The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

–Edgar: I don’t recommend running or weightlifting in the nude.

–Jo: How come?

–Edgar: Ball control.

–Tony: Exactly. What if something gets caught? You risk permanent damage.

–Nate: Ow.

–Court: No organ transplants for nads.

I picture Nate and Court shuddering dramatically and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Declan asks.

“Just something my friends are saying.”

“About what?”

“Organ transplants.”

He looks utterly confused. I just smile because I am not going to discuss genitalia transplants with him. “Are you done now?”

“One more set.”

“Want me to wipe the sweat off you?” I’m not trying to put my hands on him. It doesn’t count because it’ll be too indirect—through a towel.

“No, but you can dry my hair after I shower if you want.” He winks before going back to his back machine.

Ooh. Freshly shampooed hair to play with. “Deal.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Yuna

After dinner with Tony and Ivy, I head to my room. I take a quick shower, plug my phone in to charge and check for messages before bed. In the U.S. or not, I’m still in charge of the Ivy Foundation for the moment. Even though I told Eugene to run it, I don’t trust him to do a good job, and I don’t want students to suffer because of a disagreement between me and my brother.

On top of that, I know he hasn’t replaced me yet because I haven’t heard from a successor about the transition.

But my mind isn’t on the messages. I’m thinking about how Declan’s hair felt against my fingers when I blow-dried it after he got out of the shower. His shampoo smelled amazing, something minty and woody. It was all I could do to not bury my nose in it and inhale like an addict sniffing glue. And every strand was so soft and silky. Surprising for a guy. Maybe he could do some kind of shampoo commercial. I’d totally buy a bottle.

But then a news article trending high on a Korean news site snags my attention. It mentions the H group, shorthand for Hae Min. Korean news often uses initials to report because of the country’s defamation and privacy laws.

I go back and read it more slowly, wondering what the media vultures are on about.

H group’s daughter-in-law K got into a car crash. The other party was a bike, and the driver is seriously injured. K was rushed to the hospital. The other person in the car with her was also hospitalized. No alcohol was involved. Police are still investigating.

My blood chills. “H group’s daughter-in-law K” is how some reporters refer to Eugene’s wife Sera because her family name is Kwon. Korean women do not take their husband’s name after marriage. My knees shaking, I plop down on the edge of the bed. The article didn’t say the passenger in the car was Eugene. Otherwise it would’ve said K’s spouse H. And it isn’t their son, either, because the article didn’t say it was a child.

I call Eugene to see how he’s holding up. I wish I were in Korea, because this is the kind of stuff you need to be with your family for, even if you had a disagreement. Nothing unites us like a crisis.

The second he picks up, I say, “Are you okay? How about Sera? And little Minho?”

“Your nephew is fine. He was home when the accident happened.” Eugene’s voice is unnaturally calm, which makes me sad for him and his wife, because it demonstrates just how little love they share. If Ivy had been in an accident, Tony would be flipping out.

But then, Eugene never panics. It’s kind of his thing, and why he makes a fantastic executive.

“How can he be fine when his mom’s hurt?” The calmness might serve him well at work, but it makes him a pretty crummy daddy to a little boy who needs the comfort only his parents can give.