Page 59 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I huff a breath, shaking my head. “Why? Because I’m a billionaire?”

Her brows pull together. “You think I care that you’re a billionaire?” She lets out a small scoff, shaking her head. “No. You’re incredible because you’ve worked your ass off to get where you are.”

I stare at her for a long time.

“What?” She wipes at her face. “Do I have something on me?”

“No,” I say. “You’re just the first woman who’s ever seemed interested in me and not my money.”

Her face goes red, and she bites her lip. “Is that why you’re thirty-six and single.”

“I’ll say it again for the second time tonight.” I lean forward. “You’re a little shit.”

I catch her around the waist and start tickling her before she can even react. She bursts into laughter, trying to shove my hands away.

I dip my head closer, smiling. “Did you giggle?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she breathes out, laughing as she tries to twist free.

I let her go, and she falls back against the couch cushions, smiling at me like she has no idea what she just did. I could say it. Right now. To a woman I’ve known for forty-eight hours.

God.

She pushes my shoulder.

“Let’s watch another movie,” she says. “And then we need to go to bed. Tomorrow’s my last day of school, and you have to be at work in LA by eight, right?”

I nod, swallowing it down.

“Lie down,” she orders.

I raise a brow but do it anyway, stretching out across the couch. She pushes my legs apart, focused. She grabs a pillow and drops it right over my groin.

“Seriously?” I mutter.

She ignores me, climbing up and settling between my legs, resting her head on the pillow. She wraps her arms around my thigh and gets comfortable, while I stare at the ceiling.

I’m in trouble.

Chapter 22

Katie

Iwake up to a blue screen glowing from the TV. Everything else in the house is dark and quiet. I have no clue what time it is. I’m still stretched out in Michael’s lap, and my left arm—currently pinned under his very muscular thigh—is completely dead, and then I hear it.

Mr. I Wear Five Thousand Dollar Suits is asleep on my couch, snoring loudly. One of his hands is tangled in my hair, the other heavy on my back, and when I try to move, his legs lock around me like a damn trap.

Absolutely not.

“What the fuck, dude?”

He shifts under me.

“Michael. Wake the fuck up.”

“What?”

He jerks upright, and my head slams into the couch.