Billionaires Dollar Series

“Hey, it’s just me.” Cole is sitting up against my headboard, a book in his hand. There are circles under his eyes.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He reaches over and puts a hand on my forehead without hesitation, like he touches me all the time. He must have, during the night. I remember fever and sweat and whispered conversations in the dark.

I close my eyes at the feeling of his skin against mine. “Much better,” he declares. “I think your fever broke a couple of hours ago.”

I glance over at the clock on my nightstand. 6:50 a. m.

I sit up with a jolt and immediately groan. Everything hurts. Pain shoots up my neck and my head, and there are sharp pains in my joints. If this is the flu, it’s the worst bout I’ve ever had.

“Woah.” Cole’s arms cradle me as I sink back into the pillows. He fluffs one of them for me. “Steady there, tiger.”

“I have to get to work.”

“Absolutely not, you don’t.”

“Between the Pages…”

“I’ve texted Karli from your phone and let her know that you’re taking a sick day.” His voice is firm and I reluctantly relax back into the pillows.

There’s so much to be done, and there’s no one to cover for me, but even I have to admit that I’m not up for it. My head is still pounding from my feeble attempt at sitting up.

Cole’s hands push my hair back and out of my face. “I thought I’d be assaulted for making that decision for you.”

“I’m taking a day off fighting.”

He puts the book down. “Finally.”

I take a few deep, steadying breaths, and gradually the pain in my head abates. I turn on my side and look at him.

He’s still in his slacks and sweater, but he’s taken off his shoes, his sock-clad feet looking big and vulnerable at the end of my bed. Rumpled hair. Tired eyes.

“What are you reading?”Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

He shows me the cover. “Agatha Christie. I realized I’ve never actually read anything by her.”

“She’s a classic.”

“So I’ve been told.” He sweeps a hand out toward the other side of my bedroom, where books are stacked high. “You really are a bookstore clerk, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. And a failed writer.”

His eyebrows rise, and I know I shouldn’t have said that, but there’s no energy in me to fight right now. All I want is to lie in this bed forever, my eyes closed, making lazy conversation until this flu passes.

He scoots down until his head is on one of the pillows. “You said you were a writer when we met.”

“I haven’t published a book, though.”

Cole looks thoughtful. “Isn’t it quite rare to have published a book by your age?” He nods at the stacks of books that line my wall. I don’t even have a shelf. “Name any one of those writers who were published by twenty-six.”

“Dostoevsky,” I say. “Bram Stoker. And… mhm, David Foster Wallace.”

He smiles wryly. “You have to outsmart me at every turn, don’t you?”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“All right, but can you at least admit that they’re outliers?”

I sigh. The last thing I want to talk about is my own inadequacies. “Yes. Like a thirty-four-year-old billionaire developer.”

Cole grimaces. “People like to remind me of that.”

I curl up on my side and ignore the protest of my sore throat, annoyed that I’m talking. “Tell me about it.”

“About what?” He looks the least composed I’ve ever seen him, and I decide that this is the Cole Porter I would be able to like, if we weren’t enemies.

“About people reminding you about your success all the time. It must be exhausting.”

Cole gives me a crooked smile. “I can’t tell if this is a trick or not. I’ll complain, and then you’ll tell me I’m not part of the oppressed class.”

I blink at him. “No. No, I won’t. I’m genuinely curious.”

He lies down on his side, so we’re facing each other in the dim morning light of my bedroom.

It feels surreal, having him here. “You must be invited everywhere,” I say. “To everything. Even events you have no interest in attending.”

His smile is self-mocking. “All the time.”

“By people you don’t know as well, right?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I showed up to a few things in the beginning before I realized I’m just invited like a trophy.”

That strikes me as profoundly sad, and I tell him that, but he just laughs. “Not really. It’s a nice problem to have.”

“I suppose. I’m not invited to a lot of things. But when I am, I always go.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“The newspaper spread about you that I read yesterday. No, don’t groan! I have a very serious question about it.”

His smile is gone, a sudden seriousness there instead. “You do?”

“Yes. Do you save all articles published about yourself? Do you keep a binder? I would, if it was me.”

His lips twitch. “You’re cute when you’re feverish.”

“Ugh.”