Page 23 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

"It's a magazine spread."

He shrugs, unbothered. "It's where I sleep and occasionally remember to eat. Mostly it's just square footage I forget to use."

I glance around, then back at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to have your people run a background check on me? Make sure I'm not secretly into corporate espionage or marrying billionaires for sport?"

He arches a brow. "Aren't you a kindergarten teacher?"

"Yes," I say solemnly. "But you'd be amazed how convincing we can be. I once talked a five-year-old out of eating a crayon using nothing but sustained eye contact and the promise of extra recess. That's negotiation skills, Mike. Hostage-level."

His mouth twitches. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You should. I'm very dangerous."

"Clearly." He pauses. “I would’ve thought the promise of crayon-colored poop would have deterred them.”

“Well, aren’t you adorable?” I say. “That would be the easiest way to make an entire room of children eat crayons.”

“I’ve clearly got a lot to learn,” he says, then gestures for me to follow. "Come on. I'll show you around."

The condo is sleek but warm—rich wood floors, clean lines, art that looks thoughtfully chosen instead of just expensive for the sake of it. There's a guitar in the corner of the living room that looks like it’s actually been played, not just a decoration. Books are stacked on the coffee table, spines cracked. A blanket is tossed over the arm of the couch, as if someone actually uses it.

It feels lived in. Real.

I don't know why that surprises me.

“I feel like we should revisit that prenup,” I muse.

“Why is that?”

“So you know I’m not after your money. Because I don’t know if you know this or not, but you obviously have a lot of money.”

He laughs, then grips my biceps. “Princess, you didn’t do any of this on purpose. I know you’re not a gold digger. I’m not worried.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Okay.”

He shows me the kitchen, fully equipped with quartz countertops and appliances that I will definitely need tutorials to use. His office consists of a massive desk housing three monitors and a wall-sized white board with an impressive number of sticky notes.

He stops outside a closed door. “This is the guest room,” he says. "Bedroom. Bathroom. Closet. Lock on the door if you want to use it.”

I step inside and freeze.

The room is beautiful. Soft gray walls. A bed that looks like a cloud dressed in expensive sheets. A window seat overlooks the lake. Fresh flowers on the nightstand—orchids, I realize with a start. Like the ones from Vegas.

“You remembered,” I say quietly.

His head tilts. “You picked orchids at the hotel. Seemed like a safe bet."

I turn to face him, something warm and dangerous blooming in my chest. "Mike, you didn't have to⁠—"

He puts one finger to my lips. “Actually, I did,” he says gently. “You've been sleeping on a couch for three months. You deserve your own space. A door that locks. A room that's actually yours.”

I don't know what to say to that.

So I deflect, because that's what I do.