The Billionaire Next Door

“Chow’s on,” he called out.

She came right away and he poured the milk for her until she said when. Then he watched her eat. She was dressed in scrubs and not wearing makeup and her hair was all soft and blond and a little flyaway from the dryer.

To him she was the last word in female.

“So you’re starting to pack today?” she said as she sipped her coffee.

“Yup.” He leaned back with his own mug and studied the way the sunlight slanting through the kitchen window hit her cheeks and lips. He wished he had a photograph of her just as she was now, but he was going to have to rely on his memory.

“I’ll help you tomorrow,” she said.

“Thanks, but if you’re home, I’d rather be doing other things with you.” As she blushed, he tilted his head down and looked at her from under his brows. They hadn’t slept much during the night because he’d been all over her. After having spent a mere five days away, he’d been insatiable. “Have I mentioned that I can’t wait for you to get back tonight?” He reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “I want a repeat of how we spent last evening.”

She turned even redder and kissed his palm. “Sean…”

He smiled. “I love it when you blush.”

Her expression grew wry. “I do it often enough around you.”

“I know.”

As a soft chiming sound came from a clock, she pulled back. “Oh, darn…the time. I’m late.”

When she took hold of her bowl, he said, “Don’t bother cleaning up, I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re so good to me.”

“I want to be even better.”

They headed for the living room together and he loved the soft, secret smile on her face—because he knew he was the cause of it.

The expression was lost as she went over to her purse and took out her wallet. Thumbing through the thing, she cursed softly.

“Not enough cash?” he said.

“I’ll be okay—”

“Here.” He picked up his suit jacket, pulled out his money clip and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill. “Take this.”

She glanced over, eyes widening. “Oh, no…that’s okay—”

“You’re late, right? So it would be hard to stop at a cash machine.”

“Well, yes, but at work they have—”

He pressed the crisp Benjamin Franklin into her hand and wrapped her fingers around it, finding an unfamiliar but vivid satisfaction in giving money to a woman. He just loved the idea he was helping her, providing for her. “Take it.”

“Thanks, I’ll pay you—”

He silenced her with a kiss. Then couldn’t resist slipping his tongue between her lips. When he pulled back, he murmured, “Have I mentioned how I can’t wait until you come home?”

“Yes. And I’ll second that.”

He walked her out into the foyer and ushered her to the front door, but hung back from the great outdoors because he only had boxers on. As she got into the old Toyota, he hated the thing she was driving. He wanted to buy her a new ride with state-of-the-art air bags and a steel crash cage and every amenity available to make her comfortable and safe.

With a wave, she pulled away from the curb and headed off. In her wake, he had to laugh at himself. Before meeting her, he’d refused to give women a dime. Now? He wanted to shower his money all over Lizzie Bond.

Not that she’d let him.

Fine. He was just going to drag his feet on the sale of the house, then. The longer he put it off, the more time Lizzie could be rent free and the less stressed she’d be as she looked for a job.

And maybe he could start working on her about the car thing.

Sean whistled as he went back in her apartment, cleaned up breakfast and started a fresh pot of coffee. He took a steaming mug upstairs with him, and as he opened the door to his father’s place, he braced himself for the usual gut crank.

He was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast when it hit.

After casing the joint, he decided to start in the kitchen. It was the room with the fewest memories.

It didn’t take long to develop a core competency getting those U-Haul boxes taped into shape. He filled them with dishes and glasses and cheap silverware, all of which would go to the church. He also started a trash pile. A lot of the cooking utensils were rusted from lack of use and he realized, as he threw out wire whisks and paring knives and measuring spoons, that what he was pitching had most likely last been touched by his mother.

Yeah, Eddie never had been much of a cook. Sean and his brothers had pretty much lived on peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Well, those and Mrs. O’Neal’s handouts.

Sean had been in full clean-out mode for about an hour when he found a half-empty, dust-covered bottle of booze way in the back of a cupboard.

Ah, yes. The demon.

As he poured the cheap vodka out and watched the stuff funnel down the scratched porcelain sink, he wondered what quitting had been like for his father. As well as the why and the when of it.

It would have been hard, that was for sure. Alcohol and his father had been inseparable, the one relationship Eddie had valued, the one thing the man had connected with. Sean could even remember being jealous of the Popov. When Eddie wasn’t loaded, he might actually talk to you.

At the very least, he didn’t come after you.

A little later, Sean found another bottle in the broom closet. Again, dust-covered. This time when he emptied the booze, he didn’t think of anything at all.

It took him the better part of the morning to finish up the kitchen and then he started in on the living room. As he worked, the number of stacked, marked boxes grew and he went through miles of packing tape.

He broke for eats around noon and then forced himself to hit the bedrooms. As he couldn’t bear to go into his father’s or Mac’s, he whipped through his and Billy’s then took care of the bathrooms. When he was through with them, it was only seven o’clock. Lizzie wasn’t going to be home for another five hours and there was no reason to stop working.

Except all that was left were the two places he didn’t want to go.

As he paused outside the door to Mac’s room, he wished like hell his older brother would check in. He supposed there was always the option of trying to track Mac down through military channels, but he knew his brother wouldn’t appreciate getting red flagged even if it was for a good reason. Besides, given what the guy did, it might not even be possible to find him through regular army contacts.

Sean went inside and worked fast. He needed only four boxes for Mac’s stuff and then he was left with nothing but his father’s domain.

Gearing up, he headed down the hall with an armful of cardboard and a taping wheel. Inside his dad’s room, he flipped on the overhead light and looked around. Pretty much standard-issue, lower-middle-class stuff. The bed was made, but the blankets were old and the pillows thin. On the side table, there was a fake wood alarm clock, a lamp with a yellowed shade and a little thicket of pill bottles.

Sean went over and checked out the labels. He recognized the ones for high blood pressure and cholesterol, but the others didn’t mean anything to him. Whatever. They obviously hadn’t worked all that well.

He taped up a box to use as a trash bin and tossed the orange vials then emptied the drawer underneath of a bunch of old racing forms.

He was about to start stripping the bed when he saw the slippers on the floor.

The pair were right out of the L.L. Bean catalog, made of tan leather and lined in sheep’s wool. They were old and worn, peeling up off the carpet at the toes. The two were lined up right together, facing out as if his father had kicked them off as he’d gotten into the bed for what had turned out to be the last time.

God…Same kind Eddie O’Banyon had worn twenty years ago. Conceivably the very pair.

Sean picked one up. Inside, as if the soles were made of sand, there was a precise impression of his father’s foot registered in relief. The man had clearly spent hours wearing them, shuffling around this apartment, crossing from room to room…until suddenly there were no more trips to be made and the slippers would never be worn again.