head for my boots and coat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FRANKIE

“Twice?” Paige’s eyebrows shoot up at the same moment she sucks hard on the straw in her Moscow mule. “How did the cot not collapse?”

I scrunch my eyes closed on a laugh and shake my head. Boy, it’s good to see her.

But even though it’s been less than two weeks since we last sat in the Orange Parasol, our favorite bar, it feels like it’s from a completely different era of my life. Or from a completely different me.

Its shiny white interior, glossy tables, and orange-upholstered chairs and benches are a stark contrast to life in Grandpa’s ramshackle house and mucking out the donkeys. I guess I’ve slipped back into that Warm Springs life easier and more comfortably than I’d realized.

How can I be both these people at once?

“It’s sturdy.” I can’t suppress a dirty giggle. “They must have been better made in Grandpa’s camping days.”

I take a sip of my red wine—I held off on the cocktailssince I have to leave for the airport soon and the idea of flying tipsy makes me feel nauseated.

“Show me the message again,” she says.

I call up my texts from Miller.

Last night he’d sent me a picture of the miniature donkeys all safe in their stable just before he shut the door on them, along with a message saying, “Thought you might want to know I’ve kept them all alive so far.”

It’s followed by some jokey back-and-forths about how ominous I thought the “so far” sounded, and ended with a good luck from him for my meeting.

This morning, I’d forced myself to hold off on texting until he’d had time to let them all outside and muck out the stables. Then, right before walking into the room with the YouTuber and the ad department, I sent him a message asking if he’d slept better in the house and telling him to help himself to anything for breakfast.

It’s his reply to that that Paige wants to see again.

MILLER

Amazing. I’d forgotten what a real bed felt like. But I do have fond memories of the cot.