Chapter 16
Sixteen
Jean-Michel
She stops, mouth falling open. “Jean-Mi,” she eventually whispers.
I like that she says it without prompting.
I like the soft way it rolls off her tongue.
And I sit in that for a moment.
But only for a moment because then I get a good look at her face.
She’s pale as fuck and…
“Christ,” I mutter, lunging toward her and catching her when she sways. I tug her backpack from her shoulders, gather her against my side, and turn us, jabbing at the keypad.
It whirs , the lock retracting, and I push inside, dropping her bag on the floor and sweeping her into my arms. “You sick?” I ask when she doesn’t fight me.
“No,” she whispers. “Just tired.”
Her stomach rumbles, something that seems to happen far too regularly with her.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yeah,” she says, eyes already slipping closed. “A protein bar for lunch.”
No mention of breakfast.
No mention of dinner.
“What?” I snap. “Barie doesn’t let you eat his food?”
Her eyes fly open. “They’re very generous.” A slight note of tart in her words, but very slight, and I don’t know if it’s just her or the weariness hanging on her frame or her obvious hunger.
Or if she’s uncomfortable.
I grind my teeth together, use logic instead of my dick.
Which means I know that Stefan and Brit would likely have offered to help this woman.
And that she likely would have refused to accept it.
“Dammit, buttercup,” I murmur.
“What?”
“You’re too pretty to be this stubborn.”
Her mouth drops open in outrage, a retort sputtering out of those lush lips.
Good.
I need her awake enough to get some food in her.
I hit the button to engage the lock, bring her to the kitchen, and set her on the counter.
“What are you do?—?”
“Feeding you,” I mutter, turning to the fridge and eyeing the contents. This isn’t the time for anything fancy. It’s getting some calories into her fast and then tucking that sweet ass of hers into bed. I grab the bread, meat, and cheese I brought last night then the mayo and mustard, figuring she must like it since it’s in her fridge.
Then I whip up a sandwich, slap it on a plate, and bring it over to her, ordering, “Eat.”
“More orders,” she mutters.
“You can argue with me when you’ve eaten and slept,” I tell her.
“Another.” But she grabs the sandwich from me and takes a huge bite, her hunger overpowering her sass.
“Another what?” I ask when she’s eaten half the sandwich.
“Another order.” Her nose wrinkles, but I don’t miss the concern creeping into her eyes when her gaze drags down my front and back up. “And you’ve been going all day too, haven’t you? Did you even eat?”
“Marie brought me lunch.”
Her eyes narrow. “And dinner?” A beat as she studies my face. “Yeah, exactly,” she grumbles. “Now are you making yourself a sandwich or am I?”
“ You’re ,” I say, knowing better than to argue, “going to sit there and eat that sandwich. And I’m,” I add when I see the protest well up on her face, “going to make myself one.”
Her teeth clack together.
“Good with you?” I press.
Her nose wrinkles again, but she just mutters, “Yes.”
I lean in, press my lips to the bridge of her nose. “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?”
And then I set about making myself a sandwich, not speaking again until I notice that she’s watching me…and not finishing her food. “Eat up, buttercup.”
Her eyes jerk away from my ass (something that’s making my cock jerk). But she starts eating again, so I go back to making my sandwich and then, before long, I start eating it.
“How was your day?” she asks quietly.
I stop chewing and focus on the question.
My day was shit.
It started with shit, finished with shit, and the only positives were being in this apartment with her on either end of it.
“It was fine.”
“Now who’s being stubborn?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
Her mouth tips up. “I was tired, but then a pesky billionaire turned up on my stoop and started arguing with me.”
Christ, I want to taste her, kiss her, hold her and talk to her until the early hours of morning.
But…she’s tired.
“My day was crap,” I say, giving in.
“Why?”
I shrug and exhale then hop up next to her on the counter and continue eating my sandwich. “If I’m being honest, I’d say most of my days have been shit lately.”
“Is business bad?” she asks softly.
“No, business is better than ever. Something my ex-wife is very aware of.”
Her eyes go wide. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. I mentioned I have a daughter?”
She nods.
“Well, my ex-wife left when she was a baby.” I struggle to moderate my voice because I hate talking about this shit, hate what Angela did. “Chrissy doesn’t remember her and after a while I gave up trying to find her and I filed papers to dissolve the marriage. It was a legal shitshow when I couldn’t afford to rub two quarters together, but eventually she was declared dead and our marriage was over. Then it was done.”
“Only now it’s not?”
I shake my head. “I spent the last two decades building Titan into what it is, and a few months ago she showed up, declared that we’re still married, and is demanding half of everything I own in order to go away.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispers.
“I could deal with that—or not exactly, but it would certainly be easier to swallow if she didn’t treat Chrissy like shit.” Her fingers find mine, squeezing gently, and I stare down at our interconnected hands for a moment before continuing. “She wasn’t a great mom even when Chrissy was a baby, but the first thing she said when she saw her daughter after two and a half decades was that she didn’t like her hair color.”
Tiff’s fingers tighten around mine. “You’re kidding me.”
“Unfortunately not. And she’s only gotten worse. So, she’s fucking with my daughter, fucking with my companies, fucking with the Eagles, and the FBI thinks that she might be fucking with something that’s illegal.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers again. “What a nightmare.”
“Angela or the shit she fucks up with everything she touches?”
“Both.”
“Exactly right.” Our sandwiches are both gone, so I hop down and help her do the same. “She makes my long days already longer and there’s nothing I can do except to be patient while my legal team and the authorities do their work.”
“And you’re a man of action.”
I shrug. “Feel fucking useless sitting here, doing jack all.”
“You’re not doing nothing,” she murmurs, “if you’re working with attorneys and the FBI.”
“Well, it doesn’t feel like I’m doing much ,” I say, knowing I sound like an idiot, but unable to keep the grumble out of my voice.
She yawns, and I pull my head out of my ass.
“Bedtime, buttercup.”
“I want to argue with you more,” she murmurs, “but I need all cylinders to do that, so I’ll save it for tomorrow.”
I only relax when she doesn’t fight me as I lead her to her dresser, pulling open the drawers until I find her pajamas.
I grab out a set, press them into her hands.
“Get lots of rest, baby,” I order—yes, more orders. “I want you lucid and ready to bicker with me at lunch tomorrow.”
Her lips lift, but she just nods, and I head for the door.
“Jean-Mi?”
A throb in my chest as I turn around.
“You didn’t give me the code to the door.”
“It’s 10-12.”
Her head tilts to the side. “Why 10-12?”
I smile at her. “It’s my birthday.”
Lips parting in surprise, cheeks turning pink, eyes going soft. “Oh,” she murmurs.
“Night, buttercup.” I reach for the doorknob.
“Jean-Mi?”
My smile grows and I rotate around again. “Yeah, baby?”
“Do you think…” There’s a long pause as she seems to war with herself. Then one side of her seems to win out because her shoulders straighten and her chin lifts and she asks,
“Will you stay?”