Tempting the Billionaire (Love in the Balance)

by Lemmon, Jessica

  “Feeling better, I see.”

  “We thought it might be food poisoning. He wasn’t feeling well this morning, either.”

  She let him stay. So much for Shane hanging on to the thread of hope that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Shane stood stiffly and headed for her door. “Now that you’re here, you can pack your things.”

  * * *

  Crickitt’s blood chilled. Pack her things? Was she fired? For calling in sick?

  “Shane—” she started.

  “I’d like to leave in the next hour.”

  Did he mean he’d like her to leave in the next hour?

  “Angel and Richie are expecting us by nine tonight,” he said. “You can sleep on the way if you need to.”

  When Crickitt responded, it was to his closed office door. Sighing, she turned to find Henry Townsend’s file open on her desk. Her color drawings for Swept’s logo had been crossed out with a bold black X. She lifted the paper, hands shaking. Crickitt spent several hours drawing it, the night she’d tentatively leaned in and kissed Shane for the first time. And he’d marked it through, effectively ruining the sketch, and in a way, nullifying a memory she treasured.

  Swallowing down a gelatinous lump of sadness, she reached for the phone to call Angel and find out what she’d missed.

  Crickitt had expected Shane to be grateful she’d shown up today. She could have stayed home, wanted to after she’d barely held down a bowl of vegetable soup for lunch. Too late now. She was here, and soon she would be on her way to Tennessee.

  During the limo ride to her apartment, Shane remained resolutely silent, his eyes focused on the newspaper open on his lap. At her apartment, she reached for the handle, not wanting to interrupt him but needing to know how many outfits to pack. “How many days are we staying?” she asked.

  “As many as it takes,” he said, spearing her with a look that made guilt swim in her stomach.

  Fifteen minutes later, Thomas tossed her luggage into the trunk and she clambered into the backseat. Shane met her with an expectant glower.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, tempted to tack on the word “now.”

  “You changed.”

  She smoothed her hands along the skirt of the light summer dress. Stylish and comfortable, it was the no-brainer choice for a six-hour car ride. Instead of asking why her changing chafed him, Crickitt simply folded her hands into her lap and looked out the window.

  The car was quiet save for the classical music drifting from overhead speakers and the occasional pencil scratch as Shane jotted down notes. The monotony of wheels rolling on pavement soon lulled Crickitt to sleep.

  She stirred from a dream starring Shane, but in it he wasn’t cold and distant, he was holding her close, whispering promises into her ear. Before she could remember his pronouncements, the hazy, fringed edges dissipated, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

  She tuned in to her surroundings gradually, becoming conscious of a pleasant weight on her arms, the smell of Shane teasing her senses. Crickitt opened her eyes. Her upper half was covered by Shane’s suit jacket. Shrugging into a stretch, she pressed it against her nose and breathed in the smell of him.

  Shane leaned back on the seat, arms crossed, his long body taking up the entire seat. His eyes were closed, but even in sleep a neat furrow dented the space between his brows. He wasn’t menacing with his tie loose and three buttons open on his shirt, and she fought the very powerful urge to slip onto the seat and curl into him.

  Crickitt eased up as quietly as she could, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. Maybe she should have pressed him to talk to her instead of assuming his mood was caused by Townsend.

  Maybe something had happened in Georgia. Maybe the deal fell through. Or maybe something happened last night when he’d returned to his office. Being greeted with a week’s worth of messages and work would have been overwhelming enough without adding the bad Townsend news.

  She finished her water bottle and dropped the empty container into the cup holder. At least she was feeling better. Whatever damage had been wrought by the fish dinner and her ex-husband, at least the former had worked its way through her system.

  On some deep level she’d conveniently ignored, Crickitt knew she’d regret meeting with Ronald. He had a knack for needling her weak spot, and yesterday was no exception. Despondent, his voice wobbly, Ronald promised to be on his best behavior. His voice tight with emotion, he begged, I need you. I miss you.

  While her gut cautioned her, her heart was far more magnanimous. “As friends, Crickitt,” he’d pleaded. “Remember how we used to be friends?”

  They were friends. For almost all of the nine years they were married, and the two years they dated before that. In the end, she couldn’t justify refusing to see him. He was hurting. And if she were being honest she’d admit he wasn’t the only one to blame for their ending marriage. She hadn’t been a perfect spouse, either.

  Dinner started innocently enough. Ronald gave her a polite peck on the cheek, and she’d struggled not to recoil. What used to be their favorite cabernet only tasted bitter as Crickitt found herself comparing it to the complex red wine Shane had introduced her to. She’d made painstaking strides to keep the conversation neutral, but Ronald grew suddenly serious.

  “I love you,” he’d blurted.

  She’d nearly choked on her baked cod.

  Resting her glass on the table, she patted the napkin to her lips, considering her response carefully. “No, you don’t. According to you,” she reminded him, “you haven’t loved me for the last two years of our marriage.”

  “That’s not true.” He held up a finger as if it gave his argument more credence. “And you know it.”

  Casting a glance at the other diners, she’d leaned in and lowered her voice. “The last time we spoke, you said—”

  “You found someone else.”

  She snapped back in her chair as if slapped. “What?”

  He tossed down his napkin. “You’ve given up already. I can see it in your face.”

  She’d closed her eyes then, trying to make sense of how he could perceive that she’d given up when he’d been the one to turn his back on their marriage, and on her, in the first place.

  Finishing off his wine, he stood from the table, raising his voice and attracting attention. “You know what? I take it back. You make it impossible for me to love you.”

  Impossible to love. After he’d professed he loved her.

  “Hey.”

  She blinked and Shane’s face came into focus. She must have zoned out staring at him. At least he wasn’t scowling anymore. “Hi.”

  He straightened against the limo seat and stretched. She admired the muscled length of his body, unable to dredge up even the pithy irritation from earlier.

  Folding Shane’s jacket neatly, Crickitt leaned forward to hand it to him. “Thanks for the blanket.”

  “You looked cold,” he said, accepting it. He took a breath before speaking again. “Earlier today, I didn’t mean to be…” He shook his head as if unable to settle on a word.

  She had a few. Rude, brash, short. Or was that just her taking out her anger toward Ronald on Shane?

  “You’re under a lot of pressure,” she murmured.

  He gave her a small smile. “You do give me the benefit of the doubt, don’t you?”

  One of her worst qualities, she thought, recalling last night’s disastrous dinner.

  They arrived at the design group building and Shane stepped out of the limo behind her, cuffing his sleeves as a light sheen of sweat glazed his forehead. Even with the sun setting, Tennessee was humid and ten degrees warmer than Ohio. Crickitt patted herself on the back for having the foresight to change into the light dress.

  She paused under the sign over the door, a graffiti-style logo that read Gusty’s Design.

  “I have been meaning to ask you who came up with this name.”

  He paused, holding the door open, a memory flic
kering across his face. “Nickname when I was a kid,” he answered, then he pressed his hand to her back gently.

  Without asking him to clarify, she allowed him to guide her inside.

  * * *

  The meeting stretched into its third hour and Crickitt stifled another yawn. Richie and Angel hunched in the mod red chairs around the glass conference room table.

  Shane was showing an impressive knack for dead-horse beating, having exhausted the topic a good hour and a half ago. Angel and Richie nodded their agreement whenever Shane circled the carcass, but Crickitt couldn’t hold back any longer. “Maybe we could continue this tomorrow,” she interrupted.

  Shane tilted his head in her direction, and she suspected an argument. Instead, he said, “Yeah, we’d better get to the cabin.”

  Angel’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. Crickitt felt hers do the same. She’d assumed they’d be staying in a hotel. A cabin sounded so…tempting…intimate.

  “I have a vacation cabin about half an hour from here,” he told her as they stepped outside. He gazed up at the midnight sky dotted with stars before angling a glance down at her. “It doesn’t get much use, as you’ve probably guessed.”

  She rubbed her bare upper arms, gooseflesh popping up on her skin as she pictured sharing a bed with him.

  “Sounds nice,” she croaked, leaning her head back and tracing the Big Dipper with her eyes.

  “If it makes you more comfortable, I can sleep in the limo.” His tone was hesitant, as if asking for her permission.

  “I’m—it’s your house,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “The bedrooms are on opposite sides of the living room, each with its own en suite bathroom. You’ll have plenty of space. Privacy,” he added.

  So much for sharing a bed.

  He reached for her, tipping her chin and piercing her with an intense look. “If you’re not okay staying there for any reason, I need you to tell me.”

  She pulled out of his grip and walked toward the limo. “I can handle it,” she said, unable to explain away her disappointment. She should be relieved her boss wasn’t trying to seduce her, that he was being respectful. Professional.

  Irritatingly professional.

  Thomas dropped them at the main cabin and then proceeded to the guesthouse down the lane. Shane lifted his duffel as well as Crickitt’s small suitcase and followed her into the cabin.

  Crickitt swallowed a gasp as the door swung aside. The cabin was the polar opposite of Shane’s expressionless house. Tall, uncovered windows showcased the secluded forest and the mountain view beyond. Rounded logs made up the walls, stained a burning orange the color of the setting sun. A slate fireplace stood in front of a cushy couch, a flat-paneled television hanging over the mantel.

  Who decorated this?

  “I did,” Shane said, and she realized she’d asked the question aloud. “It’s not as suave as the house, I know. But this is the mountains. Rocks and logs double as décor,” he said, his tone teasing.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, meaning it. Every square inch suited him. The real him. It struck her that she knew him well enough to say that.

  Shane tossed his keys onto the table next to a fresh vase of wildflowers. He walked to the bedroom just beyond the kitchen. “Your room,” he said, seeming to debate whether or not to enter. He dropped her suitcase in front of the doorway and tossed his bag onto the couch. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in an adorably nervous gesture.

  Here they were. And she’d bet his thoughts were gliding along the same rogue path as hers. She gauged the distance between them, wondering what he’d do if she took the twelve to fifteen steps separating them and covered his lips with hers. Then she regrouped, choking down on her self-respect with both hands.

  “I had food delivered,” he said. “The cabinets and fridge are fully stocked.” He pointed at the television. “There’s cable if you want to watch TV. If you want a drink the bar is downstairs.”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  They simply stared at one another, neither of them moving as the next thirty seconds stretched out between them, palpably tense.

  Shane finally moved, angling across the living room as Crickitt paced to her bedroom door and closed her hand over the knob. She stole a look across the room to find Shane watching her, hovering at the entrance of his own room.

  “Um, good night,” she said.

  A ghost of a smile curved his mouth. “Sweet dreams.”

  And then he disappeared behind the door.

  Chapter 24

  Shane was attempting to suck up. Though he somehow doubted a bagel and cream cheese would make up for his behavior yesterday.

  He didn’t sleep well. He’d lain awake, thinking of Crickitt on the other side of the house and wondering if she hated him. He didn’t make a habit of barking orders at his staff. And before yesterday, he’d never commanded anyone to go out of town with him. And he’d never, ever been callous to anyone for calling in sick.

  He was embarrassed to admit his behavior mirrored that of a jealous high school boyfriend. Shane had no claim on her. If she wanted to go back to her husband, that was her business. It didn’t alleviate his worries. He didn’t want to see her get hurt, or make a mistake she’d later regret. But he wasn’t exactly in a position to give her advice, was he? He was her employer, not her lover. And after last night, he could see she was more than okay with that arrangement.

  By morning, it became apparent Crickitt had told the truth about the food poisoning. She strode into the kitchen, her cheeks pink instead of pasty, her eyes bright not glassy. Guilt, with a capital G, settled on his chest. He hadn’t given her the least bit of sympathy yesterday, too wrapped up in his own feelings to even consider hers.

  Now Crickitt sat at the kitchen table, picked a piece from her toasted bagel, put it into her mouth, and chewed. His palm found her knee beneath the table. Despite knowing how inappropriate it was to touch her, he was unable to stop himself.

  “I owe you an apology for yesterday,” he said. “I’m sorry I was such a bear.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Wow, as in, wow, you can’t believe I admitted it? Or wow, like you knew I was being a jerk and you can’t believe I didn’t realize it until now?”

  She gave the ceiling a quizzical gaze before meeting his eye. “The second one,” she said with a curt nod.

  A laugh burst from his chest, surprising him. Crickitt’s full, kissable mouth spread into an even more kissable grin. She looked pleased with herself. She should be. It’d been a laughless week. Man, she was nice to have around.

  He dragged his hand from her bare knee and lifted his coffee mug, his thoughts reluctantly returning to the Townsend debacle and the long meetings ahead of them this weekend.

  “There’s no sense in worrying,” she said, reading him like a headline in the Sunday paper. “We’ll come up with a new logo he’ll like. One that isn’t being used by strippers.”

  Whether it was her dry tone or her choice of phrasing, he didn’t know, but Shane laughed. Hard. So hard he had to pull the mug away from his mouth before he spit coffee on himself. He coughed and she thumped him on the back. His coughing turned into wheezy laughter and she joined him, laughing until tears sprang to her eyes. After, his sides hurt and Crickitt had to sop her wet face with a napkin.

  “I needed that,” she said with a watery smile.

  “Me, too.”

  Their smiles gradually faded, and they simply watched each other, longing hanging in the air between them. Each passing second tightened his chest, the tension increasing like an arrow drawn back in its bow. The emotions spiking his belly were frightening, unfamiliar, welcome. And suddenly, Shane found himself sympathizing with her ex-husband’s attempt to win her heart. Because for the first time in his life, he was willing to draw his sword in a woman’s honor.

  Crickitt
was worth fighting for.

  * * *

  As it turned out, handling the Townsend debacle was nothing four hours locked in a war room at Gusty’s Design couldn’t handle. Henry, via video conferencing, not only approved of the new design but preferred it to the old one.

  Angel closed the laptop to end the chat, blowing out a relieved breath Shane could sympathize with entirely. “Thank God,” she said. “We have a plan.”

  “Finally! I need to stretch my legs,” Crickitt said, standing. She smiled down at Shane. “Join me?”

  “Be right there,” he answered, aware of Angel intently watching the scene play out from the other side of the glass table. She may acquiesce to his demands at work, but he knew she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to butt into his personal life. Just like he was about to butt into hers.

  “I’m going to get started on revamping the website,” Richie said. He stood as well, reaching out to give Angel’s shoulder a squeeze before he walked to the door.

  Once their co-workers exited, Shane tilted his head at his cousin. “What was that?”

  Angel’s eyes widened innocently. “What?”

  “Richie.”

  Rather than answer, one side of her mouth lifted into an impish smile. “How was the cabin last night?”

  “None of your beeswax,” Shane said, but found himself returning her teasing smile. He stood from his chair before she probed further. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Angel said with an all-too-knowing shrug.

  Shane found Crickitt sitting on a bench outside the building, head tilted back. Golden sunlight kissed her features as a soft breeze kicked her curls around her head, making her look like a displaced fairy.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to worry?” she crowed, her eyes shut.

  He chuckled. She could tell him so all she wanted. He was relieved enough to dance a jig. And he wasn’t a particularly good dancer. He sat next to her, his leg brushing against her bare one. She straightened from her lounge position, tugging down her filmy floral skirt in the process. Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her knees to her gorgeous face.