Page 65 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

Epilogue

“Hey, Brooke.” David poked his head in the door of the fifth-floor apartment she shared with Eli. Without knocking, of course. “Chris needs you on the roof.”

She finished shading a panel of her newest graphic novel, the sequel to the one her agent had finally sold, and set her pencil down against the lip of her drawing table. “It’s like thirty degrees out. What’s he doing up there?”

“He said something about checking on the cold frames.” David held his hands palms-up in a how-the-heck-should-I-know gesture. “I think he’s worried the clematis won’t make it through another frost.”

“He can handle that by himself. What does he need me for? Is there some sort of problem?”

“I’m not sure, Miss Twenty Questions. All I know is if I don’t get you up there ASAP, I’m going to have one pissed-off husband on my hands. And a pissed-off husband means little Davey doesn’t get any action tonight.”

Brooke rolled her neck and stretched her arms above her head. Maybe a little break was just what she needed. She’d been hunched over her drawing table for hours, trying to finish the chapter she was working on before Eli came home from his business trip. He’d been gone four days, and the three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath apartment he’d specially designed for them when he finished off the top floors of the Chocolate Works seemed like a tomb without him.

She stood and stretched again, releasing her hair from the ponytail she always wore when she was drawing and shaking it out. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of little Davey’s sexual gratification. Let me grab my coat, and I’ll meet Chris up there.”

“Fine. But don’t take too long. Little Davey…”

“I know, I know. Little Davey needs to get some.”

David gave her a thumbs-up and disappeared. Brooke wandered down the hall to the master bedroom to dig up a jacket, dodging unpacked bags and boxes as she went. They’d only been in the apartment a few weeks. Eli had busted his ass to get the renovations done in record time. Probably because he’d sold his penthouse and was tired of sharing a tiny bathroom with Brooke and all her bottles and tubes and jars.

She’d told him he was nuts, but he insisted he was sick of living downtown and didn’t want to wait until the renovations were complete to start their life together. He said he’d miss waking up with her, but Brooke had a sneaking suspicion there were other things he’d miss, too. Like Mrs. Feingold’s rugelach, sampling local craft beers with David and Chris after the latter returned from his tour, and roughhousing with little Jaden, who was just starting to walk. He might not want to admit it out loud, but Eli was as much a part of the Candy Court crew as her.

Brooke grabbed the first outer garment she could find—Eli’s leather bomber jacket—and slipped it on, pausing to bury her face in the collar and inhale the smell of the well-worn leather mixed with his cologne. Four days. That was all he’d been gone. So why did it seem like four freaking years?

Because she’d turned into a certified, card-carrying, make-you-wanna-puke, hopeless romantic, that was why. The kind of girl who smelled her boyfriend’s jacket. Wore his shirts. Slept clutching his pillow when he out of town.

And she’d never been happier.

She shoved her keys in her pocket and closed the door behind her, testing the handle to make sure it was locked. She still wasn’t the greatest at the whole door-locking thing, but Eli made her promise she’d be more careful now that new tenants were starting to move into the building. The least she could do was secure the place when she left.

“All right, Chris,” she called to her friend as she pushed her way through the door to the roof. “You got me up here. Now, what was so important that…”

Her voice trailed off as she absorbed the scene in front of her. Eli stood under a tent like the one he’d set up for Chris and David’s wedding, complete with twinkling LEDs and two portable space heaters chugging away to ward off the winter chill. A round table just the right size for an intimate meal sat dead center, flanked by two comfortable looking wicker chairs with puffy, off-white cushions. The table was draped with a matching gauzy, off-white cloth, on top of which sat two elegant place settings and a bottle of wine chilling in a shining silver ice bucket.

“I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.” Hello, mouth, meet foot. When your boyfriend surprised you with a romantic rooftop dinner date, you were supposed to leap into his arms and kiss him stupid, not ask him what the hell he was doing there. She still had a lot to learn about this relationship stuff. Fortunately, Eli was a patient teacher.

“Nice to see you, too.” His broad smile took any sting out of his words. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Join me?”

Brooke arched a brow. “What would you do if I said no?”

“Rumor has it Mrs. Feingold is available. It’s her husband’s bowling night.”

“Yeah, but can Mrs. Feingold do this?” She crossed to him, took his head in her hands, and pulled it to her waiting lips. After a stunned second, he reciprocated, snaking an arm around her waist to tug her body tight to his. She sighed and relaxed into him, loving the way they fit together, her soft curves yielding to his rigid angles. That was something she didn’t think she’d ever get tired of.

When they’d finished making up for four whole days spent with half a continent between them, they drew apart. Eli gave her that lopsided, impish grin of his that even after almost a year together never failed to turn her insides to mush. “If Mrs. Feingold can do that, I sure as hell don’t want to find out.”

Brooke returned his smile with a playful one of her own. “What’s wrong? Little old ladies not your type?”

“You’re my type.” He gave her a swift, sizzling kiss, turned her around, and with a pat on her bottom nudged her toward the nearest chair, which he pulled out for her. “Sit.”

She studied the picture-perfect setting Eli had clearly worked hard to create then glanced back at the man responsible, noticing for the first time his neatly pressed dress pants and cranberry V-neck cashmere sweater rolled at the sleeves, the starched, white collar and cuffs of his dress shirt peeking out from underneath. She frowned down at her frayed yoga pants and well-worn, much loved Cowboy Bebop T-shirt, partially covered by Eli’s half-zipped bomber jacket, which swallowed up her shoulders and hung past her hips. If she’d known what was in store for her, she would have taken a couple of minutes to throw on something decent and freshen up. “I feel underdressed.”

“You look beautiful. Stop stalling and sit down.”

She obeyed, and he poured them each a glass of chardonnay before taking his seat across from her. Seemingly out of nowhere, David appeared at his side dressed entirely in black, the only splash of color a bright red napkin draped over one arm. “Are you ready for the first course?”

“First course?” She blinked. “How many are there?”