Oops... I Married the Wrong Billionaire

9

Ava had discovered three things about Richard Ashford in the twenty minutes since he vanished into the study with his nephew.

One, he made a glass fortress feel almost human.

Two, he treated Lucas’s organizational systems like a personal enemy. Croissant flakes everywhere. A half-empty coffee cup abandoned by the sink. A decorative bowl that had migrated three inches left, as if it had finally snapped.

Three, Lucas had allowed all of it.

That last one bothered her most.

Ava sat cross-legged on the kitchen stool, staring at the study door. She wasn’t eavesdropping. She was simply existing nearby. There was a difference.

The door muffled everything except the low rumble of Lucas’s voice. She had no interest in mergers. She was busy giving the man on the coffee-table magazine an elaborate mustache. He now looked like a deeply offended walrus.

“Much better.”

The study door opened. She dropped the pen.

Richard stepped out first. Lucas followed, expression blank.

Richard spotted the magazine. “Interesting editorial choices.”

Ava shoved it under a cushion. “I’m working on a project.”

Richard picked up his jacket. “I should go. If I’m late, my brother will assume I’ve either died or developed a conscience.”

“Tell William I said hello,” Lucas replied.

Richard paused. “You could always call your father yourself.”

“I could.”

“And yet.”

Richard sighed, then turned to Ava. “Lovely meeting you. If Lucas starts reciting household rules again, call me. I’ll put the wrong lids on every container.”

Ava smiled. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

He headed for the elevator. Just before the doors closed he leaned out.

“Buy some cushions, Lucas. Your living room looks like an expensive interrogation room.”

The doors shut.

Ava burst out laughing.

Lucas stared at the elevator. “He’s been coming here for ten years.”

“And you’ve never bought a single cushion?”

“No.”

“Not even one for mild psychological distress?”

Lucas turned. “Is that a real thing?”

Ava laughed harder.

He collected Richard’s cup and placed it in the sink.

“You seem to find my family’s habits entertaining, Ms. Carter.”

“Your family is a prestige drama, Lucas. Your mother tried to ruin me. Your uncle showed up with pastries and insults. I haven’t even met your father and I’m already expecting a cape.”

“My father doesn’t own a cape.”

“That you know of.”

Lucas looked at her. “You’d probably get along with Richard.”

“I already do. He brought me a croissant and didn’t make me sign anything.”

“He likes people who speak their minds.”

“Then why does he keep visiting you?”

Lucas gave her a flat look.

Ava grinned. The man was a one-person comedy special if you knew where to poke.

He collected his laptop. “I have work to finish.”

“I assumed you spent your days staring out windows looking troubled.”

“I do that on Thursdays.”

She stared.

From down the hallway: “Don’t get used to it.”

Ava smiled despite herself. Finding him funny was becoming a problem. She already had enough problems. She did not need another one with expensive cheekbones.

By eleven she had written two terrible paragraphs of her response to the professional complaint. She deleted both.

Her phone buzzed. Arthur Bennett.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Ava. The situation is serious. Given the publicity surrounding your marriage, the firm cannot appear compromised.”

“My marriage has nothing to do with the Westside Cultural Center.”

“In principle, I agree. Cooperate. Keep quiet. Give it time to settle down.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately.

“Please respond by Friday.”

The call ended.

Ava sat motionless. She was not going to cry. She was furious.

“Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

“What happened?”

Ava nearly threw the phone.

Lucas stood in the doorway.

“Do you people practice appearing without warning?” she demanded. “Is there a training academy for startling the economically challenged?”

“I was standing here for thirty seconds, Ms. Carter.”

“Then you’ve been standing here too long.”

He glanced at the phone. “Was that your firm?”

She hesitated. She could tell him everything. He would fix it in an hour. That was the problem. She did not want to owe him her career.

“Yes. They want me to cooperate and keep quiet.”

“That seems reasonable.”

She looked up. “Excuse me?”

“If they’re investigating, you should cooperate. Public statements before you have the facts could complicate matters.”

Ava leaned back. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to sound exactly like every person who’s ever told me to sit down and wait for someone else to decide my future.”

His expression shifted slightly. “That isn’t what I said.”

“It’s what they mean.”

Lucas pulled out a chair but didn’t sit. “What do you intend to do?”

The question caught her off guard.

“I’m going to document every decision on the Westside project. Everything that proves I did the job properly.”

“Do you have copies of all the records?”

“Yes.”

“Organized?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Careful, Lucas.”

He raised one hand. “I asked a question.”

“And I answered it with a warning.”

For a second the corner of his mouth moved.

“I have a secure scanner,” he said. “You can use it. The printer is available too.”

She studied him. “That’s it?”

“What else would there be?”

“A phone call. A threat. A man in a black suit with a briefcase full of money.”

“Would that be helpful?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t do it.”

He wasn’t offering to fix it. He was simply making a resource available. The distinction unsettled her more than any grand gesture.

“Thank you,” she said.

Lucas nodded. His gaze moved to the sketches. “Is that the cultural center?”

She slid one across.

He studied it in silence.

“The courtyard is the central feature,” Ava said. “I wanted to open the building up.”

He turned the page. “You’ve kept most of the existing structure.”

“Where possible. Reduces costs. Preserves character.”

“And this section?”

“Natural light. Without roasting everyone.”

He looked at the drawings again. “You’ve thought this through.”

Warmth spread through her chest. He had looked at her work instead of her marriage certificate.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter.

Lucas returned the drawings. “You should finish your response before Friday, Ms. Carter.”

The warmth vanished.

“There he is,” she muttered. “The human spreadsheet.”

“I was here the entire time.”

“Unfortunately.”

She gathered her papers, smiling anyway.

Lucas lingered longer than necessary. He told himself it was to make sure she had everything she needed. Perfectly reasonable explanations were becoming inconvenient.

Across town, Ethan had discovered that Victoria Sinclair could drink coffee without a chemical investigation.

She had made a face. He had braced for demands. Instead she took another sip.

Now she sat at his table while he fixed a cabinet hinge.

“If you keep drinking that,” he said, “you might discover regular coffee won’t kill you.”

“I never said it would.”

“You looked at the mug like it betrayed you.”

“The mug is acceptable.”

Ethan glanced at the chipped ceramic. “Nicest thing anyone’s ever said about it.”

Victoria looked up. “Do you always talk this much during repairs?”

“Only when my audience is difficult.”

“I’m not difficult.”

He stopped. She stared back, then looked down.

“Fine. Occasionally.”

Ethan grinned. Small victory.

Living with Victoria was like sharing space with an expensive thunderstorm. But she had mostly stopped spraying disinfectant. And yesterday he’d found painkillers and water beside his keys. Progress.

“Email from my mother’s office,” she said. “The alliance is a public-relations problem.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

He tested the cabinet. It closed. “One less crisis.”

Victoria looked at it. “You repaired that?”

“No. Performance art.”

She gave him a dry look. “Your sarcasm is excessive.”

“Your personality is contagious.”

For a second she looked offended. Then she laughed—a short, surprised sound.

Ethan stared.

She straightened. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

He grinned. “At least we’re communicating.”

Victoria took another sip. This time she didn’t make a face.

Ethan decided not to mention it.

That evening Ava sat at the dining table surrounded by documents and three abandoned coffees. The first draft was eleven pages long. She figured that was reasonable.

Lucas emerged shortly after nine, sleeves rolled, looking tired.

He stopped. “How many documents have you scanned, Ms. Carter?”

“Forty-three.”

“More than I expected.”

“I take professional misconduct allegations seriously.”

She pushed a stack into a neater pile. “You’re not going to complain about the mess?”

“I considered it. I decided I valued my remaining peace.”

She laughed.

Lucas returned with a glass of water and set it beside her laptop.

Ava looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Water.”

“I know what water is, Lucas.”

“Then I’m pleased we’ve established that.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He started back toward his office.

“Lucas?”

He turned.

She hesitated. All day people had treated her like a liability. He hadn’t asked her to prove anything. He hadn’t tried to take control.

“I appreciate you letting me handle this myself.”

Something in his expression shifted.

“You shouldn’t have to ask permission to handle your own life, Ms. Carter.”

She went still. Such a simple statement. No conditions.

Lucas glanced toward the hallway.

“You should get some sleep. You won’t be useful if you work through the night.”

“And there he is again,” she murmured. “The man who turns a decent moment into a productivity lecture.”

“Good night, Ms. Carter.”

“Good night, human spreadsheet.”

He disappeared.

Ava looked at her documents. Then she smiled.

The penthouse was still too cold and too organized. Lucas was still infuriating. Nothing had been fixed.

But for the first time since the registry office, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

And that was a dangerous development.

Because being irritated by Lucas Ashford was one thing.

Getting comfortable around him was something else entirely.