Page 154 of The Rebel Billionaire

“Thank you,” I say, turning to Alex.

“I’m coming up,” he says. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s either my mother or me,” he says, the set of his chin letting me know this is not up for debate. “Your sister’s in surgery. You shouldn’t be alone.”

His words sink in, and I bite my lip to stop it from trembling.

Do I want to be alone?

No.

I nod, and he acknowledges it by turning to Keith.

“I’ll call you later,” he says.

I grab my handbag and make my way to the door of the apartment block, letting us in.

When we reach my door, Dan’s head appears around his own.

I give a slight nod, letting him know I’m safe.

Shit, I didn’t let Mitch know I was leaving.

I step inside, allowing Alex to enter.

“It’s small,” I say, suddenly self-conscious and aware of how tiny the space is, especially with him here, his presence stealing all the oxygen from the room.

“It’s nice,” he says.

“It’s home,” I say awkwardly, hugging my waist, suddenly hyperaware of the man standing in my living area.

He turns towards me.

“Brooke,” he says.

“Please don’t.” I hold up a hand, needing him to stop.

He opens and closes his mouth.

“If you offer me sympathy, I’m going to end up a blubbering wreck again, and I’m not sure I have anything left inside me,” I explain.

He inclines his head, his eyes taking me in. “I wasn’t. What I was going to say is, why don’t you go get changed while we wait for your family to call?”

We stare at each other for a moment before I nod and head to my bedroom.

One look in the mirror sends me darting to the bathroom.

I turn on the shower and step into the warm water, letting it soothe away the stress of the afternoon. When I get out, I repair my makeup and pull on a pair of wide-legged tracksuit bottoms and the matching cable-knit quarter-zip top, before making my way back into the living area.

I draw up short. Alex has removed his suit jacket, which now hangs over the back of one of my chairs, and he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing tanned forearms. His six-foot-two frame fills my tiny kitchen.

Holy mackerel. When did a man’s forearms become so sexy? All that dark hair and…

I turn away before I’m caught staring, straightening a cushion on the sofa.

Put your tongue away. You’re supposed to be concentrating on Kat.