Page 44 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

A t first, it doesn’t register. My brain is still adrift somewhere between dream and reality, still warm with the remnants of Ben’s body pressed against mine. But when I reach over, the bed is cold, the Ben-shaped indentation gone, and that well-known knot in my belly makes a dramatic comeback.

For a moment, I just lie there, holding my stomach, staring at the ceiling like it owes me more answers. The apartment is quiet—too quiet—and I hate how the absence of him feels like something has been stolen.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve been alone for years—by choice! I’m good at it. I’ve practically built a whole persona on isolation. But now that I’ve had him wrapped around me once or twice…

I miss him.

I sit up, pushing the covers down with a sigh, only to freeze when the bedroom door swings open.

Ben walks in, his hair wild, his shirt rumpled, holding a tray like he just raided a cute French café. There are two steaming mugs, a bowl with fruit, some jam, and something that looks suspiciously like croissants.

“I thought I’d have time to surprise you,” he says, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. It’s not the trained smile he gives everyone else. It’s real. Unpolished. Just him. “But apparently you’re up early. Missing your body pillow, hm?”

“You enjoy sneaking up on innocent young women in their bedroom way too much, you know that?”

“I just enjoy sneaking up on you. And I’m not sure I’d consider you all that innocent.”

Fair enough. I nod and move the blanket to make room for him. Ben sets the tray down and hands me one of the mugs. Our fingers brush against each other, and I’m pretty sure I blush.

“Thanks,” I mumble, sipping the coffee. “Okay. You’re forgiven for disappearing.”

“And for sneaking up on you?”

“And for sneaking up on me.”

“Good.” Ben takes a sip as well, kicks off his shoes, and slides in next to me. “Then I’ll forgive you for your snoring.”

Involuntarily, I spit a little coffee back into my mug. “Forgive me? Rude.” Our eyes meet—a teasing grin in his, the tiniest bit of outrage in mine. “You should be thanking me. That snore is basically a healing frequency. You’re welcome for the free therapy.”

He nods and grabs one of the croissants. “Well, that explains why I was up so early then. It was a very intense therapy session for me.” He scoots a little closer, our shoulders touching lightly.

“Do you feel better now?” I ask, letting myself lean into him a little.

He looks at me, using his free hand to guide my head gently to his shoulder, allowing me to rest there, brushing through my hair once. “Much,” he says on a sigh.

We eat in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s presence.

And it feels strange but in a strangely good way.

Like I’m slowly becoming someone I didn’t think I’d ever get to be.

Someone who comes with attachments. Also someone with morning breath (probably), unbrushed hair, and no makeup.

But, for some reason, my friend doesn’t seem to mind.

Maybe being more than just friends wouldn’t be the craziest idea?

I watch Ben as he licks strawberry jam off his thumb and makes a satisfied face over the smell of the coffee. That’s probably the moment I realize (like knot-untyingly realize) that I could get used to this. That maybe I want to get used to this.

Which is reckless, and na?ve, and dumb, and absolutely terrifying.

“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Just… thinking about our plan.”

Because that’s what I actually need to focus on.

Ben nods. “No need to worry, Panda. We’ll make the switch on Monday, flip the painting on Tuesday, and then it’s on to the big one. Will you be able to finish it before the exhibition starts?”

“It’ll be ready,” I say. “But if our schedule allows, I’d like to use today to work on it some more.”

Ben assures me that we’ve got plenty of time—but somehow, instead of painting, we spend the rest of the morning exactly like this: talking, teasing, and trusting each other with more glimpses into one another than either of us is probably used to.

At some point, after brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower, we crawl under the covers again—not to sleep, not to fuck. We just… exist. Together. We share ancient childhood stories, funny anecdotes from work, and some secrets no one else has ever heard.

I learn that Ben once almost got arrested for accidentally setting the chemistry lab of his boarding school on fire while trying to distill ‘artisanal vodka’ in a beaker. He learns that I used to run an illegal tattoo business in prison using a contraband needle and ink from ball-point pens.

The sunlight drifts across the walls, and I watch as Ben’s face changes with it. Around noon, he’s all classical perfection—a sharp jawline softened by stubble, cheekbones that could cut glass. The kind of beauty we rope off at the museum.

By evening, when the shadows stretch longer, other details emerge: dark circles I may or may not have caused with my snoring, a chipped tooth that only shows when he grins in that special way of his, the dip of his collarbone and the veins that run along it—the kind of beauty they usually rope off at the strip club.

By nighttime, we’re still wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, our legs tangled lazily. We order pizza and eat it in bed. It’s the most comfortable and relaxed I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever. Which is saying something, considering the predicament I still find myself in.

We end up staying in bed all day. It’s like we’ve stepped out of real life and into a still-life painting of our own making. We continue talking. About stupid things. And serious things. And things in between. We let our bodies drift closer until we’re breathing in sync again.

At some point, I start tracing the line of his collarbone. He massages my hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No expectations. No pressure. No… nothing. At least here, in our own little piece of art. We fall asleep like this too—limbs tangled, heartbeats synced.

Monday comes too fast. And with it, that quiet, dangerous thing that has been lurking for a little while now: the feeling of belonging.

The feeling of wanting more of this, more of him.

Luckily, there’s no time to dwell on it too much, since my mind needs to occupy itself with illegal schemings once again.

After the museum closes, I lie in waiting. Calm. Collected. Wearing the kind of blazer that says, ‘I am a boring, highly responsible person who absolutely does not have a forgery hidden in her tote bag.’

Ben is on his way to visit Elaine, who still thinks he’s some eccentric billionaire with a passion for art and philanthropy.

She invited him at the prison-break funeral.

And right now, I can see him striding into her office with that trademark con artist smile and a bottle of expensive wine he stole in a different heist.

The moment the door closes behind them, I move.

The hallways are empty. The fluorescent light flickers slightly, as if the building itself is nervous. I swipe my keycard and step into the archive.

I’ve done this a hundred times. But tonight, my pulse is racing. And my usually steady hands suddenly behave like they’re holding a magic wand (one with a fully charged battery.)

Quickly, I head straight for where ‘The Burden of Leadership’ by John D. Swift is kept. I remove the real painting from its box and pull the forgery from my bag. I hold them up side by side. Same weight. Same dimensions. In this light, they look indistinguishable. Dada would be proud of me.

Gently, I place the real painting into the padded bag I brought. Then I slide the forgery into the storage box and push it back onto the shelf. Which is when I hear it—a noise behind me.

“Helena?”

I spin around, heart diving straight into my stomach.

Pat. Just Pat.

Of course, it’s Pat.

Our security guard. Pasta enthusiast, pickleball captain, and, (possibly) long-time piner, who once compared my eyes to ‘the sad part of a violin solo.’

“Oh, hey, Pat,” I say, trying not to look like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’.

“Burning the midnight oil again, are we?” He holds his flashlight under his chin like we’re sitting around a campfire.

“Figured better the midnight oil than our lovely museum.”

Pat laughs out loud and leans against the heavy door. “Good thinking. That’d make my job a lot harder.” He smiles as I grab the bag with the contraband, and make my way over to him.

“You know, you still owe me that dinner,” Pat says.

Dinner?

“That dinner,” he repeats. “You said we’d grab pasta sometime. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Scatterbrained today,” I explain, sliding the bag over my shoulder hiding it behind my back from him.

Actually, that might be a good idea. We could use that dinner to distract Pat during the big swap.

“How about we do that once I’m done prepping for the exhibit? I’ll have more time then.”

Assuming I’m still alive and un-incarcerated.

Pat nods enthusiastically and moves aside to let me pass. We say our goodbyes, and he strolls back to his little office, while I slowly walk to the exit.

On my way, my heartbeat finally begins to slow.

Until I hear another sound—coming from Elaine’s office.