Page 87 of Trailer Park Billionaire

“Kids? What the fuck are you on about?” I start, confused, still buzzing with adrenaline. “We need to get you back. Now. And what the fuck is a Benpa?”

Helena pulls my hand from her arm, lacing our fingers together, swaying slightly. “Look!" She points at the tree trunk where she'd been kneeling.

I follow her gaze. There, peeking from a hollow in the trunk, is a raccoon. A little fat raccoon. Our raccoon. He blinks at us, casually nibbling on what looks like a slice of bread. Behind him, tiny gleaming eyes—three, no, four baby raccoons.

“I saw him heading into the woods,” Helena explains, her voice hushed. “So naturally, I followed.”

The tension drains from my shoulders as I watch the raccoon family, all of them focused entirely on their dinner.

“Congratulations,” Helena whispers, bringing our still intertwined hands up to her chest. “It would seem that we're grandparents. You’re a Benpa now.”

I can't help but laugh. “First of all, don’t call me that. But also, quite an achievement, considering we've never even…”

“Fucked like animals?” she finishes, turning to face me with a mischievous grin, followed by a hiccup.

The words hang between us, charged. There’s that electric current again.

“You're drunk,” I remind her—and myself.

“Yep,” she agrees, swaying a little. “Which is why you’re not allowed to remember any of this by tomorrow morning.”

She’s cute when she’s drunk. She’s also cute when she isn’t drunk.

Which is something I shouldn’t think about at all. We have a job to do. Not each other.

“Can you walk or should I put you over my shoulder?” I ask, guiding us toward Haven.

“I usually prefer the knee, to be honest,” Helena teases, that grin of hers turning more mischievous by the minute.

I shake my head, doing my best to ignore her. “Let's just get you home, Helenma.”

She leans her weight into me as we walk slowly back to our secret hideout.

“You're a pretty good friend, Ben Lyon,” she murmurs. “Terrible billionaire”—another hiccup interrupts her—“on account of all those missing billions. But a good friend.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I’m really not.” The words land with more weight than I expect. If only she knew. If she knew about?—

I can’t even bear the thought. I should just come clean. Tell her the truth, why I’m doing all of this.

Except I can’t. That would tank the heist. It would not only ruin my own vendetta, but everything Alex and I have worked for so hard.

And she wouldn't look at me the way she's looking at me now. She would never talk to me again.

“I don’t think you get to decide that,” Helena sighs and squeezes my hand a little tighter.

At the apartment door, she stumbles on the little step. I catch her around the waist before she can fall. For a moment, we're pressed together, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her. I can feel her breathing, feel her warmth through our clothes.

“Time for bed,” I say, for some reason not letting go just yet. “You should get ready first.”

She turns in my arms, tilting her face to mine. “Technically, it’s the weekend. We’re allowed to stay up later. Our routine says so.” She points at the whiteboard next to us.

I should direct her to the bathroom, should tell her to get ready, should order her to bed. I should definitely shut this down, hard.

Instead, I freeze when she lifts a hand to my face, her fingertips brushing over my beard.

“You know, Elaine and I joke about how you look like a Greek statue sometimes.”

Oh.“I’ve always considered myself more of a gargoyle,” I deadpan.