Always My Babygirl: A Billionaire Romance

“Like you want to secret me away to a private island, where no one else will ever interfere.”

“Now there’s an idea. Don’t tempt me.” I’m only half-joking.

She swallows hard. “Why? Why me?”

Her brow knits in that adorable way. I hold her chin between my fingers and hold her gaze with mine. I can’t tell her I’ve been watching her. I can’t tell her I know everything about her. How she got that scar that has her terrified of the ocean, how she nearly failed college bio because she refused to have anything to do with dissecting a baby shark.

And once she knows how much I know… she could run. Maybe even hide.

“I like everything about you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Oh, but I do. And I’m telling her the full truth. “You don’t know how attractive you are to me. But I’ll show you, Miranda. You’ll see.”

She shakes her head disbelievingly. “I just don’t understand. It’s like you’re perfect.”

I snort. “No. Not perfect.”

She doesn’t know my past and she doesn’t quite know how obsessive I can be. When I want something… I get it.

“Let’s get some rest,” I say, changing the subject. “We’re both exhausted.”

She yawns as if on command and nods. “We are.”

I check the locks on the door automatically, and it makes her smile to herself. She leads me back to the kitchen to a door I didn’t notice before. I carry the bags and follow her.

I enter the room with her. “This is… okay, this is honestly more than I expected.”

There’s a large, four-poster king-sized bed, painted white, topped with a beautiful quilt. Either side of the bed is flanked with heavy, ornate wooden side tables. There’s a fireplace, a floor lamp on either side, a solid dresser that matches, and a large, footed oval mirror. It’s simple, but well-furnished.

She grins. “When I was a little girl, this was the master bedroom. Our bedrooms were upstairs. Over time, after my father died, my mom slept upstairs and this room became the guest room.” She steps out of her shoes and kicks them toward the closet while pulling off her clothes. She tosses her clothes in a heap on the floor.

I place the bags by the door, take her shoes and arrange them neatly beside them. I pick up the clothes she discarded and place them in the little laundry basket just inside the closet, as I step out of my own shoes. I give her a chiding look while she flounces on the bed.

“You’re a bit of a neat freak, aren’t you?”

I smile, taking off my tie, and hanging my suit coat in the closet.

“Some call it perfectionism, some obsession.” I wish I hadn’t chosen that particular word. I push past it. “But yeah, babe. I’m what you might call type-A.”

“How type-A?” she asks, as I neatly fold my tie and place it on the shelf in the closet. “Like iron-your-underwear type-A?”

I chuckle. “Well, more like pay someone to iron my underwear type-A.”

I’m only partly joking.

“Are you serious?”

I turn and give her a wink. I’ll keep her guessing. “When I was little, I’d go around my mom’s house rearranging things. Books alphabetically. Food by expiration dates.” Boyfriends and dates in order of assholery.

“And have you… outgrown any of these tendencies?”

I unbutton my shirt and shrug out of that, then toss that in the basket with her clothes. “I’ve outgrown some, yes. I no longer line up my matchbox cars by color, no. But I like to be in control, and I definitely haven’t outgrown that.”

But she isn’t talking anymore.

I turn around to look at her. She’s gaping, openmouthed, at me.

“What?”

“Turn back around for a sec,” she says, twirling her finger. I give her a curious look but do what she says.

“My God,” she mutters, fanning herself with her hand when I turn back around. She pretends to pass straight out on her back on the bed. I grin. She’s so cute.

“That back looks like it’s chiseled by the hand of a God-sculptor, and your chest… you’re all…” she waves her hand at me, and her voice comes out in a breathy whisper. “Sculpted.”

I shrug. “I try.”

“Well, honey, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” She nods approvingly, clucking her tongue as she unabashedly lets her eyes take in every detail. She’s so obviously impressed, I almost feel embarrassed, or a little shy. As a model, I show off my body for a living and have for a while. I thought I was used to being appraised, admired, and ogled.

But this… this blatant admiration is something I haven’t had. Not now. Not ever, even with the women I was most serious with in the past.

I shove that thought immediately out of my mind. I won’t think of that. Not now. I’m here with Miranda, who’s admiring my gym work with nothing short of worship in her eyes.