Page 40 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

T he first thing I register upon waking is the most comforting warmth. A steady, solid heat radiating behind me, cocooning me in a way that makes it painfully easy to forget where I am. Why I’m here. And why this shouldn’t be happening.

Because… I’m sure there was a very good reason why this shouldn’t be happening, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember.

And this is happening.

My breath catches as I shift slightly, just enough to confirm what I already know: Ben is still here. His body curved behind mine, his arm slack but protectively draped over my waist.

My mental reflex is telling me I should be angry at myself for letting it get this far.

Probably. And I should just slip out of bed, pretend it never happened.

But instead, I let myself feel it—the safety, the comfort.

The frightening fact that for once, I’ve let my guard down to allow someone in.

And it felt good. It still feels good this morning.

So I decide to lean into it, into the warmth.

A satisfied smirk starts to take shape on my lips—until I feel something else, something hot, something distinctly hard pressing against my ass.

It takes a moment longer than it should for my sleepy brain to make the connection, but when it does, that smirk just grows.

Then I lean into that too, because what else would I do?

A second later, Ben inhales sharply and withdraws, rolling away from me so carefully you’d think I’d turned into a live grenade.

I barely manage to shut my eyes in time, feigning unconsciousness as he painstakingly—without uttering a single sound—slides out of bed.

I hear his bare feet whisper across the floor, the hesitant pause as he reaches the door, the soft click as he disappears.

Maybe he doesn’t want this. Maybe he doesn’t want to be close to me. I did sort of make him stay here last night.

Didn’t I?

I replay the moment I pulled him into bed. The way he didn’t resist. The way his grip on me had felt so natural. How we had fallen asleep so peacefully.

I take a deep breath for four seconds, hold it for seven, then kick the blanket away in frustration.

Fuck me.

A little while later, while I’m still busy staring holes into the ceiling, Ben appears in the doorway, holding a tray with what is a surprisingly chaotic attempt at breakfast—at least for his standards.

The toast is slightly burned. The scrambled eggs are alarmingly pale.

The coffee tastes like he confused the sugar with salt.

We don’t talk about last night. Instead, we sit next to one another and share the food. Everything feels a little more awkward than usual. But to be fair, usually nothing feels awkward with Ben.

I scrape some charred bits off the toast, which makes him laugh.

“Not a lot of people know this,” he says, ”but this isn’t actually burned. It’s just a new recipe I recently developed. Ever heard of blackened chicken?”

I utter a skeptical hum.

“Well, it’s like that, but with toast. And without the spice rub. Blackened toast. A delicacy in some… prisons of this world, I’d assume.”

“Not the one I’ve been to.”

He smiles, and maybe for now, that’s enough. Maybe that’s all I need. A friend. Maybe that’s all we should be. Just friends who makes silly jokes for each other. Friends who can confide in one another. Friends who stare at each others really nice hands.

Ben sets his half-eaten toast down and leans back against the headboard, watching me. Not in an intrusive way, just… waiting. Like he’s happy to hear me talk about the whole prison thing—if I want to.

I sigh and pick at the crumbs on my plate. I guess friends do share stuff like that. “It wasn’t as bad as you see on TV.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against them.

“There were barely any gang fights. No guards beating us up—well, not regularly at least. No one ever tried to shank me in the shower. I guess this isn’t my first black eye, though.

” I scratch at my cheek. “It was just girls… women. Some were tough, sure. Some had done things way worse than me. But most of them were just… tired. Waiting…”

Ben doesn’t move, but I can tell he’s listening carefully by the way his fingers glide over his beard.

“The worst part was the waiting. First you wake up, eat, do nothing, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Every day is the same, and you’re just sitting with yourself.

With what you’ve done. And then, at some point, you start getting intrusive thoughts, and stupid ideas.

” I exhale. “I missed my grandpa the most. He was the only thing I had left to hold onto. The only thing waiting for me. My parents were dead. I didn’t have any friends left since the system made me move around, had me change schools.

And at first, my grandpa was still in prison himself.

We’d write each other letters. He always said he wasn’t disappointed in me, but I guess I was disappointed in myself.

In fucking up my life. In becoming such a screw-up.

I kept thinking about how he’d get out, and I wouldn’t be there for him. How I’d let him down.”

Ben’s eyes soften, and I clear my throat. “But hey, my grandpa helped me figure out the routine, and a goal to work towards. I got my degree, so at least I can fail at life with a proper education now.”

“What was that like?” he asks. “Studying in prison?”

I stare down at my coffee, swirling the spoon through the salty liquid.

“It was something to do. Which is valuable in there. A way to mark the days. But also… I don’t know, I guess I remembered why I loved art in the first place.

It made me feel like I was still me. Like I wasn’t just a prisoner, wasn’t just a screw-up. ”

Ben shifts a little closer, his knee almost touching mine. “So your studying art was prison-art-therapy in itself?”

“Yeah, in a way. You could say that. It gave me something to hold onto. Something that wasn’t just… resignation. Because that will eat you alive in there.” I look up, meeting his gaze. “Much like I’m about to eat this terrible piece of toast.”

His hand shoots out and grabs me by the wrist, keeping me from swallowing another bite.

“You’re not a screw-up, Helena. And you’re much too good for blackened toast…

even though it is a delicacy. Come on.” He pulls me off the bed, nearly spilling coffee on the mattress. “I’m buying you a proper breakfast.”

And just like that, the weight on my shoulders eases even more. Because that’s what friends do. They listen to each other and then buy you breakfast to cheer you up.

Over the next few days, we add an unspoken subroutine to our overall routine.

Ben goes back to sleeping on the couch, but our mornings are still spent together, sharing breakfast in bed like the most functional, dysfunctional couple there is.

Or maybe like friends. He drives me to work, where I prepare the museum for the upcoming exhibition.

Elaine hovers even more than usual, her worry about me not decreasing in the slightest—even when my bruise fades back to mostly normal colors.

Ben picks me up at the end of each day, we have dinner, then work on the forgeries together. It’s all perfectly normal. Mostly.

Except for sometimes, when I get this feeling.

Like something is off about him. Like there’s something beneath the marble surface that I can’t quite touch.

A flicker of hesitation in his expression.

A delay in his responses. He’s also gone for a couple of hours here and there, has Alexei stay with me during those times, and is elusive when it comes to explaining his absence.

But maybe I’m just imagining it. He is allowed to have a life outside this strategic partner-in-crimeship between friends. Maybe it’s just me overthinking. Me trying to keep myself from becoming a little happier.

Then, the following Saturday morning, after breakfast, Ben tries to kidnap me.

I figure it out when the blindfold he dons over my eyes doesn't lead to lips colliding, hands getting tied up sexily, or a good spanking. Which is fine for the best, of course.

He’s doing the ‘if you’d please follow me blindly into your demise’ thing, rather than the ‘throwing me into a van and having his way with me’ thing.

“Look, I’m not complaining,” I say as he effortlessly lifts me over a puddle on the way toward the RV.

Both those things have their time and place, I suppose.

“But I’m not made of glass. You won’t break me by cuffing my hands or gagging my mouth.

If anything, I think it would really add to the experience. ”

A second later, Ben’s hand travels from the small of my back north.

He fists my messy bun and yanks me close, his breath warm against my cheek.

I can practically hear the smirk on his lips.

“If you haven’t figured it out by now, Panda, there are few things I enjoy more than hearing you run that mouth of yours.

So I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly gag you.

” He tugs just a little harder, forcing my head to tilt back.

“And definitely not here. Not right now. But how’s that for the experience?

” His grip tightens in my bun, sending a sharp jolt through me as he pushes ahead.

I really hope no one is watching, or they might feel compelled to call the cops.

Which, admittedly, means it’s pretty good for the experience. Not great for my underwear, though, because by the time I’m being sat down, I can feel just how soaked I am.

When we eventually pull up to wherever we were going, Ben clears his throat as if he’s gearing up for a confession.

“So,” he says carefully, “I want you to know that all of this was done with the best intentions in mind and I hope you’ll like it.

But if you don’t, we can leave at any time. Just say the word.”

Ominous.

“What word?” I ask.