Page 49 of Trailer Park Billionaire

Oh. He’s talking about the raccoon that broke into my grandpa’s apartment.

“You named him?”

“He basically named himself. We can change it if you don’t like it.”

“No, it’s… cute, I guess.”

Ben gives me one of his signature smiles—one of the practiced ones, not the genuine kind, which is a little disappointing. “And on that note, I'm kidnapping you again.”

I blink, wondering what he’s talking about this time. Narrowing my eyes, I reach for the knife and point it in his direction playfully.

“Good thinking,” he says, while getting up and opening the door to the trailer. “We’ll need that to cut our food. Come on, I’m re-taking you hostage until you’re properly fed.”

I guess he’s kind of cute. And I am kind of hungry.

I check the time. It’s getting late, but it is a Saturday evening, so technically my schedule is open. If I want to finish both paintings on time, I’ll probably have to start getting a lot more flexible anyway. The thought of giving up my schedule alone gives me goosebumps.

Bad decisions.

It reeks of bad decisions.

The kind that get people jailed.

I don’t exactly agree, but I also don’t stop him when he tugs me out of the trailer and into the RV that’s parked around the corner.

“Seatbelt,” he says as he starts the engine. “Wouldn’t want my best forger to be reduced to roadkill.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a tiny takeout joint that looks like it may or may not be violating several health codes. The gas station sushi had looked less dubious.

“Trust me,” he says when he catches my apprehension as we make our way to the counter. Without asking what I want, Ben rattles off an order so fast it sounds more like some secret code than a food request. The old man at the counter nods approvingly and jots it down.

A few minutes later, we're back in his RV, and the smell of fried food and spices fills the space. It does smell amazing.

I take a bite of a pakora dipped in chutney—and my eyes nearly roll back into my head. It tastes too good to talk, so we eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional rustle of takeout containers and both of us humming with every bite.

“So, who drew those?” I ask eventually, nodding at the crayon masterpieces on the ceiling.

He looks up, still chewing. “Friends.”

I wait for him to elaborate.

He just shrugs. “Just kids from around the neighborhood. Sometimes I play with them. Sometimes they paint me a picture. I don’t have the heart to throw them away, so… up they go.”

Something warm settles in my chest, right above the knot that’s been suspiciously quiet all day. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well, don't go spreading that around. I have a reputation to uphold,” he jokes.

“Rich and powerful?”

“No,” he scowls. “Angry and dangerous.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” I chuckle. “I’ll try to remember.”

“You better…” Ben points a limp masala french fry at me, “or else.”

I almost laugh, and he grins—really grins—in a way that makes my chest tighten. But in a good way? Is that a thing? Am I having a heart attack?

Damn him.