Page 12 of Billionaire Retreat

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

I stared. And the longer I stared, the more I could see a younger version of Griffin. That teasing smile and the playful eyes confirmed it.

“I hit 13 and the fat just melted away… good for me….”

“I hit 13 and couldn’t keep the fat away.”

“I can’t picture you as a chubby teen.”

“Oh, I wasn’t, I just grew a butt that stopped fitting into certain pairs of jeans…”

“You have a great butt…. I would know… I checked it out when you walked away last night.”

I blushed and shook my head. He was too much.

“How did last night go, by the way?”

He looked pained. “Terrible. Everyone stripped down to their swimsuits and went swimming. Some people weren’t even wearing suits. Jackson definitely was. He knows his fiancée would kill him if she found out he was hanging out with some random girl naked. But anyway, then they started singing songs and telling jokes, just having fun.” He made a face as if fun was distasteful. “It was terrible. You’re lucky you left early.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds like torture.”

“You have no idea.”

“So, in that picture you were playing golf. Why do you hate it now?”

He grew somber. “I used to play with my father. That was a long time ago. He passed a few months after that picture was taken.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged it off. “So am I. He was a great guy. But anyway, tell me about your family. Where are you from, by the way? Your Southern accent is noticeable.”

“Georgia… southern Georgia.”

“Really? I haven’t spent much time down south. I’ve been to Atlanta, but nowhere else in Georgia. How was it growing up out there?”

“Boring. Hence, why I practically ran to L.A. as soon as I got a chance.”

“How are you liking it?”

“It’s been a difficult transition. I’d never lived outside of Georgia, but it’s been exciting and exhausting. And kind of depressing when I look at prices.”

He laughed. “L.A. isn’t cheap.”

“Says the guy with a driver and a Bentley.”

“It comes with the territory,” he said.

“Really? And what’s the territory?”

Before he could answer, Jackson invited himself to our table. He sat down, tossed his feet in the chair next to me and crossed his arms behind his head.

“Look at you two, all cozy,” he said, winking at his brother.

He reached out and tried to take a pastry off Griffin’s plate. Griffin knocked his hand away in one smooth motion. Jackson tried again, his eyes twinkling like a bad little brother who found a way to taunt the oldest. This time when he reached out to take a pastry, Griffin kicked the chair out from under him, sending Jackson sprawling to the floor.

I gasped and expected Jackson to be angry, but he was laughing, deep belly chuckling.