Page 133 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Mine probably did too.

“Alright,” I murmured.

The innkeeper led us up the narrow stairs to a small wooden room with a double bed, crisp white sheets, and a paper lantern casting a golden glow. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, warm and intimate.

The door clicked shut behind us.

June grabbed two towels from the wardrobe and tossed one to me. “Here. Change before you get sick.”

I chuckled. “You sound like my doctor.”

She raised a brow. “I am a doctor.”

“Right,” I said, grinning. “Forgot. A bossy one.”

“Someone has to keep you alive,” she countered, but the teasing mellowed the words, turning them almost tender.

I peeled my soaked shirt off, wringing it out near the window. Water streamed between my fingers.

Her gaze darted away, then flicked back to me.

Then looked away again—too fast.

Her eyes had given her away.

Just for a second.

Just enough to ignite the air between us.

The space felt smaller.

Warmer.

Charged.

I could feel her warmth calling out to me.

And suddenly, every reason we shouldn’t be doing this—every warning, every past mistake—fell away like discarded, drenched clothes hitting the floor.

She turned away, pretending to fuss with her towel, but I could see the tremor in her fingers.

“You should sit by the heater,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

I didn’t move.

“June.”

Her name felt different now—no longer something I merely said, but something I carried. A vow. A tether. A truth I’d been trying to outrun since the moment I met her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

And everything inside me stopped.

Those eyes—soft, unsure, brave—were the same ones that once begged me to keep my distance, that warned me not to get too close. Now they held me like they wanted me to stay.

Really stay.

I stepped closer. Slowly, deliberately. Not the way I’d approached women in my past life—confident, careless, detached. This was different.