Page 27 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

T he knocking yanks me out of my sleep violently, shoving me straight back to that day. It’s them. My heartbeat spikes, a cold sweat breaks over my skin. The knock is too familiar, too loud, too angry.

It’s them again.

I bolt upright, my breath stuck in my throat, my hands clenching the sheets. I can feel my pulse beat right in my eye—the memory of how it turned black pounding even harder.

Another fist on the door. A muffled voice shouting something.

I force air into my lungs, push myself off the mattress, and rush into the kitchen. A knife. I need a knife. I spot one on the counter and grab it. My fingers tighten around the handle as I creep toward the door. My knees are weak, but adrenaline shoves me forward.

I’m not going to be blindsided again.

This time, I’ll go down fighting.

Then I hear it:

“Helena, please open this door before your neighbors call the cops! Also, I was joking about the crime thing.”

Ben.

Son of a bitch.

The tension in my body dissolves so fast my knees almost give out. I exhale shakily and lean my forehead against the door for a second, pressing my eyes shut.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

It’s just Ben. Of course, it’s Ben.

When I open the door, he’s standing there, grinning like an idiot, holding a napkin twisted into the shape of a flower. The sight of him actually makes it easier to breathe. He’s lucky he’s so easy on the eyes, or I might have used that?—

“Big knife,” he says. “Good thinking once again. You can use it to eat the breakfast I made you.”

I pry my eyes away from him and scan the hallway. I guess, now I’m afraid of the ‘good’ and the bad guys showing up.

He’s only carrying the little flower—no bag of food or anything. I listen for a moment. No sound of sirens. That’s a relief. By now, I’m pretty sure I got away with my little midnight bottle-throwing.

While I’m still busy figuring out what’s going on, Ben gently takes the knife from my hand and replaces it with the napkin rose.

“So,” he begins, way too cheerful for this time of day (or any time really), “funny story. You know how your ex gave you that black eye, and now you’re generally feeling a little uneasy and not super safe?”

Is there drool on my chin?

Oh, boy.

I subtly wipe my mouth with the rose, hoping he hasn’t noticed any of this.

My hair must be a mess too.

Shit.

“Anyway, I thought, as your new friend in crime and assigned bodyguard to the master forger, I’d make sure nothing would happen to our most valuable asset.”

“You slept outside my apartment. I saw.”

“Right, good. So we agree that that isn’t creepy, yes?”

I look down at the flower.

Is he a psychopath? He might be a psychopath.

Or I might be one for not being put off by any of this.

He continues, “Anyway, I came to wake you this morning, but apparently you sleep like a statue. I knocked a bunch of times and you didn’t hear me. So naturally, as your assigned bodyguard, I was afraid something might have happened. So I let myself in to make sure you were alright.”

Did he see me sleep?

“You know how to pick locks?” I ask, the doorknob still in my other hand.

“Not the important thing here. The important thing is that you’re okay. And that I’m here to make sure you’re more than okay. Which is why I made you breakfast.” He looks past me and nods toward the kitchen, then gently turns me around and leads us both inside, closing the door behind us.

What am I wearing right now?

I look down on myself.

Not so bad. Short shorts. He can probably see half my ass right now. I do have a pretty good ass. Cute tank top. And, yep—my nipples are definitely poking through it. Oh, well.

The kitchen, which was previously a barren wasteland of instant noodles, leftover lasagna, and casserole, now smells like coffee and omelette. There’s an actual breakfast spread on my tiny table.

I look back at him. “How did?—?”

“Magic,” he says. “And, you know, breaking and entering. But with good intentions.”

I narrow my eyes, but my stomach betrays me once again by growling.

Didn’t I just feed you last night?

“See?” He smiles brightly. “Your body understands me.”

My nipples seem to agree.

“Now sit. Eat. And then we hunt for ancient canvas.”

I may be used to getting up early in the morning, but I’ve never actually been a morning person.

Especially not on weekends. That’s when I catch up on sleep.

Judging by Ben’s bright smile, he is a morning person.

Usually, that would annoy me, but for whatever reason I don’t really mind with him.

I was almost happy when I saw him in his RV last night.

Of course, I know it’s unlikely they’ll come back immediately or demand the money sooner, but it was comforting knowing he was out there just in case.

He slides an omelette on my plate and eagerly waits for me to try. So I pick up my fork and keep it lingering in front of my (now totally drool-free) mouth, watching him grow more and more impatient.

“You’re very invested in me eating this,” I discern.

“Of course I am.” Ben leans his chin on his hands, elbows propped on the table, watching me like a hawk. “It’s the most important meal of the day. And almost definitely not poisoned.” His eyes go wide.

I hate that he’s funny.

He should at least be a little uglier to even it out.

I stop teasing and take a bite. It’s… really good. Fluffy, soft, just the right amount of savoriness.

“Hm.” I chew slowly, making a show of evaluating his food.

Ben just nods.

I swallow. “It’s edible.”

Ben’s head smoothly shifts to shaking instead of nodding.

I sigh. “Fine, if it’s poisoned, I don’t even mind because it’s really delicious.”

His whole face lights up like he just won a Michelin star, then he grabs his fork and digs in too, looking far too pleased with himself. “Well, it’s like I always say. Crime is great and all, but breakfast is where my true talents shine.”

“Speaking of which,” I sip my coffee, watching him.

“You said something about crime earlier?” A warmth spreads in my chest that I don’t think can be attributed to the hot liquid.

On cue, the knot in my gut punches upward.

I shouldn’t feel warmth right now. It’s wrong to even entertain emotions like this when my grandpa, my only remaining relative, just died.

I should be heartbroken. That’s all I should feel. All I’m allowed to feel.

That, and a sense of impending doom if we don’t manage to pull off this heist. So that’s what I decide to focus on: the heist. Nothing but the heist.

“Right,” Ben says after swallowing. He checks his watch. “Crime time. We should leave soon. The earlier we get there, the better.”

So we both quickly finish our breakfast. When I stand up to clear the plates, Ben immediately moves to take them from me. “Nope. You go get ready. I’ll do the dishes,” he insists, and when I don’t move right away, he adds, “No time for talking back. Come on.”

So I do as I’m told, take a quick shower while brushing my teeth, and dress in the most Indiana Jones-looking outfit I own.

We make it to our destination, a flea market, at around 8:30 AM.

It’s already sprawling with people. There’s a vast maze of stands, tables, racks, and boxes filled with trash, trinkets, and forgotten treasures, interspersed with food stalls and the odd street performer.

The air is crisp this morning, the smell of old books, coffee, and fried food wafting through now and then.

Protectively, Ben puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the stream of people.

His first touch takes my breath away and calms me instantly.

His second touch, ever so slightly further south, makes me hot.

He leads me from one stand with antiquities to the next.

I probably shouldn’t let him put his hand there.

But he knows this place, and we’re looking for a canvas for the heist, so technically, this is all for the heist.

When we don’t find what we’re looking for at the fourth or fifth stand, I let out a heavy sigh.

“No need to worry,” Ben assures me. “There’s like thirty or forty more stalls we can check out.”

And he’s right. Finding a 500-year-old canvas might be a long shot, but this place is so massive and filled with so many antiquities, we might actually stand a chance.

“And if we can’t find the canvas, at least we can find matching balaclavas.” Ben holds up two ski masks, one in each hand, framing his gigantic smile. One is neon pink, the other neon yellow. “This is perfect. How much are they?” he asks the guy behind the stand.

“Good choice,” the guy answers. “Going for a ski trip?”

“Robbing a bank, actually. But after that, we might have the necessary funds for that vacation.”

The guy laughs and asks for five bucks for both.

Ben pulls a bill from his pocket and hands it over. Then he turns to me. “It’s not lead-tin yellow, but I do think this is your color.” He pulls the yellow balaclava over my head, the pink one over his own, and turns me to face a mirror leaning against a tree.

I look ridiculous. Ben looks… like not even a clothing item designed to hide half his face can hide any of his beauty. It’s unfair.

“You just want the pink one for yourself.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulder and nods. “We look like two proper robbers in cahoots. Plus, if we wear these we won’t have to get face tattoos after the job is done so no one will recognize us.”

“Right,” I say, nodding along. “Probably best to take them off for now. We wouldn’t want the nice people around here thinking we’re robbing them too.” I pull the mask off again. “Now, where do we find that freaking canvas? Preferably one that isn’t cursed.”

We weave through the crowd, stopping at stalls that seem promising. Ben keeps getting distracted—first by a truly horrific porcelain penguin he insists would ‘add character’ to my apartment, then by a collection of old keys that he claims ‘might come in handy sometime’ .