Billionaires Dollar Series

It feels like it takes all the willpower I possess, but I squeeze out a dollop of shampoo and start to massage my painful scalp. Everything hurts, but the smell of my products helps. Caramel and florals.

I emerge from the shower five years younger and about a hundred times fresher. Looking into the mirror, my cheeks are flushed and my eyes are shiny.

“Damn.” I look as sick as I feel. I think of all the things I probably said to Cole last night. Of the fact that he showed up to the book reading, answering the invitation we’d sent to his office in person. It was meant to be a victory statement. Look at us doing well! And instead, he’d gotten another night in bed with me, but without any of the benefits. Had he stayed out of kindness? Out of pity? Out of interest? I don’t know which option scares me the most.

I wrap myself in the largest towel I own and crack open the bathroom door. The coast seems clear, and I hurry across the living room.

My couch looks slept on. There’s a coffee cup on the table. Guilt and embarrassment knot together in my stomach. “Save Between the Pages,” I murmur to myself. “That’s all that matters.”

I’m half-dressed when I hear the front door opening. Hurriedly, I pull on an oversized T-shirt and grab a sweater from a drawer. There’s nothing sexy about me right now. The woman he met at the hotel bar-the woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate in going after it-feels a million miles away.

“I’m back!” he calls.

I push the bedroom door open. He’s unpacking a massive bag of groceries on my kitchen table. A carton of orange juice. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Jam. Apples.

“Woah.”

“Your fridge is practically empty. I got you a bit of everything from the convenience store next door.” He runs a hand through his thick hair, now a mess. “It’s been a while since I went food shopping.”

He means it, too.

I step closer. He got a packet of cookies and a chocolate bar. A large bottle of lemonade. A box of Advil. It’s the ultimate stay-at-home-sick day package.

“Thank you.”

He takes a step back and nods at me. “Sure, sure.”

I pick up the packet of cookies, mostly to have something to do. “White chocolate chip?”

“Ate them a lot growing up.”

“Ah.”

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry you had to miss work for this. I didn’t mean… you didn’t have to, you know.”

His lip curls into a half-smile. “I know. But then, you told me you didn’t have anyone to call.”

I turn away from him to hide the embarrassment on my face. Awesome, Skye. What other painful things did I tell him?

He glances down at his watch. He must be itching to get away, and here I am, pitiable and keeping him from his work. “Well,” I say. “Thanks for making sure your opponent remained in good shape.”

“My pleasure,” he murmurs. “Does this mean the truce is over?”

“I’m considering it. I have a meeting scheduled with my advisors later today.”

He smiles at my lame joke, but I think it’s more out of pity than humor. “You have the day off,” he says. “We spoke about that this morning. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, I do.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

He takes a step toward the front door, like he’s already itching to get away. “Good.”

Courage, Skye.

“Look,” I start. “I’m really sorry about last night. About… this. Thanks for staying. I didn’t mean to put that on you.”

He cocks his head to the side, and despite the lack of sleep, the lack of a shower, he still looks like something out of a catalogue. It’s not fair. “I didn’t mind,” he says.

“I know your time is valuable. Anyway, I just wanted to say that. And that I’d appreciate it if this didn’t affect our professional relationship.”

“Our professional relationship,” he repeats, all trace of humor gone from his face.

“Yeah. Between the Pages. The two-month deal.” I swallow down the lump that seems to form when I think about the bookstore closing.

“It won’t.”

“Good.” I’m nodding like a deranged person, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest.

“Like you said, I had to ensure my opponent was in good shape.”

I nod again. He’s said several times that he enjoys winning against someone who puts up a fight. I can oblige with putting up a fight, that’s for sure, but not with letting him win. “And you did. You could become a nurse. If your empire fails, I mean. Something to fall back on.”

He grabs his phone from the hallway table and slips it roughly into one of his pockets. That’s all he had with him, I realize. “Excellent advice.”

I rub my neck. “Yeah. Well…”

“See you around, Skye.”

“Bye,” I whisper, but he’s already out the door.

I sink onto the couch and cover my face. Damn. I got what I wanted, and still, I feel like we’ve just had an argument. And we hardly even know each other.

Through my splayed fingers, I peek out at my apartment. He was here. He saw the mobile of crystals that my eccentric mother made me a few years ago and insists I keep hung for good vibes. He saw my overflowing laundry hamper. The bodice ripper I’m currently reading, very incriminatingly lying on my bedside table.

It was nice of him to stay. At the same time, he’s trying to destroy the store. So why do I feel like I was rude in sending him away?

I bury myself under blankets, munching on a white chocolate chip cookie that I fear will now always remind me of Cole Porter, when my phone vibrates.

It’s him.

Cole Porter: These are Dr. Johnson’s contact details. He’s been informed that you’re better, but if you take a turn for the worse, contact him immediately.

The doctor, whom Cole arranged to make a late home visit. Something twists inside me, and this time it’s not pain or sore muscles or even embarrassment. It’s guilt at my rudeness.

And beneath it, something far more dangerous.

Feelings.

It takes me two days to rest and get better. Two whole days of being weak, of climbing on the walls, of sleeping fourteen hours a night. It’s a pause in work that neither Karli nor I can afford, not when we’re working against the clock.