New York Billionaires Series

“She didn’t mind at all.”

“She didn’t mind at all. Didn’t she tell you that herself?”

“Yes,” he admits. He’d spoken to my aunt about us at the office a few weeks ago. Dressed in a suit. Very professional, because, as he said, he didn’t want her to think he was anything but serious in his intentions toward me.

I’d told him he wasn’t asking my father for my hand. He’d winked and said not yet, and I’d been completely speechless.

“But,” Anthony continues, “she might say one thing to me and another thing to you in private.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, she has said some things to me in private,” I say, locking my arms behind his neck.

“She said she’s glad I’ve finally found a good man.”

Anthony closes his eyes at that. He’s still not good at accepting compliments. “Right.”

“She did,” I insist. “You know, this is the woman who started a matchmaking company out of her Soho apartment in the nineties. She’s eccentric, elegant, free-spirited love personified.”

“So she really doesn’t mind that I seduced her niece right under her nose.”

“You seduced me, did you?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Wasn’t that obvious from our very first meeting? You were the one who insisted on setting me up with other women.”

“Hmm. I don’t think you knew you were seducing me either.”

“I was always very clear about that,” he says, grinning. But the soft caress of his hands on my hips tells me there’s partial truth in the words. I kiss him, and he kisses me back, tasting like the sangria I’d made us after lunch. But he’s still distracted. It’s there in the slow, careful use of his lips.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you okay with it, Summer? With me being your boss?”

I smile. “Vivienne is my boss.”

He rolls his eyes, and I laugh, pressing my lips to his again. “Yes, I’m okay with it.”

“We’d figure something out if you weren’t,” he says. “You know that.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “I know that. If you’re okay with dating one of your employees?”

“Well, you’re not my employee. You’re Vivienne’s.”

“Right. Besides,” I say, “you’re a very hands-off boss.”

Anthony puts his hands on my bare waist, gripping me tight. “Am I?”

I laugh, closing the distance between us. He kisses me slowly and thoroughly, a warmth spreading through my limbs that has nothing to do with the late summer sunshine. Happiness feels like an ever-present drug these days, hits available at all times.

He gives a low groan of contentment and rests his head against my collarbone. I trail my fingers over the breadth of his shoulders, the skin sun-warm beneath my touch. “What were you reading?”

“Mmm. The same book.”

“The memoir?”

“Yeah. He’s describing his journey with braille now.”

“Any good?” I ask. The adjustments he’s making, the things he’s learning, isn’t a forbidden topic. But it’s sometimes a sore one.

“Yes. Though it still seems like a damn nightmare to learn.”

I run my nails softly down his back and he sighs with pleasure, gripping me tighter. “You’ve got time to learn,” I say. “It could be years, still. The doctor said you might end up retaining partial sight for decades.”

“The doctor says a lot of things,” Anthony comments, in a tone that makes it clear what he thinks of Dr. Johnson’s cheery remarks. “But,” he says, voice stronger, “I’m not focusing on that. Preparing for the future but embracing the present.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” I tease, but my heart swells at the words. It’s what I’ve wanted him to believe all along.

“Maybe that’s the next company I should buy.”

“Definitely,” I agree. “Or an astrology firm?”

“A palm-reading business,” he suggests.

“Maybe a life-coaching consultancy?”

“You know, I think I could have a career writing self-help books after I lose my sight.”

I laugh, and he joins in, eyes dark and warm on mine. Being here with me fully. In the house he bought as a prison, but if the week we’ve spent here together is any indication, it’s a sentence we’d both suffer gladly.

His hand presses gently into the muscles between my shoulder blades. “Still sore?”

I shake my head. “Much better now.”

“Still as much fun?”Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

“A lot more,” I say, “now that you’re doing it with me.”

Anthony chuckles. “Neither of us is great.”

That’s certainly true. Windsurfing the second time had hardly been easier than the first, and I doubt it’ll ever be something I’m good at, but trying it with Anthony on board had been too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“What about you? Not sore?” I run my hand down his arms and the strong muscle beneath. I’ve gone weight-lifting with him once, too. It’s not something I’m planning on doing again. The word sore is a kind description for the ache in my muscles the next day.

Anthony presses a kiss to my temple. “No.”

“Of course not. You’re the athlete.”

He chuckles. “You’re the runner.”

“Okay, fine. We’re both athletic.”