CHAPTER TWENTY – THE BILLIONAIRE AND HIS SEXY SECRETARY
KAT
It’s a year later, and the woods around the cabin still have their secrets, but none of them belong to me anymore.
The air is clean and wet with the memory of rain, and every step up the gravel drive brings a new jolt of fresh wood scent.
They say you can’t go home again, but nobody tells you what it’s like when home is still there, waiting, but it’s been rebuilt while you weren’t looking.
Talon’s waiting at the end of the drive, hair damp from exertion, a smile like he’s about to throw me over his shoulder and drag me inside.
It’s the same cabin, but not really—the roofline’s been re-done, the porch doesn’t sag, and the window glass is so clear it reflects the sky back at you like a dare.
I make it three steps before he scoops me up, spins me once, and sets me down with a hard, noisy kiss.
“Welcome home, Kitten,” he says, and the old, sweet ache surges up my spine. God, I love this man.
I giggle and kiss him back. “You have sawdust on your neck,” I tell him, even as I’m busy licking it off.
He laughs, and I can feel the new muscle under his shirt, the result of six months’ worth of DIY renovation and a slow, private war against time.
There’s an energy here—an “us” energy, not just his.
“I’ve missed you,” he growls against my neck. “God, I missed you.”
I giggle again.
“It’s only been a few days, Talon,” I coo. “You were just in the city. But I’m here now.”
We step inside, and the place is transformed.
The entryway’s been sanded and sealed, the kitchen gleams with copper pots and an honest-to-god espresso machine, but it’s the office that stops me cold.
Two desks, side by side: one his battered old oak, and the other a sleek, curvy thing with a glass top and a typewriter with blue finish that matches my laptop.
There’s a mug of new pens in the middle, and an empty shelf for “Works in Progress.” The touch is so obviously Talon’s I want to cry.
“I gave you a desk right next to mine,” he says, sheepish, and my heart does an Olympic vault.
“For writing?” I ask, pretending to be unimpressed even as I’m already rearranging the pens in my head.
He shrugs, but there’s a grin in his eyes. “For anything. But mostly, yeah. For writing. I figure you’ll have your own book on the shelf by Christmas.”
I spin in my desk chair, loving how it hugs my hips. “I might have to lock the door to get any work done with you around.”
He leans against the doorway, folding those heavy arms. “That’s not a threat,” he says, “That’s a challenge.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the crunch of tires out front derails me because we’ve invited guests over to celebrate the renovation.
The first car is Simone’s—pink hatchback with a cracked headlight and a sticker that says “GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS.” She’s already out of the car before it stops rolling, arms loaded with a grocery bag and a wrapped bottle of Prosecco.
The next car is even more absurd: a battered station wagon piloted by Professor Malcolm Avery, his long-suffering wife in the passenger seat.
He’s brought a bottle of wine, two coffee table books, and a yard gnome for the porch “to keep the muses at ease.” Behind them, Renee from BookEnds is pulling up in her rusty Mazda, waving a six-pack of some local microbrew and a stack of paperbacks for us to sign “for the local book club.”
Talon and I meet them at the door, and for a second I just stand there, holding hands with a man who once made my life hell and now makes it so much better. Simone gives a shriek, sets her groceries on the porch, and launches herself into my arms.
“Look at you!” my pretty friend crows, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a once-over. “You’re, like, dewy. Are you pregnant? Or just in post-traumatic bliss?”
“Zero percent pregnant,” I assure her, but Talon leans down to whisper in my ear.
“We could change that if you want.”
I elbow him, but it just makes him smile wider.
Professor Avery is more restrained, but his handshake is warm and sincere. He looks around the cabin, takes in the desks, the new art on the walls, and the mug of pens, and gives me a look that says, “This is right.”
“I brought something for you,” he adds, and hands me a thin, red envelope. Inside is a card with “Summa Cum Laude” printed in gold, and a note: “Couldn’t be prouder—MA.” I flush all over.
“You graduated with honors?” Talon asks, voice a mix of pride and genuine shock. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to jinx it,” I murmur, blushing, as Simone hoots.
“She was top of the damn class, Talon. In creative writing, no less.”
Malcolm beams like a dad on Christmas morning. “Her thesis was extraordinary. I suspect she’ll have tenure before any of us.”
The guests trickle in, filling the cabin with voices, laughter, and, yes, the smell of too many different kinds of cheese.
Renee sets up a signing station on the kitchen table, and Talon signs gamely.
I swear, his wrist must hurt after he scrawls his signature on the umpteenth copy, but I love this man, and appreciate him for his generosity.
The last guest to arrive is Erasmus Grant.
The hermit’s as mysterious as ever, showing up on foot with a hand-carved side table, wrapped in a red flannel blanket.
He sets it down by the fireplace with a satisfied grunt, shakes Talon’s hand, and, after a long pause, gives me a hug that smells like cedar and woodsmoke.
“It’s a side table,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Figure you could use it. There’s a fox carved on the surface underneath.”
I want to cry a little, but settle for grinning and running my hand over the table’s glossy surface. “Thank you, Erasmus,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
He nods, then slips outside with Malcolm, who’s already holding court on the porch. Talon disappears into the kitchen with Renee and Simone, leaving me alone for a second with the hum of voices and the way the light catches dust motes in the air.
I walk over to my desk, sit, and run my hand over the cool surface. It’s like a throne, and it’s mine.
Simone sidles up behind me, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?” she whispers.
“What?” I ask, but I know what she means.
“This. All of it. The happy ending. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day, babe.”
I snort. “It’s not a happy ending. It’s just the next part of our story. Where we’ve worked out the major obstacles, and everything’s worth it.”
Sim gives me a squeeze, then smiles.
“I’m so happy for you, Kat. Love you, weirdo.”
“Right back at you.”
The party builds. There’s too much food, the wine flows, and at one point Talon gets roped into reading a passage from his next book aloud to the group.
He picks a scene that’s all banter, but his voice is deep and smooth and the crowd eats it up.
I hide in the corner, listening, feeling the pride bubble up in my chest.
Later, I’m out on the porch, two sips into a glass of Prosecco when I hear the soft creak of the porch step behind me.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is: the jittery energy, the way the footsteps hesitate at the threshold.
Only one person in the world can radiate both self-importance and deep, squirming guilt like this.
“Hey, Kat,” Jonah Everett says, hovering a full arm’s length behind me. Talon’s agent is a small, balding man, wearing city sneakers and an expensive windbreaker.
I keep my eyes on the trees, watching the ghost of my breath in the cold. “Jonah. Nice of you to make the trip.”
He sidles up, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, body hunched as if he expects the porch rail to collapse under his sins. “I know I’m not your favorite person, Kat,” he starts, and I have to snort.
“That’s not how I’d put it,” I say, voice flat. “You’re not even in my top ten least favorite people. But keep going.”
The agent lets out a tense, brittle laugh, glancing away, then down at his shoes. “You want the world’s shortest apology?” he says.
I shrug, arms folding over my chest. “If you’ve got it.”
He nods, licks his lips, fidgets with a button on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry. For everything. For the setup, the Sweet Lies thing, for not warning you what you were walking into.
I was… well, I was being a literary agent, which is basically being a glorified butler.
I’m used to doing whatever it takes to get my authors into a groove, but maybe I went too far this time. ”
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to kindle fire from shame.
“I really didn’t think anyone would get hurt.
It’s all transactional in my world. I thought Talon was just being Talon, and you have to realize we’ve used Sweet Lies a million times before.
Well maybe not a million—” He cuts off, shakes his head.
“Yeah, but we’re all real people,” I say, not even hiding the edge. “Every single girl who came up here.”
At least Jonah has the grace to look ashamed.
“I know what you’re saying,” he says. “But the other girls didn’t seem to care. They were happy with their fat paychecks, and some are still working for Sweet Lies. What I didn’t expect was that Talon would fall in love. Or that you would. I didn’t know people actually did that anymore.”
I let the silence stretch. My head’s a mess of contradictory feelings: I want to forgive him, to punch him, to roll my eyes and move on. Instead I just stand there, watching the frost gather on the porch rail, arms hugged tight over my chest.
“Thank you for your apology,” I say at last.
Jonah looks up, surprised. “You’re not going to curse me out?”
I shrug. “No. I’ve had a year to curse you in my head. I’m over it.”
He breathes out, relieved but not sure if he should smile. “You’re a bigger person than I am, Kat. Seriously.”
I shake my head. “I’m just tired. I want to start the next part of my life without dragging a grudge everywhere.”