Page 33 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

BEN

I wake up, disappointment washing over me.

The last couple of days, I’d slept well.

I had nice, vivid dreams. Dreams I couldn’t possibly tell Alex about unless I wanted to hand him hard proof that I’m finally losing it.

But tonight, I didn’t dream anything. I must have been too tired.

On the bright side, the camera didn’t wake me once, which means I got a solid five hours of sleep.

Quickly, I brush my teeth, get dressed, and step out of my temporary home. I shut the RV door behind me, exhaling as I lean against it. The chirping of birds accompanies the quiet churn of my thoughts.

Prison.

I’d expected secrets, sure. Everyone has them.

I’ve got enough to fill a book, and I’ve spent half my life making sure none of them get written down.

But I hadn’t expected Helena’s to hit like a gut punch.

I obviously knew about her grandpa, but I didn’t know about her. It puts things into perspective.

That reckless, furious kid she described? I know that kid. Because I was that kid, once upon a time. And that kind of anger doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t get neatly packed away with therapy and a few good decisions. It lingers, settles itself into your bones. It becomes a part of you. Forever.

And yet, she built something from it. Something structured, careful. Her routine is her armor. She wears it like a second skin, and I?—

I just barged my way in with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

She’s going to despise me when all of this is over.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost fifteen minutes past the time she usually wakes, and still no light from her apartment window. Slowly, I trek the stairs up to her temporary apartment on the seventh floor, giving her a few more minutes to wake, and for me to come alive.

When I make it to the apartment door, I raise my fist—then stop just before it can make contact with the wood.

I think of the way she immediately reached for a knife last time.

I think of her black eye. It’s a little less black now, but some wounds don’t disappear that easily. This one definitely doesn’t.

She hates knocking.

I can’t wake her like that again.

She does have to wake up though. Waking up on time during the week was one of the key pillars of her routine, she said.

So I do what I do best. With the help of my trusted tension tool and a rake, I unlock the door within seconds. The apartment is dark, the furniture barely outlined from the glow of the city outside.

Inside, Helena is curled under her blanket, an adorable mess of tangled limbs and tousled hair. Her breathing is soft, steady, peaceful, and her drool is just as cute as it was the other day.

I hesitate, watching her. Some part of me doesn’t want to break this rare moment of tranquility she’s found.

But she needs to be up. And, ideally, I need to not get murdered.

So I better be gentle.

I crouch beside the bed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Helenaaa.”

She stirs, shifts slightly. “Hmmm… Ben.”

“Helena, it’s time to get up.”

Another sleepy mumble escapes her lips that sounds something like: ‘Just leave your hands, Mr. Penguin.’

I chuckle—then slap a hand over my mouth.

She shifts again. Her voice still thick with sleep, she murmurs something that sounds a lot like, “And now choke me, Mister.”

Oh.

I keep my hand over my lips. So many things I could say right now. Even more that I shouldn’t. But before I can decide what to do, her eyelids flutter open.

She stares at me. I stare at her.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, realization strikes.

Helena lets out a sound that’s part screech, part strangled exhale, and before I can react, a pillow smacks me square in the face.

“OUT,” she yells, scrambling upright, now throwing the pillow. “OUT. OUT.”

I raise my hands in surrender, laughing as I dodge a second pillow. “Hey, it’s just me, Panda!”

“I KNOW IT’S YOU,” she snaps, pulling her blanket over her chest. “THAT’S THE PROBLEM.”

“I’m just trying to help!”

“HELP? BY brEAKING INTO MY BEDROOM?”

“BECAUSE YOU GET FREAKED OUT BY KNOCKING!”

Helena wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I GET FREAKED OUT BY STRANGE MEN APPEARING IN MY BEDROOM EVEN MORE!”

“Hey!” I say, feigning hurt. “I’ve been called many names: handsome, adorable, charming, but never anything so inaccurate as?—”

Helena produces another pillow from somewhere and hurls it my way, making me shut up. Then she just glares, her chest rising and falling in rapid, furious breaths.

This is definitely not how I thought this would go.

I can practically see the thoughts behind those sharp, beautiful eyes. If she could throw me out of the window, she probably would.

I clear my throat, taking a step back toward the door. “Look, you overslept. That’s all. After our talk yesterday, I just thought I’d wake you gently instead of making you panic.”

She narrows her eyes. “Gently?”

“I was very gentle! Much more than I usually am in bed. But if you’d like me to choke you awake next time, just let me know, Ms. Penguin. I’d be more than happy to oblige.” Before Helena can answer, I shut the bedroom door behind me, a giant grin plastered on my face.

We should probably find a better way for me to wake her though.

By the time she stomps into the RV, looking more put together, but no less murderous, I’ve got breakfast ready.

“I don’t eat in the mornings.” She squints at the smoothie bowls I’ve prepared, then over to me. “I only make exceptions for the hearts of my enemies.” Her eyes wander down to my chest, and for a moment, I think, even a little further south.

“Well, I did prepare it with all my heart,” I say, take her firmly by the waist and guide her down into the booth at the table. “And as your enemy, I happen to care deeply about your nutrition and well-being. Only a strong enemy is a worthy enemy.”

I sit across from her, watching as she hesitates, and, eventually, takes a bite.

She tends to eat with urgency (like an adorable little squirrel).

I assume it’s something she picked up in foster care or prison.

If you didn’t eat fast enough, you probably didn’t eat.

Today, she chews a little slower and nods begrudgingly.

“I mean, it’s pretty good for a stupid smoothie bowl.

Still, what the fuck, Benjamin? How can you be this bad with personal boundaries? ”

I sigh. “Okay, first of all, it’s Benedikt. And, yes, I realize how my actions might have been slightly misunderstood. But really, I think the focus here should be on how good I am at taking care of you.”

Helena already has another spoon in her pretty little mouth. And what a pretty little mouth it is. Her eyes are still narrowed at me, like she’s thinking, ‘Delicious, but it could be improved if made by someone who doesn’t break into my bedroom all the time.’

I lean back, watching as she unconsciously taps the spoon against her lower lip. Tap. Tap. Tap. And now I can’t stop staring at her mouth.

It’s not just that it’s pretty—though, objectively, it is. It’s the way she uses it. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s thinking. The way she mumbles in her sleep. And the way she swears at me.

Some people curse like punctuation, throwing in a ‘fuck’ every couple of words for emphasis. Helena insults with precision. She picks her words with the care of a seasoned artist, painting entire emotional landscapes with a single, cutting phrase. I wonder if she picked that up in prison too.

Right now, her mouth is full, so she’s just looking at me like she’s considering stabbing me with the spoon… in a loving fashion, I’m pretty sure. Then, in a voice as sweet as poison, she asks, “Are you planning to eat too, or are you just going to sit there staring?”

I grin. “I enjoy staring at you, Panda.”

She makes a face like she’s debating whether homicide is the correct response to this, but then she just asks, “Why?”

I scoop up a bite of my smoothie bowl and take my time chewing. “Because I enjoy riling you up.”

She scowls, but her spoon is already halfway in her mouth again.

It’s not my fault she’s so fun to rile up. It’s not my fault, fighting with her is like an elaborate way of foreplay without the risk of an STD. And it’s definitely not my fault that she hasn’t killed me yet… which technically means I’m winning, I think.

For a little while, we eat in comfortable silence, the occasional glare and hidden smile thrown in between spoonfuls. This is easy. Too easy. And that’s what scares me. Normally, I play other people. This here, this feels like I’m playing myself.

Sure, I started out being nice to her because she was my mark… but now I’m not so sure anymore if that’s still what I’m doing.

Helena Beck might be a problem. Not because she’s a challenge, not because she’s stubborn, not because she’s attracting dangerous mobsters.

She’s a problem because I like her. Because I’m starting to care. And that never ends well.

After breakfast, I drive her to the museum, watching as she disappears through the back door.

She should be safe here for the time she’s working.

There are too many people around for anything to happen.

I’ll use the day to make some supply runs, and I should probably inform my other partner in crime about the new intel I learned about our accomplice.

Then I’ll pick her up after her shift, make sure we’re not being tailed, and get her home safe.

So, funny story. Guess who’s been to prison.

Your mom?

Funny. I wish. Helena. Burned down someone’s house and subsequently trashed their gallery.

Holy shit. She did that?

Yup.

Great, maybe, when we all end up in prison, you two can bunk together.