Yup, she’s easily the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
“What’s up?” I ask, feeling uncomfortable from my honest text and also, once again turned on.
“Wanted to see if what you said was the truth.”
“Why would I lie to you? Have I lied to you yet?”
“No,” she says. “But . . . I don’t know, just felt as if I needed to see your face.”
“It’s the truth. You can count on that from me.”
She toes the ground as she stares down at the carpet. “Thank you.”
“Is that all?” I ask her.
“No. I need to tell you what I like about you.”
I shake my head and stand from my bed. “Not necessary.”
“Your helping heart,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “You don’t let people see it; you hide it away from the public eye. But as a spectator, having paid close enough attention, I’ve seen it, and it’s beautiful.”
I don’t take compliments well.
I don’t really care for them, actually.
So, listening to her, to her praise, doesn’t settle well, and I don’t understand how to handle it.
“You don’t need to say anything,” she says, sensing how uncomfortable I am. “But I thought I’d let you know.” She offers me a soft smile. “Good night, Huxley.”
Quietly, I say, “Good night” as she walks away.
My mind feels as though it’s been eclipsed by a heavy, foggy night. I can’t think straight. I can’t seem to put two thoughts together as to what the hell I should do. How the hell do I reconcile Lottie’s observation of me . . . her favorite thing about me? “Your helping heart. You don’t let people see it; you hide it away from the public eye. But as a spectator, having paid close enough attention, I’ve seen it, and it’s beautiful.” No one has ever talked to me—argued with me—the way Lottie does. No one has seen me the way she sees me. Sure, my brothers know me for the person I am, but anyone who’s walked into my life sees Huxley Cane, the billionaire, the mogul. They’ve never seen me as Huxley, the man with a heart. Because I know it’s fucking there. I pride myself on being compassionate when the moment presents itself. But no one has picked up on it.
Until Lottie.
Knowing I’m in trouble mentally, I go back to my nightstand, grab my phone, and text my brothers.
Huxley: I’m fucked.
They’re immediate with their responses.
JP: Let me guess—you realized you like your fake fiancée?
Huxley: I like her. I shouldn’t, but I do.
JP: Called it.
Breaker: Every person watching this could’ve called that.
Huxley: I don’t know what to fucking do.
JP: What any other person would do if they liked someone. Ask them out.
Huxley: Ask her out? But we have a business agreement. And I don’t think she likes me like that.
Breaker: Look at our big brother being all insecure. It’s cute on him.
JP: Dare I say, I’m enjoying this humbling moment?
Huxley: Don’t be assholes. I need fucking help.
JP: You don’t need help. You know exactly what to do, you’re just too scared to pull the trigger.
Breaker: ^^^ Facts.
Huxley: It’s complicated. What about the deal with Dave?
JP: I don’t think that’s anything you need to worry about right now. I’d focus on what you want, something you want that’s not business related. Breaker and I can both attest to this and say, you need something in your life other than this company.
Breaker: You need to learn to live, man. You’re not living. You have all this money and you do nothing with it. Now you have a reason to do something. Take her out. Date her. If you like her, go for it.
Huxley: You don’t think it’ll fuck things up between us?
JP: It’ll only make it better.
Breaker: He’s right. What could go wrong? Seriously.
Huxley: Famous last words.
Chapter Sixteen
LOTTIE
I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom, my mind drifting to last night.
What I wouldn’t have given to have Huxley come to my room again, to taste his lips one more time, to feel him driving between my legs with his magnificent cock.
I groan in frustration and sit up, not bothering to adjust my swimming cover-up that I put on before I flopped on my bed. If Huxley hadn’t already seen me naked, I’d consider skipping the cover-up, because the swimsuit he provided me barely covers my nipples.
This morning, he was out on a run when I went down to the kitchen for breakfast, at least, that’s what the note on the kitchen island said. It was a plain note, nothing special about it. It just said “on a run.” His staff doesn’t work on the weekends anymore, so I had his house to myself. I grabbed a yogurt parfait Reign had made the day before, devoured it, and then worked on our website for a bit before spending a decent amount of time putting my hair into French braids and then pulling on one of the provided swimsuits. I went with a simple black one.