Page 45 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

“I’m serious, Eli.” She peered at him over her glasses, her voice gentle but firm. “This is nothing like what you originally had drawn up. If you do this, you’ll be leaving a lot of money on the table.”

He shrugged and stared down at his loafers. He hadn’t worn them in weeks, yet for some reason, he’d felt compelled to put them on today. Same with his freshly pressed button-down and flat-front khakis. Hell, he’d worn a goddamn tie. Like putting on armor to do battle.

He retrieved his coffee and took a sip, savoring the taste and feel of the hot, dark liquid as it ran over his tongue and down his throat. “Money isn’t everything.”

“Now I know something is wrong. You’re not sick are you?” She reached across the table and put a hand to his forehead. “Oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re dying. You’ve got six months to live, and this is some sort of last ditch effort to make peace with your maker.”

“It’s nothing that melodramatic, I swear.” He finished his coffee, crushed the cup in his hand, and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “Besides, aren’t you the one always telling me the best things in life are free?”

“Yes. But I hadn’t realized you were actually paying attention.” Ginny’s glasses slipped lower on her nose, and she pushed them up with her index finger. “Dare I ask what—or who—is responsible for this remarkable transformation?”

The answer to her question was obvious, but it wasn’t one Eli was ready to give, even to the woman who’d become almost a mother to him. What he shared with Brooke was too new, too fragile, too uncertain.

“The building doesn’t need to be razed, it needs to be restored.” He tapped the drawing. “High ceilings. Exposed brick. Natural wood beams. If we do this right, it’ll appeal to everyone from baby boomers to millennials. We’ll be at full occupancy before the paint is dry.”

“Fine.” Ginny took off her glasses, snapped them shut and stowed them in her purse. “Don’t tell me who she is. I’ll figure it out eventually. I haven’t worked for you for eight years without learning a few tricks.”

He rolled up the plans and slid them back into the tube, glad to be done with the sensitive subject of his love life. At least for now. “Any word from the title insurance company?”

She pulled a manila folder from her pocketbook. “I’ve got the preliminary title report right here, along with the FEMA flood map and a summary of the applicable zoning regulations and permit requirements from the city planning department.”

She slid the folder across the table to him. He opened it and leafed through the documents. “Good work, Ginny. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.” She stood and started to put on her coat. “Oh, I sent your tuxedo out to be cleaned so it will be ready for the silent auction next week.”

The auction. Shit. He’d all but forgotten about it. “Thanks. You’ll be there, I hope.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I know how important Geek Girls is to you and Paige.” She hitched her purse over her arm. “Will you be bringing a date?”

He rose to join her, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. “Nice try, but you’re not going to worm it out of me that easily.”

“Ah-ha.” She jabbed a finger at him. “So, there is something to worm out of you.”

Damn, the old bird was good. He slung an arm around her considerably smaller shoulders and steered her toward the door. “If there is, I’m not going to let it slip at a black-tie benefit with the grand dames of New York society looking on. Those women scare me. They’re the real gossip girls.”

Part of him—a big part—wanted nothing more than to stroll into the fundraiser with Brooke on his arm. But there was no way he could invite Brooke without blowing his cover, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

He would be. Soon. Very soon. He just hoped when that time rolled around she’d be willing to listen to him.

…

“We’ve got trouble.” David burst through Brooke’s door, tanned and refreshed from his honeymoon and waving one arm excitedly.

“Knock much?” Brooke put down her pencil and rested her elbows on her drawing table. Since the wedding, she’d been more productive than ever. Her muse, which had deserted her, had returned with a vengeance. Like most creative types, she didn’t want to overthink the reason for her sudden change of fortune. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was different.

Her relationship with Eli. Okay, yeah, she’d used the word relationship. Shoot her. And she hadn’t been hit by a stray comet or struck by lightning. Miracle of miracles.

It was like she and Eli had crossed a bridge that night after the wedding, from friends with benefits to a bona fide couple. They’d established a sort of new normal. Going about their own business during the day, which for her meant writing or drawing or pulling an occasional shift at Flotsam and Jetsam, and for him meant tabulating columns and organizing spreadsheets or whatever it was financial wizards did. Then it was takeout or dinner at a local restaurant, neither one of them being particularly adept in the kitchen. Well, adept at cooking. They’d found plenty of other, more creative, uses for the space, and about every other surface in their respective apartments

In between their marathon sex sessions, they’d watch movies, listen to music—aside from their shared affection for second British invasion bands, he preferred jazz fusion, she headbanging heavy metal—or talk about everything from politics to prime-time television, staying deftly away from their personal lives, which they avoided as if by tacit, unspoken agreement, his apparently being as messy as hers. When they were spent, from conversation or coitus, they’d fall asleep tangled in each other and wake the next morning to have breakfast together before starting the whole cycle over again.

The kind of normal a girl could get used to, if she let herself.

“No time for formalities.” David smacked a hand down on her drafting table, scattering papers and snapping Brooke out of her Eli-induced daydream. “There’s a guy outside with a tripod and some fancy electronic equipment, planting little flags everywhere.”

Icy fingers of dread clawed at her gut. She swallowed hard and tried to tamp it down as she gathered the fallen papers and tossed them haphazardly on the table. She’d have to sort that mess out later. Right now, she had more a pressing predicament to deal with.

“It’s probably someone from the gas company marking where the underground lines are.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping her tone was more optimistic than she felt.