My Grumpy Billionaire

Chapter Fifty-Three

Griffin

I have a call with Keith to discuss our research. After we’re done with the meat of the conversation, we talk a bit about social stuff. He has a wife and three kids in elementary school, and he’s dying to tell me about what they’re up to, his voice soft with love—a normal person being a good dad. He grew up in a small farming community in Ohio, and I wonder if that’s what it takes to learn by example. Most people in Mom’s circle wouldn’t recognize good parenting if it fell on them like a meteor.

“Vivi does ballet, and it’s just adorable,” Keith says.

“How long’s she been doing that?”

“About two years? Although Sandra says she’s getting tired of rehearsals.”

“You going to push her to continue?” I ask. My parents would, regardless of the child’s feelings, if they thought ballet would reflect well on them.

“I don’t think so. She can explore other things.” Keith chuckles. “She’s still so young.”

After few more minutes of chatting about his family, we end the call and I head to Sierra’s place. By the time I park my Prius and get out, it’s a little after seven. Lights are on in the living room. I cock my head. I swear I turned off everything before I left this morning.

My confusion vanishes when I spot Sierra’s Ferrari in the driveway—but didn’t she say she was going to be home late?

I walk inside and call out, “I’m home!”

“Hey,” Sierra answers from the living room. She’s pacing in a loose pink nightshirt, her bare feet padding quietly on the wooden floor. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes seem slightly glazed.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d had a little too much to drink. But when I get close, she doesn’t smell like alcohol, and I’ve seen how protectively she puts her hand over her womb, as though she’d die to protect the lives growing there.

Then I notice she’s wearing a bra under the nightshirt, which is odd. I don’t know any woman who likes wearing a bra, and Sierra’s no exception. She takes hers off as soon as she can, and she’s been getting rid of them as soon as she walks in since the Tokyo trip.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m fine. All good.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

“I thought you were working late today,” I say, giving her an opening to talk about issues at work if they’re what’s bothering her.

“I had a meeting scheduled with a couple of team leads, but their kids came down with chickenpox, so they had to leave this afternoon. Apparently it’s going around in the daycare center.” She stops, her throat working as she swallows. “And so I came home.”

“Okay.”

She seems nervous. And restless. “Did you have dinner?” she asks abruptly.

“Not yet.”

“You want some pizza?”

A box of pepperoni pizza sits on the edge of the coffee table. She’s eaten only a slice.

That isn’t the only one on the table. Some of the items aren’t something I’ve ever seen before, but I’m sure they’re sex toys of some kind. Maybe the production team isn’t doing a good job or something.

Unfortunately, my dick doesn’t care much about issues she could be having at the company. It wants to know if it’s okay to play with the toys.

Look how soft and pretty she is. Just kiss her and push that nightshirt up…

I smack down my cock’s brain and ignore my heating blood. I want to figure out what’s going on first. Perhaps she isn’t feeling that great. One of the professors in my department whined endlessly about his wife’s weird cravings and mood swings during their pregnancy.

Except…Sierra doesn’t seem moody. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and the flush spreads to her neck and chest, too.

It’s almost as though she’s turned on.

Perhaps she got turned on looking at the toys.