Page 25 of Saved By the Billionaire

“I’m starting to feel stronger. Better. More like myself. I can get out of your hair soon, Roman.”

“We said two weeks. It’s been two nights.”

“Two weeks is overkill,” she responded with an attempt at sounding casual. “You must want your space back.”

“If I wanted my space back, I’d take you to a damned hotel, Kate.” His voice was sharp, caustic. Cross. “Do not mistake what happened last night for me not wanting you here.”

She hadn’t expected him to go there this early. Perhaps not at all?

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe how forward I was.”

Rejection tightened in her belly. Shame and regret following soon after.

“I like forward.”

She glanced up at him, frowning. “I put you in a difficult situation.”

“The difficulty was all in leaving, believe me. Nothing you asked for differed from what I wanted.”

“Then—why⁠—”

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, heavily, the words weighed down with a sense of grief. Anger. “And you’re exactly who I think you are,” he said, eyes skimming over her face as though reading every little part of her. “You are kind and good, innocent and trusting.”

“Believe me, I’m not. I told you, I don’t trust⁠—”

“You trust me.”

Her eyes widened at the bald statement, at the fact that he was right. She did trust him. How had that happened?

“And I can’t risk hurting you.”

“You’re so sure you’re going to?”

“I don’t want to risk letting you down.”

“What am I missing, Roman?”

“I’m not interested in a relationship. I’m not interested in that happily ever after bullshit. White picket fence, two and a half kids, family car; that’s not for me.”

She pulled the coffee cup from the machine and placed it on the counter, then braced her palms so she could pull up to sit on the edge of it, glad to take any weight off her ankle.

“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?” she said, simply, sipping her coffee.

“Am I?”

“I asked you to kiss me, not to marry me.”

He moved closer, stepping near enough that one more movement would bring him between her legs. She held her breath, hoping, wanting that connection. Instead, he reached out and took the coffee cup from her, and just like last night, he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip while watching her, taunting her with the sensual promise of that.

“The only relationships I have are consensual, and commercial.”

“Consensual, I understand. But what does commercial mean?”

“What do you think?”

“It makes it sound like you bang hookers,” she said with a frown. “I’m not⁠—”

“I know you’re not.” The words breathed from his lips. “And I don’t mean hookers. In exchange for spending time with me, women are required to sign an NDA. The payment is for the NDA, not for anything else that follows.”