Page 37 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

P ancakes?

Yes. Pancakes.

Before the blaring of my alarm (or some weird stalker) can yank me out of unconsciousness, I wake up… thanks to the smell of pancakes.

Not just pancakes, actually. Succulent, butter-laced, blueberry-stuffed, maple-drizzled pancakes. They smell so good it might just be illegal. And they’re right next to me. In my bed.

I crack open my tired eyes a little more and look around, but there’s no one here. “Ben?” I ask, my voice still half-asleep.

No reply.

I blink at the tray beside me. Pancakes, coffee, even a little flower in a tiny cup. My brain tells me that my first instinct should be rage. He broke in again. He clearly has no concept of boundaries, or personal space, or laws.

Although, in his defense, he is a criminal, I guess.

I remember him saying that his spirit animal is a hungry hippo, and somehow I can relate.

So, instead of rage, I feel something else.

My chest does something weird, and warm, and I hate it.

I hate that instead of fury, I feel… safe.

Cared for. Maybe even—nope. Not finishing that thought. That wouldn’t even make any sense.

I sit up and take a bite. It’s fluffy. Perfect.

Possibly better than the dinner he cooked last night.

The only way it could be improved upon is if it was fed to me by a handsome man, in the nude, who comes very close to resembling the idealized form of beauty in ancient Greece.

I suppose Ben would do, if the Greek gods are a little short-staffed when it comes to pancake feeding.

Yeah, I wouldn’t mind if Ben was here. In bed. With me. With the pancakes.

I swallow another bite.

Fuck me.

That’s how bad things have become. I’m yearning. I’m yearning for a man.

I need to find the charger for my magic wand. Desperately.

After eating and getting ready for the day, I find Ben in the driver’s seat of the RV, waiting. On our way to the museum, he’s unusually quiet, which is suspicious. Ben is never quiet. Unless he’s planning something… I assume. That would definitely be an explanation.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me last night…” I start.

Ben just grunts a ‘What?’ in response.

“Well, I fell asleep thinking about pancakes, as one does. And this morning, I awoke to pancakes. In my bed. Right next to me!”

Ben just nods without even glancing my way.

“So I think it’s safe to say that my magic powers have finally kicked in.

See, as a kid, I was always wondering when it would happen.

My money was on my 18 th birthday, but I guess better late than muggle.

” I sit up a little straighter. “And they were delicious too, which logically means I must be quite powerful. Of course, now the question is: am I going to use my new-found powers for good or evil? Or for something morally gray, like…” I think about it for a moment, glancing at Ben’s broody expression.

“Like forcing you to be in a better mood.”

“You’re quite chatty today,” he grunts more than anything.

Shit.

That catches me on the wrong foot.

I am chatty.

And that isn’t me.

Why am I talking so much?

Especially knowing full well that the best course of action in any given situation is to just shut the fuck up.

So that’s what I do.

I stop talking.

He’s right.

And he’s grumpy.

And I’m wondering why.

I keep wondering even after he drops me off at the museum. Which is a problem. So, in order to get my mind off my grumpy partner in crime, I bury myself in work.

Restoring paintings is a delicate, time-consuming process. And—despite my unsuccessful attempts at using my magic powers to speed the process up—it’s the one thing I can actually control, the one place my hands always know exactly what to do.

By the end of the day, I’ve made some good progress and pocketed a few tools I might need for our little side project. Then, under the vigilant eyes of Elaine—who I notice peering out of her office window—I head outside, to where Ben is already waiting for me.

The second I see him, my brain does that thing again.

The thing where I picture him in my bed instead of in the parking lot. Although, I guess, I wouldn’t say no to the parking lot either.

I need therapy. Or a little bit of amnesia. Or that damn charger.

Ben Lyon, in all his insufferably charming glory, is leaning against a lamppost when I reach the lot.

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his expensive-looking coat, his hair is ruffled just enough to look careless, but not enough to suggest he wasn’t in full control of it.

Which seems to be the thing about Ben: everything about him screams effortless but controlled, from the way he dresses to the way he smiles and talks.

He greets me with a nod, looking a lot less grumpy than this morning. “Panda,” he says.

I try hard not to smile. One faux pas is more than enough for today.

Ben, like he always does, opens the door for me, gets in himself, and sets the RV in motion. The drive is mostly quiet, maybe still a little tense.

“I’d like to apologize for this morning,” he says eventually, when we pull into the parking space in front of our secret lair. “I let my emotions get the better of me and took out my foul mood on you. Which is very unprofessional. I beg for your forgiveness.”

I almost have to laugh at his sincerity. “It’s fine. Not a big deal,” I say as we walk up to our apartment. “Not like anything happened.”

Ben gently lays his hand in my neck, causing my body to tense all over.

“That’s not true. I was being stupid. You were finally feeling comfortable enough to be yourself, and I just went…

” He repeats the grunt from this morning, eliciting a small chuckle from me.

“I want you to know that you can be you around me.” He pulls me close for a moment, then moves me to his side again, as if I weigh nothing. “I want you to be you.”

We stop in front of the door, Ben digging for the keys, then sliding them in. “I also want you to be safe, to feel safe,” he says, opens the door and waits for me to enter, “which is why I’m going to start sleeping in here.”

On the couch is his blanket, neatly folded on one side, his pillow on top, a suitcase next to it.

He continues, “And there will be no discussion. I need to do what’s best for?—”

“Alright,” I interrupt, sliding out of my coat, which Ben takes as if it was second nature, and hangs it on the rack. “What are we having for dinner?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “I think you skipped a step there.”

“Did I? Are we having an amuse-bouche? Fancy.”

Ben chuckles and closes the door behind him. “You understood what I said, yes?”

“You. Couch. Sleeping. Got it.” I give him the finger guns and immediately wish I could be cool just once. “Is it because?—”

“I saw the knife in your bag, and the one on your nightstand. And the chair you tried to wedge under your door knob. I know you’re afraid, but I don’t want you to be.” He runs a hand over his dark stubble. “So you’re not against it? No need to fight before dinner?”

“Wait, is that the step I missed? Does that mean no amuse-bouche?”

Ben laughs, obviously relieved.

I was going to ask him to stay here anyway. For his sake, of course. So he wouldn’t have to sleep in his driver’s seat anymore. But I suppose it doesn’t hurt having him close by. Just in case.

“Sleeping here will save you a lot of time and effort, since you won’t have to keep breaking in. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”

After eating, I get back to working on our forgery. Ben has set up the printer for my reference images, and while I paint, I explain my process to him in great detail. He sits beside me, listening intently, while he replaces the screen on my phone.

“So,” I say as I clean my brushes, a little tired of talking shop, and eager to quench my thirst for more information about him, “last time it came up, it didn’t seem like your favorite topic, but… what happened with your family?”

Ben looks to the ground, then rubs his brow, and lets out a sigh. “It’s a long story…”

“A long story why you don’t talk to your parents anymore? Do you have any siblings?”

His eyes shift to me. He nods, then lets his gaze wander back to the painting. “A brother. Older.”

I check the photo and dab some brown ultimate color onto the canvas. “You don’t talk to him either?”

“We run into each other now and then. But that’s about it. We are very different in a lot of ways.”

“And not so different in a few others?” I hold the palette of paint between us so he doesn’t have to see my curious eyes.

He lets out a grunt—the same kind as this morning. This is probably far enough. I shouldn’t push him to tell me things he isn’t comfortable sharing.

“Oh, by the way,” I say, too gleefully, trying to shift the mood, “there was something I forgot to tell you. It’s probably nothing… it’s definitely nothing, but last night I heard?—”

A noise. There it is again. That scraping sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Right outside.

“Yup, that’s what I heard.”

Ben jumps up immediately. Furiously, he whispers, “You heard a noise, and you didn’t get me?

” Right away, his hands are on me, and he drags me into the bedroom, pushing me onto the bed.

The paintbrush I’m still holding smears dirty splotches onto my sweatshirt.

A second later, the door slides shut, and he’s gone.

I rush over and press my ear against the wood, trying to hear what’s going on.

It sounds like Ben is unlocking the front door and?—

Nothing. At least for a few seconds.

Then I hear his voice again: “It’s okay. You can come out.”

Cautiously, I reach for the handle, step into the living room, and find Ben holding our raccoon baby. Although, calling him a baby seems a little misleading, considering his size.

Ben smiles brightly and is already reaching for a box of cookies in the kitchen. He hands Reuben one of the treats and, before I can say no, places him gently into my arms.