Page 51 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

T he next few days blur together in the best way possible—like a soft-focus montage at the end of a romantic movie, only interrupted by the occasional moan or sound of Ben slapping my ass (maybe making it more of an adult movie).

We fall back into our routine. A routine that mostly consists of finalizing my grandpa’s forgery, finishing preparations at work for the big exhibition, and fucking until we’re both sore, satisfied, and vaguely concerned for the bed frame’s structural integrity.

Every now and then, he brings me tea, snacks, and back rubs.

We kiss for the thousandth time, and it’s still like we’re starved for it. At home, we rarely wear any clothes, we sleep tangled up, melting into each other like we’re watercolors on paper.

One morning, I wake up to find he’s moved my easel next to the bed. When I ask him why, he shrugs and says that it’s time I draw him like one of my French gargoyles. So I do. Like one of my naked, brooding French gargoyles.

So yeah, there’s a lot of sex.

But there’s more than that.

There’s the way he massages my shoulder when I’m having a cramp, the way he listens when I complain about varnish layers, the way he smiles at me like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen—even when I’m in a stained hoodie with paint in my hair, swearing at a stubborn brush.

The forgery that my grandpa started is finally coming together, and I’m sure there’s something poetic about me finishing the painting he got imprisoned for, so I can get myself out of trouble.

It feels like completing something he never had the chance to.

I try not to dwell on it too much though.

Instead, I focus on what will come after.

On Ben. On whether he’d have to move to another city.

Whether I’d go with him. Whether that’s even something I want, something that he wants.

We don’t talk about the future though, like it’s a bottle of absinthe flying at the window of this pretty little gallery we’re curating here. The only time it does come up is when we start planning the swap of the forgery with the original that’s arriving at the museum soon.

Elaine and I are finalizing the exhibition setup.

Luckily, no additional security measures are being added—for lack of funds.

Who would have thought. The real painting will be stored in the exhibition room two days before being hung to let it acclimate.

During that window, it’s just Pat on duty. Pat, whom I promised a dinner date.

“This is the best shot we’ve got,” I say, tapping the homemade blueprint spread out between Alex, Ben, and me, and a pile of convenience store snacks that should probably be classified as hazardous waste, since Alex got them for free when his go-to gas station was about to throw them out.

“It’s just Pat on duty. If I bring him dinner and keep him busy in his office, you two can sneak in here, and do the swap. ”

“Keep him busy?” Ben arches a brow.

“I’m not gonna have sex with him, Benedick.” I roll my eyes. “He’s old enough to be my dad. Quick handjob, blowie at most. Nothing too serious. Don’t worry.”

Alex pops a nacho into his mouth, which turns his laugh into an expression of disgust. He swallows and shakes it off. “Bring him gas station sushi. That should keep him busy for at least an hour. Maybe two if it’s from the station on 4th.”

Ben wears a look of disapproval. “We can’t poison him.”

Alexei nods. “Not poison. Just… incapacitate. Think of it as nature’s laxative.”

I wave them off. “Trust me, I can maintain a conversation for half an hour. As long as you two don’t trip any alarms, or make any noise, we should be fine.”

Ben leans in and kisses me softly. I let myself melt into it.

Even here, sitting on a floor covered in crumpled chip bags and self-made blueprints, planning a heist that could land all three of us in prison, I feel safe.

Cared for. Desired. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to want a future that isn’t just lonely and gray.

We continue planning until, a little while later, Alexei finishes all the nachos and starts looking a little green around the gills.

He heads back to his apartment, mumbling something about regret and indigestion, and leaves the two of us to ourselves.

That’s when thoughts about what comes after creep back in.

But for some reason, I don’t feel like letting them gnaw at me this time.

I feel like I should just bring them up with Ben.

We talk about everything—so it just makes sense we would talk about this too.

So I just ask, “Do you ever think about what we’ll do after this?”

“I was thinking sushi. Haven’t had sushi in a while. Proper sushi though. All that talk about it gave me a craving.”

I chuckle. “Me too. I’ve had a craving for sushi from that place near your trailer park ever since I followed you that day. It’s really good.”

“Oh, you mean Neta. Yeah, it’s delicious. I should get us some for dinner. I don’t think they deliver this far out.”

“Sounds good,” I agree. “But you know that’s not what I was talking about, right?”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah, I know. You mean, what will we do if we’re not in jail or hiding in a landlocked country in Southeast Asia.”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that—and a few other things—for a while. But let me get dinner first so we don’t have to do it on an empty stomach, alright?”

I nod. “Alright, but just so I don’t have to sit here wondering if you’re about to break up with me and just want to soften the blow with delicious food: you don’t want to break up with me, do you?”

Ben presses another kiss to my lips and seems to consider his response for a moment. “They don’t have any pandas in prison or in Laos. I’d be a fool to ever leave someone as precious and rare as you.”

My chest does that terrifying flutter thing. That happy, terrifying flutter thing.

Ben stands, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rides up just enough to completely derail my train of thought.

“Alright, I’ll check in on Alex to make sure he’s not turning into a gas station horror story. Then I’ll grab dinner. Will be back in an hour or so.”

I nod, even though a little part of me wants him to stay so we can talk about us right now. But an even bigger part of me wants delicious sushi, so…

“I’ll work on the final varnish layer while you’re gone.”

Ben grins, then lifts me up from the ground to kiss me—soft and slow, like he’s imprinting the shape of his mouth onto my memory. “Back soon.” He winks over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

And then I’m alone.

The apartment feels different without him, like the air’s holding its breath for his return. Which is fine. I like holding my breath. It gives me a sense of calm that I usually only get when his lips are on mine—though right now, it’s the kind of calm that’s laced with anticipation.

It will be fine. We’ll figure this thing between us out.

Because I’m in love with him. And I think he feels the same way.

And when you love each other, that’s what you do.

You figure it out.

I click on the lamp near the easel and get to work. The painting’s nearly finished now, just the faintest adjustments to tone and texture left.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it: the soft scratch of brush on canvas, the familiar smell of linseed oil wafting through the air.

While I work, my mind wanders in that warm, fluttery direction it always does lately—toward Ben.

The way he looks at me like I’m art. The way he touches me like he’s afraid he might hurt me.

The way he touches me like he’s not afraid at all to hurt me—in that really satisfying way.

Then there’s a knock. I flinch.

It’s not the way Ben knocks, all lazy affection and offbeat rhythm. Not the way Alex knocks either—his is usually accompanied by a yell through the door.

I sigh, brush halfway to canvas.

Another knock. Slower this time.

Ben probably forgot his wallet. Or it’s Guy needing help with the TV remote again. Or Robyn dropping off more of my grandpa’s socks, like she did last week. I wipe my hands on my hoodie, walk across the room, unlock the door, and pull it open.

And then the world stops.

It’s him.

The man who left my face bruised last time.

He’s standing there as if the month is already up. It’s not. There are three days left.

He’s smiling. A smile so fake it’s terrifying. A smile that sends shivers down my spine.

I can’t move. Can’t speak. My breath catches somewhere in my chest—just above the knot that’s suddenly back with a vengeance.

“Miss me?” he asks, voice slick as oil.

The sound of it paralyzes me even more.

My fingers tighten around the door frame.

I should scream. I should slam the door. I should run. Or fight.

But I just stand there, staring into the eyes of the man who made me afraid of knocking on wood.