Page 39 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)
BEN
I step into the shower, tilting my head back as the hot water pounds against my skin.
It’s better than no pounding at all.
The heat is supposed to help, to loosen the tension trapped in my body, although I doubt it can wash away the image of Helena from my mind.
The image of that smoldering stare that could strip paint off a wall.
The glimpses of softness she tries so hard to hide.
The way she turns every insult into foreplay.
Damn her.
Damn her sharp tongue, her relentless wit, the way she pushes every single one of my buttons without even trying.
Damn the way she makes me feel—protective, hungry, always one breath away from losing control.
And damn the fact that she’s in the next room, probably in her sexy little shorts that show off half her ass.
And what a fantastic ass it is.
My fingers curl around myself, my breath coming sharp as I give in, just for a moment. Just this. Just the fantasy. Just the fantasy of her in here. Because that’s all I can have.
I imagine her beneath me, her messy bun tangled in my hands, her dark eyes glassy.
She’d fight it, of course. She’d fight me.
Because that’s just her. She knows just as well as me that we could never.
But in my mind, she digs her nails into my skin, pushes me away.
Only to surrender to her desires in the end nonetheless.
Because she wants it just as badly as I do.
And that thought—the thought of her wanting me —nearly undoes me.
A low groan escapes my throat, the pressure building as I’m stroking myself, my body aching for something I can never have. For someone I can never have.
I’ve been on edge ever since the moment I met Helena, so it doesn’t take long before release washes over me. Except that it isn’t a release. Not really. It feels hollow, empty. A poor substitute for the real thing.
I brace myself against the cold tiles, catching my breath, the water washing away the evidence of my weakness. Because that’s what this is. A weakness. And I can’t afford it. Especially not now. Now that the biggest heist of our lives is under way.
By the time I’m on the couch, sweatpants hanging low on my hips, I tell myself I’m done thinking about her. I just have to shut it off, shove it deep down where all my other mistakes live. I’m good at that, at compartmentalizing things that don’t serve me.
Of course, that compartmentalizing gets a little harder when you can hear the subject of your desire right next door… by the sound of it, tearing through cardboard boxes like a raccoon that just discovered same-day delivery.
Did she let Reuben in?
I look at the front door. It’s still locked. She wouldn’t.
Besides whatever she’s doing, it’s none of my business.
So I close my eyes—not in an attempt to listen more closely—but because I need to sleep.
There’s more rustling.
Maybe she’s wrestling a bear made out of bubble wrap?
Maybe I should put in some earplugs.
A sudden thud against the bedroom door makes me sit up straight.
Is someone in there with her?
I check the front door again. Definitely closed.
Then I press my ear against the wall next to me.
A silent sob.
Before my mind can catch up, I’m pushing Helena’s door open to find her sitting on the floor, her back is leaning against the bed. A book lies before my feet. Looks like that caused the thud against the door. Helena is illuminated only by a ray of moonlight.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just stares at the thing on the floor between us. It’s not a book, but a photo album.
Slowly, I pick it up, and look at a page filled with pictures—her grandpa, I assume. I close the album, sit down next to Helena, wrap an arm around her shoulders, and pull her close.
“I knew we should’ve called in an exorcist before moving you in here. I hate when the ghosts start chucking things around for attention.”
Helena huffs through her nose and wipes a tear away. “That’s a job for the Ghostbusters. Not an exorcist,” she mutters weakly.
I nod. “You think Madame Clair offers busting services? We could give her a call.”
“You’re naked,” she sniffles in response.
I laugh. “Well, I am wearing pants. But hey—if you need me to take them off to distract the ghosts…”
Helena sobs and (I’m about fifty percent sure) laughs at the same time. “My grandpa just died,” she says.
Shit.
I guess her grieving had to take the backseat for a while with everything that has been going on.
“Which makes this… not the best time to joke about flashing ghosts.” I take my arm off and turn toward her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an insensitive ass.”
“You’re not the asshole.” She shakes her head.
“I am. My Dada died and I—” Her voice breaks and my heart right along with it.
“I feel like I should be drowning in grief. I should be sobbing, unable to get out of bed. Instead, I’m…
having fun at flea markets and eating the best pancakes I’ve ever had, and—” Another sob cuts her off.
Fuck.
Am I the cause for this?
“But I’m not grieving. I’m barely thinking about it, about him. I’m too busy with everything else that’s just… happening. And I’m feeling really fucking shitty about it.”
I exhale slowly, brush away the stream of tears on her cheeks. I don’t try to fix it.
Don’t say she’s strong. Don’t offer platitudes. Instead, I just sit there, trying to offer comfort. Until, finally, she leans into me, her head finding the crook of my neck. I reach around her again and pull her close.
After a long moment, she wipes away more tears, then takes the album and opens it up. Her fingers trace a worn photograph of a man with a grumpy face and a little girl perched on his shoulders.
“That’s him?” I ask softly.
“He used to take me to the pond every Sunday. He’d bring peas and sunflower seeds, and he’d tell me, very seriously, that I was feeding the most important members of our community.”
I nod solemnly. “The ducks.”
“The ducks,” she confirms with a watery smile. “We’d draw them while they had their breakfast. I think he thought that drawing ducks would hold my attention more than just pretty water lilies.”
She flips the page to a photo of her dad. Helena takes after him—just without the mustache or the beer belly. He’s carrying her on his back, like a pony. She’s laughing manically.
“My dad wasn’t great at baking. Or cooking. Or adulting, for that matter. But every year, on my birthday, he’d insist on making me a cake from scratch. They were usually too sweet, sometimes a little burned.”
I squint at the next photograph. “Is that why there are firemen in the background?”
She chuckles. “He almost burned the apartment down. It smelled like scorched cake for weeks.” Helena has calmed a bit by now, though the pain still lingers behind her eyes.
When she turns to a photo of a young woman, her voice softens. “I don’t really remember my mom. She died when I was still too young. My dad never spoke of her. Too painful, I think.” She sighs. “My Dada only had nice things to say about her though. Said she was quite the ray of sunshine.”
“So you have your dad’s eyes, and your mom’s nature.”
Helena gives me her best side-eye. “I am entirely my dad.”
I shake my head. “You can try to deny it all you want, but I’ve heard you talk about your magic powers. And you can try to hide those too, but I’m afraid this,” I point to her mom’s warm smile, “is one of them. You look very much like her here.”
Another tear slips down Helena’s cheek. I use her blanket to dry it off. With her head nestled into the nook of my neck, she tells me more stories. Some silly, some shocking, all of them raw and revealing.
Eventually, when she yawns, eyes heavy with sadness and exhaustion, I don’t give her a choice. I scoop her into my arms and carry her to bed.
As I lower her down, she clings to my arm and doesn’t let go. Instead, she gently pulls me under the covers with her. I don’t hesitate. I slide in behind her, her back pressed to my chest, her head resting on my arm.
We don’t talk. We just lie there. Our breathing syncs and our heartbeats slow.
The last thing I see before I drift off is Helena’s face softened by sleep. Then her messy bun covers my view of it. My hands are clutched to hers, and her butt is gently pressing against me.