Page 35 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

I should probably be surprised by her stealing from the museum in an attempt to protect me, but I’m not. This is very much in line with how I’ve gotten to know Elaine over the years. Guess I’ll take another trip to the archives before I’m meeting Ben.

She reaches into her bag one last time and pulls out a whistle. “I got that from Pat. He’ll be fine without.”

“Elaine—”

“And,” she finishes, sliding a small foil square across the desk, “protection of a different kind.”

Oh, boy.

What do you even say to that? To your boss giving you condoms and stealing artifacts from a museum?

“That’s alright, Helena.” Elaine clearly notices my expression. “I hope you know how much I—we all—care about you here at the museum. I—and everyone else—would do anything to help you, okay?”

Slightly weird but also incredibly nice? That about sums up Elaine.

She gives me two finger guns, which I answer by pointing the dagger at her. My boss laughs and then bids me goodbye.

At this point, I’m more than ready to get out of here.

So I gather my things, return the dagger to the archives, and head out of the museum to where Ben is already waiting.

I can’t help but smile when I see him. Ben, with that kind of chaotic warmth that sets fire to your caution signs.

He’s leaning against the RV, a smirk blooming on his face when he sees me approach.

“So you missed me, huh?” he asks, and makes that smile on my face disappear in an instant.

Shit. Did I actually smile at him just now?

“No need to deny it, Panda,” he says, opening the door for me. “I’m happy to see you too.”

Yeah.

That’s not good.

My entire face is turning red, like the flushed cheeks of a Renaissance cherub.

Hastily, I jump inside the car and stare straight ahead.

I don’t smile.

I definitely don’t smile at men.

We drive in silence for a while until I can’t hold it in any longer. “Just to be clear, and so you don’t get any wrong ideas—I did not miss you.”

Ben hums, his tone thick with disbelief, as if to say, ‘Sure, whatever you say’.

“I mean it,” I stress, maybe a little too emphatically. “I didn’t even have any time to miss anyone. I was busy thinking about the museum's budget constraints and the devastating state of arts funding. Also, about daggers from the Civil War.”

“Naturally.” Ben nods, accelerating gently. “And I was thinking about filing my taxes on time.”

I snort. “You're a criminal. You probably don’t even do taxes.”

“Exactly,” he retorts with a wink, then lapses back into silence.

Which I appreciate. I should probably just not open my mouth. Not to talk, definitely not to smile.

Once we get to the apartment, Ben opens the door for me.

When I step inside, it takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.

The giant pinboard on wheels wasn’t there when I left this morning, and now it’s covered in an impressive arrangement of notes, color-coded schedules, and interconnected strings—as if he’s solving a murder, or robbing a bank.

At the top, in bold capital letters, it says: Belena’s Routine.

“Belena’s routine?” I say with a frown.

“ Our new routine,” Ben explains, clearly proud of that portmanteau. “I tried to incorporate everything you mentioned last night: early to bed, early to rise, and all. We might need to be flexible once in a while, but this,” he knocks against the pinboard, nearly toppling it, “has solid bones.”

I look at the board, over to Ben, and back to the board. The gesture disarms me, makes my walls wobble just a little.

“You did all this?” I ask, still slightly suspicious.

“I figured if it’s important to you, then it’s important to… the success of this operation.”

I hate it.

Well, I don’t hate it. It’s a good idea.

I just hate that he came up with it and went through all the trouble.

I hate that he’s being thoughtful and cute and, I look back at Ben, stupidly symmetrical like a work of art that somehow learned to breathe… and smirk.

I need to focus on this job we’re doing, not on the job I’m thinking about doing when glancing at the outlines on his pants.

This job is the only way to deal with the debt, with these guys.

A closer look at the schedule reveals it’s pretty straightforward: breakfast, work, dinner, illegal activities, sleep, and a few breaks in between. He’s even drawn bars to track our progress on various tasks.

“Impressed?” he asks eventually, wiggling his eyebrows. “I make a pretty good?—”

“I swear to God, if you say 'boyfriend’ , I will stab you with the Civil War dagger Elaine gave me at work today.”

Ben laughs out loud, stepping up from behind me so that we’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. He leans in to whisper, “I was going to say partner in crime. But if you’re looking for a partner anyway…”

Oh, boy.

What had been the plan again?

Shutting my mouth?

Why can’t I seem to stick to my own stupid intentions anymore?

My brain must have still been stuck in the conversation with Elaine earlier.

I decide to just ignore his teasing and move on like someone who doesn’t get fazed by any of this. “It’s a good plan. Good routine. We can do it like this.” I take off my jacket and he hangs it on the coat rack for me. “So, what does Belena’s Routine say we should be doing now?”

“Ah,” Ben grins, “you should be setting up your workstation so you can get started on the forgeries while I finish cooking dinner. I already prepped everything. It should be done in about fifteen minutes.”

Without a word, I do as the routine demands and set up the easel, arrange the correct paints, get water and rags, and a chair for me to sit.

Just as I finish, Ben brings out two steaming bowls of homemade curry and sets them down on the table in the living room.

I take a seat. He sits next to me. We both face the easel across the room.

“So,” he says, motioning for me to eat, “how was work today, partner? What’d you get up to?”

I give him a side-eye when he emphasizes the word partner, then I dig into the food. Breakfast might be his passion, but dinner is just as delicious.

“Well, I took photos of the painting.” I pull my phone from my pocket and open the gallery app.

“They should work well as reference images.” I start swiping through them, showing Ben different angles and intricate details of the work I’ll do my best to emulate.

“Maybe you could get us a printer? So I can print them out and pin them up by the easel.”

“Certainly,” Ben nods, his eyes fixed on the screen as I keep swiping. “I could also?—”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Instead of the painting, a very different kind of art just appeared on the screen.

My art.

Of myself.

In a state of undress.

I slam the phone down onto the table—petrified.

I forgot I took those.

Very slowly, I tilt the phone up, peeking at the screen.

Ben leans in, rests his head lightly on my shoulder, and looks too.

It automatically swipes to another picture of myself, the cracked screen censoring the most revealing parts.

I gently put the damned thing face down again.

“A printer and a new phone screen, then?” he asks softly, his scent drifting straight into my ovaries.

I nod. “Let me know what I owe you.”

“Let me see one more time and we’ll call it even.”

I swallow down a chuckle and shove the phone deep into my pocket, as if burying it can erase the last twenty seconds of my life. “Can you do me a favor?”

Ben shakes his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to just forget this happened.” He gets up. “But if you want, we can do it like we do with our secrets. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Then he jokingly starts unbuckling his belt.

I stop him immediately by putting my hand right onto his crotch. Of course I was aiming for his hand right above his crotch but, naturally, he had to move in just the right wrong moment.