Page 69 of Forbidden Billionaire
“I’ve got it,” he says smoothly.
“Xavier—”
“Save your breath. Another argument you won’t win. And you’ll just annoy the hell out of me.”
After everything he’s already done? Never in a million years could I repay him. This is a tiny gesture. “I can?—”
“You will offend me. Don’t do that. I’m fragile.”
Oh my God. Xavier Blackwell? Fragile? That’s the last thing on earth he is.
The barista—a wiry guy with arm tattoos and a beanie despite the heat—quirks a brow but doesn’t comment.
I roll my eyes just as the woman at the register next to ours chuckles. “Oh, honey. I’d let a good-lookin’ man like yours buy me breakfast any day of the week.”
She’s wearing bright floral leggings and a matching visor, and she’s holding a miniature poodle in a baby sling across her chest like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And it is the Heights. So probably it is the most normal thing in the world.
Xavier smiles at her, slow and devilish. “How about today, ma’am?
She laughs, eyes twinkling, and he adds her order to ours without a second thought.
He looks at our cashier. “And get something for her date.” He nods at the dog.
“Pumpkin muffin?” the man suggests.
“Perfect.” She nods. “Professor Wigglebottom is gluten-free, aren’t you, my perfect little preciousness?”
It’s effortless, the way Xavier navigates the world. Commanding. Generous. Charming as hell.
I’m seeing yet another new layer of him, and it makes my chest ache. Because unfortunately, and probably stupidly, I’m starting to fall for my nemesis.
The woman smiles at Xavier. “Professor Wigglebottom and I thank you very much.” She winks at me. “Honey, you’ve got a good one, here.”
I pretend my heart isn’t tripping over itself.
After a quick discussion, we agree to eat outside because the patio is beautiful, dripping in tropical plants and framed in by purple blossoming bougainvillea.
Overhead, vibrant canvas sails stretch between poles, filtering the sunlight in stripes of coral, teal, and mango. A dozen ceiling fans spin valiantly, pushing air that’s more warm than cool, but it’s moving, so I’m grateful.
Xavier finds us a table beneath one of the larger fans, the blades whirring like they’re working overtime to impress him. He pulls out my chair like a gentleman—which, let’s be honest, still surprises me—and waits until I’m settled. “Is the air blowing up your dress and reaching your wet pussy?”
Scandalized, I freeze.
With a smile, he takes a seat across from me. “Well? Is it?”
Mumbling the truth, I look away.
“Does it feel good? Naughty?”
“Both,” I respond miserably.
“Good. Can’t wait to feel it for myself.”
I’ve barely stopped blushing when our drinks arrive.
Xavier’s is a tall tumbler filled with the shop’s signature cold brew—no cream, no sugar, strong, just like the man himself.
