Page 72 of Trailer Park Billionaire

“Let me see one more time and we’ll call it even.”

I swallow down a chuckle and shove the phone deep into my pocket, as if burying it can erase the last twenty seconds of my life. “Can you do me a favor?”

Ben shakes his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to just forget this happened.” He gets up. “But if you want, we can do it like we do with our secrets. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Then he jokingly starts unbuckling his belt.

I stop him immediately by putting my hand right onto his crotch. Of course I was aiming for his hand right above his crotch but, naturally, he had to move in just therightwrong moment.

24

HELENA

It’s like I’ve been sent straight into one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings depicting some bizarre—and surprisingly horny—circle of hell.

Quickly, I withdraw my hand.

Ben's smirk deepens. “It’s okay. Luckily, the rules about touchingthe artaren’t as strict around here as they are at the museum.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“Don’t worry about it, Panda. It was my pleasure.” Ben winks, sits back down, and continues to eat, mischief written all over his face.

Meanwhile, I am still embarrassed at what just happened, his cool expression making me burn even hotter. My only solace is that Ben seems to be more interested in my art skills than in humiliating me further. So, after dinner, he does the dishes, I get to work, and he joins me once he’s ready.

“So, how does one turn a 500-year-old masterpiece into a completely different 500-year-old masterpiece, then?” he asks, gently bumping into me.

I exhale and take a step away from him and the heat he’s exuding. It’s getting almost uncomfortably warm in here—not ideal conditions for the painting.

“Well, it’s a lot like plastic surgery,” I reply, rolling up my sleeves. “Except instead of fillers and scalpels, we use solvents and varnish. First, we need to prep the canvas—strip away the top layer of pigments without damaging the fibers underneath.”

Ben hums. “Sounds… delicate.”

I shoot him a look and move another step away from the bonfire he calls a body. “Which is why you will not be touching anything unless I say so.”

His hands go up in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of interfering with the great Pan da Vinci. You’re the boss… at least when it comes to the art.”

There’s a lot that remains unsaid in that little addendum, but I choose to ignore it. I need to focus on my work. Who cares what—or who—he thinks he’s the boss of anyway. I’m just here to commit some good ol’ crime like I used to. Sort of.

So that’s what I do. Since the existing paint is too thick, too textured, I remove the top layer with some solvent and a scalpel, before carefully sanding it down to preserve the old gesso underneath.

Ben watches closely as I go along.

Once I’m done, I crack my knuckles. “Next, we’ll resize and stretch the canvas to fit the dimensions we need. That’s where you come in.”

“Finally,” Ben says with another smirk. “I was almost starting to feel useless just admiring you.”

He’s not, though. Useless, I mean. He handles the old wooden frame with surprising skill, helping me guide and stretch the canvas to match our intended dimensions. His fingers brush against mine more than once, and I pretend notto notice—even though my body betrays me with every stolen touch.

“So,” I say eventually, in an attempt to distract myself, “since you’ve already seen my boobs, I think I deserve a freebie.”

Ben’s hands are busy, luckily, or I’m sure he’d be halfway to unbuckling his belt again. Instead, his eyes just crinkle suggestively.

“A free secret, I mean. Our little game? Seems only fair you cough up something… big in return.”

Ben laughs, low and husky. It’s music to my ears. “Fair enough,” he says and leans back, looking up at the ceiling like he’s deciding which skeleton to pull from his closet. “Alright. Here’s one—and don’t make fun of me for it—but I’ve never been in a relationship.”

I pause mid-brushstroke. “Never?”

“Nope.”