The Billionaire In The Treehouse

Chapter 8

Medora

There was a woman crouched at Clyde's feet, slipping socks over his toes. He wore gray sweatpants, but his chiseled chest and sculpted abs were on full display. I could see the waistband of his underwear and the sharp V that disappeared into his pants.

I sucked in my breath and forced myself to focus.

"Hi, Clyde," I said, my voice too soft, too shaky.

"Dora." His dimples appeared, the impact of his smile a direct hit to my chest.

Clyde was absurdly beautiful. His mother was stunning, but I’d always wondered what his father must look like for them to produce someone like him—a Greek god in sweatpants. Clyde’s features were softer, more ethereal, like a demigod.

I couldn’t stop staring at his biceps, flexed as he adjusted the cuffs of his sweatpants. They reminded me he’d played football in high school. I’d almost forgotten.

“Dora, this is Gloria—my caretaker.” He paused before saying the word, as though it embarrassed him, being ninteen and needing a caretaker.

I waved at Gloria, who had risen to her feet. She looked a little older than Clyde’s mother but carried herself with elegance. She smiled warmly. “Hi, Medora. Clyde’s told me so much about you.” She winked.

I felt my cheeks flush. Clyde had been talking about me? My inner child squealed, but I managed to nod and look away.

Gloria handed Clyde a navy-blue sweatshirt before leaving the treehouse. He tossed the on and picked up a brush. The sight made something stir inside me—I’d dreamed of brushing his hair. In those dreams, though, it wasn’t with a brush but my fingers.

Stop it, Medora. He’s young enough to be your son.

I snatched the brush from him before my thoughts could spiral further. “Let me.”

He raised a brow but didn’t protest. I started sweeping the brush through his damp hair, the strands soft and slightly wavy.

“What was your dad like?” I asked, setting the brush down.

“Random question.” His gaze shifted away, a shadow crossing his face.

I shrugged, reaching for the slice of cheesecake I’d brought. “Just curious.”

He eyed the dessert and grinned. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” I admitted, my smile widening despite myself.

“Thanks,” he said, his dimples returning as he took the cheesecake and dug in with a fork. The sight of his smile did something unspeakable to my insides.

He loves it! Take that subconscious!

“I don’t have any of his pictures here,” Clyde said between bites. “But I can take you to his lair if you don’t mind leaving late.”

“Clyde, I live next door. I could leave at midnight if I wanted.”

His eyes flicked to my lips briefly, and my stomach flipped.

After he finished eating, we exited the treehouse. He took the manual elevator adapted for his wheelchair while I used the stairs, meeting him at the driveway.

“Sit on my lap,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the cool October air.

“What?” I stared at him, my heart racing.

“It’s a long ride,” he said, amused. “You don’t want to tire your legs.”

I swallowed, my nasty dream coming back to my head. One would wonder why I still remember a dream from that long ago.

“C'mon, Dora. Free ride.”

I hesitated, chewing my bottom lip. My weight might hurt him—his legs already didn’t work. But his gaze was steady, waiting. Finally, I stepped closer and lowered myself onto his lap, careful not to put too much pressure. My arm circled his neck instinctively, and I bit the edge of my sleeve to hide my nerves.

“You weigh nothing,” he said softly, his voice calm.

The wheelchair moved smoothly down the driveway. His lap was surprisingly firm beneath me, and the intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on me. When we reached the porch, I moved to get up, but his hand settled lightly on my waist.

“Relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

My pulse quickened, but I stayed put until we entered the house. I slid off his lap as soon as we stepped inside, smoothing my jacket nervously.

Clyde’s mother was sitting on the couch, blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders.then returned to her popcorn. I was a bit nervous since I haven't met her yet.

“Hi mom, this is my friend Medora,” Clyde chimmed.

“Hi, baby. Hi, Medora,” she said without looking up, her tone casual.

I let out a quiet breath of relief. She didn’t seem suspicious of me, a significantly older woman making friends with her young son—at least not yet.

“Come on,” Clyde said, wheeling past her. I followed him down the familiar hallway leading to the underground levels. I’d taken this route once before, when he’d invited me to watch a movie in his private cinema.

At the entrance to his father’s lair, Clyde entered a code into the lock. The stairs transformed into a slide with the pull of a lever, allowing his wheelchair to glide downward. I reset the stairs and followed him, my shoes tapping against the steps.

When we reached the door, Clyde pushed it open to reveal a sprawling, dimly lit space. Tall shelves filled with books lined the walls, and antique furniture was scattered throughout. The air smelled of leather and cedarwood.

“Welcome to the lair,” Clyde said, gesturing for me to step inside.

I crossed the threshold, a mix of awe and curiosity bubbling inside me.