The Billionaire Next Door

After a moment, he found himself slowly moving her money back toward her. “My treat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Keeping his titanium American Express card out of sight, he put a crisp hundred-dollar bill and three twenties on top of the table. “Let’s go.”

“Wow, that’s a big tip.”

“They deserve it.”

She smiled at him. Then stood up…only to put her hand on the wall to steady herself. “Oh, this is bad.”

“What?”

“That wine was awfully good and I have no tolerance whatsoever.”

“Lean on me, then.”

As he came around and drew her against him, their bodies fit together so perfectly it momentarily stopped him in his tracks.

“Sean? You ready to go?”

He tightened his hold on her waist. “Yeah.”

He led her through the crowded restaurant, and as he urged her out the door first, he wanted to keep his arm around her. Like for the rest of the night.

When they were outside, she took a couple of deep inhales and said, “Maybe it was just hot in there.”

“It was stuffy. You feel better?”

“Much.” She glanced to the sky. “I heard we’re supposed to get storms tonight.”

“Hot enough for it.”

“Yes.”

He had no idea what they were talking about. Maybe the weather? Whatever. He was caught up in her profile, most specifically her lips. Oh, man…he wanted to grab her around the waist, get her against him from shoulder to knee and kiss the ever-living breath out of her.

“The car’s this way,” he said roughly.

On the way back to Southie, they went without air-conditioning and both put their windows down. The summer night was gentle and warm as it flooded into the rental car and he stole glances across the seat at her as if he were sixteen.

When they pulled up to the row house, he stopped the sedan and turned off the engine, but he made no move to open his door.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile that melted him. “This was lovely.”

“You’re welcome.”

In the silence, he thought of the last time he’d taken a woman out in Manhattan. The two of them had gone to Jean Georges in his limo. She’d been wearing diamond studs the size of marbles and a dress by Chanel; he’d been in one of his Savile Row suits. They’d worked the crowd on the way to their A-lister table then flirted as sophisticates did, one-upping each other. Afterward, they’d gone back to his penthouse, but she hadn’t spent the whole night—yet another of his rules with women.

It had all been very glamorous…and utterly forgettable.

Tonight with Lizzie was not. Here in this Ford Taurus, with the summer air on his face and the sound of crickets in his ears and the dark night wrapped around them, this moment was totally vivid to him. He was not on social autopilot. With Lizzie…he was alive.

And he wanted more. He wanted the privacy of her apartment. He wanted to be in between her sheets. Tonight, he craved the sweetness in her, needed to be naked against her kindness. And though he was very aware that he couldn’t give anything back to her other than pleasure, he vowed to make sure that was enough for her if she let him in.

He pushed his door open. “Let’s move that kitchen table down.”

“Are you sure?” She smiled as they went up onto the porch. “It’s late. We could do it tomorrow as I’m off.”

“Won’t take long. Besides, it’ll give me some room for the boxes.”

“Oh, in that case, let’s do it.”

They went upstairs, and as she headed into the kitchen, he walked over to his duffel bag of clothes and took out his shaving kit. As he slipped a condom in his back pocket, he didn’t like the ache in his chest, but he didn’t stop himself. After all, if she told him no, he would absolutely back off.

“Sean? You coming?” she called out.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his sternum and went into the kitchen.

“This is going to be a tight squeeze.” She bent to the side and eyed the table’s girth. “The stairs aren’t that wide.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow.”

Getting the thing down the stairwell took some maneuvering, but they managed not to mash anyone’s fingers on the railing or the doorjamb into her apartment.

As they took a breather in her living room, his chest burned even more as he looked around. Everything was tidy and very clean, but thrift-shop worn: the couch had a pretty flowered blanket tucked into what undoubtedly were frayed cushions. The chair by the window had threadbare patches on the arms and was covered by a quilt. There was no TV and just one lamp. Nothing on the walls.

He thought of her purse with its worn corners.

“Sean?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Only a little farther.” She nodded over her shoulder. “To my kitchen?”

“Right.” He picked up his end of the table.

The kitchen was likewise sparkling from regular cleaning—hell, you could have eaten off the floor or the counters. But there was nothing around, no decorations, no extra appliances. Just the basics.

He thought of his own kitchen back in Manhattan with its Viking stove and its granite countertops and its wine fridge and its matching toaster and mixer and espresso machines. None of which he’d ever used.

“Would you like to wait to do the chairs?” she prompted, making him realize he’d been standing stock-still and saying nothing.

“Nah, let’s do them now.”

Two joint trips up and down and everything was set up in the middle of her kitchen. As Lizzie eased one of the chairs into the table, her hands lingered on its back. The furniture was well used, but she treated it as if it were precious.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve always eaten on the couch. Now I have a real table.”

Sean rubbed his chest again. How she shamed him with her pleasure at this gift that meant nothing to him.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, aware he’d made up his mind. “Good night, Lizzie. Sleep well.”

As he headed out of the kitchen, he glanced down the hall and saw into one of the bedrooms. It was empty, just four walls and a bare floor. He was willing to bet she only had a bed for herself.

He walked even faster toward the exit.

“Sean?”

He paused with his hand on the door and didn’t look back. “Yeah?”

As she hesitated, he guessed she was surprised he wasn’t putting a move on her.

“Ah…thank you again for dinner. That was very generous.”

Generous? The night before, he’d spent seventeen hundred dollars hosting two people at the Congress Club in Manhattan. But sure as hell, he’d enjoyed the dinner with her in Little Italy so much more.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe I can pay you back sometime.”

Now he glanced over his shoulder at her. Standing across the room from him, she was lovely in the way of a summer afternoon. Warm. Inviting. Something you missed during winter.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said and turned away.

As he closed the door behind himself, he knew if she’d been any other woman he would have stayed. But Lizzie Bond deserved better than a quick roll. And that was all he had in him.

***

Chapter Six

Lizzie watched Sean walk out her door and wondered yet again if she hadn’t read him wrong. She’d been convinced he was going to kiss her, especially after he’d put his arm around her while they’d left the restaurant. She’d even figured that moving the table was just an excuse for him to come into her apartment.

But maybe she’d let her own attraction to him color her interpretation of his actions.

She sucked at dating. Or whatever tonight was.