Page 73 of The Billionaire Who Saved My Cat From The Mafia

I’m falling for Frankie.

And she’s leaving.

CHAPTER 36

Frankie

I couldn’t control my rage.

I’m doing my best not to let my emotions show on my face.It’s a skill I perfected at Lynx.Anyone who works in “customer service” has no choice but to learn this skill.If they don’t, holding onto a job gets mighty difficult.

Sure, that confession makes me nervous, but I have to remind myself that Special K isn’t my boyfriend.I’m not in a relationship with him.He’s not auditioning for the role of the love of my life and father of my children.

So, whatever story he’s about to share, if it gives me the “ick” in a major way, it’s not the end of the world.

I’m leaving.I can just nod and say, “Wow, that’s wild!”and then throw my shit in my SUV and go.He doesn’t even know my full name.Technically, I can just put the whole thing behind me.

It’s not that simple, though, and I know it.Iwantto hear what happened because I want to know him.Because leaving or not, I’m already developing feelings for this man.

From the very start, I’ve felt nothing but positive, warm vibes from Special K.And every moment since has been one surprise after another, and all of them good.So, I need to know if my instincts are wrong.

Again.

“Let’s change places,” I say, swimming up to him.

He gives me a lopsided smile.For a brief moment, I see the mischievous boy he used to be.Carefree and innocent.He’s such a cutie.

Which is at odds with the total picture I’m seeing.

His massive chest, arms, and shoulders are visible above the water line, marked with the scars of battle.He glistens golden in the sunlight.I love the swirls of dark blond hair on his chest and how they narrow into the thin line that travels down the center of his body, the one that leads to where the party’s at.

He’s a golden boy.I wish he wasmygolden boy.

For the hundredth time today, I wish things were different.

“Not sure how I’ll fit between your legs, Boots.”

“Hop up and I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t budge.

I reach out to trace a long scar that wraps over his shoulder and down his chest.His body is proof positive that he was a warrior.And I’ve noticed that he still carries himself like he’s on patrol, armed and ready.

He’s broad as a football player and tall as a basketball player.But not a boy scout.I’m beginning to see why he wanted to make that clear to me.

“Not a boy scout,” I say aloud.

He chuckles.“Not a boy scout.”

“But you look the part.An All-American SEAL.A good son.A devoted brother.A sweet brother-in-law and uncle.You’re a hard worker.Damn, Special K—you’re a Norman Rockwell painting come to life.You’re a hero.”

He stands and floats on his back away from me.“I’m no hero,” he says staring at the blue sky.

“But SEALs are as honorable and self-sacrificing as men can get, right?”

“They are.I wasn’t.”

I reach out and grab one of his hands and pull him toward me.Then I take his spot on the ledge, spread my knees wide enough to accommodate his body, and clasp my hands on his shoulders to pull him into place.I lift my legs and hook my ankles so that he’s locked in.