The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) by Bec Linder Read Free Book Online Page B

fifteen minutes in the afternoon to look at cat pictures and text my brother, but Elliott spent all day sitting at his computer, barely moving, usually skipping lunch, and faced with that example, I couldn’t justify any wasted time. I had a set of preliminary logos drafted by the time I went home on Tuesday, and after a brief meeting with Elliott on Wednesday morning to select the best one and make some changes, I went to work on the full branding package.
    Elliott was easy to work for. He didn’t have any irritating habits, like clearing his throat constantly or leaving used tissues crumpled on his desk to ooze pathogens. He was quiet. He didn’t try to talk to me when I was in the middle of something. But he wasn’t cold or aloof, either. We made polite chit-chat when I arrived each day and again before I left. And on Thursday, he actually ate lunch with me.
    There was no lunch room, of course, so I had gotten into the habit of eating at my desk. On that particular day, Elliott had put on his coat and headed out a couple of hours earlier, for some mysterious errand he hadn’t bothered to explain to me, but just as I took out my lunchbox I heard the elevator doors open.
    I watched him as he came in. The collar of his coat was turned up against the cold, and his face was flushed red, like he had been running laps. He looked cozy. I wanted to unbutton his coat and slide my hands inside. He would be warm and muscular—
    I derailed that train of thought. “How’s the weather?” I asked.
    He smiled at me, more with his eyes than with his mouth. His cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was a soft, intimate look, and I felt it straight down to the soles of my feet. “Frigid,” he said.
    I was blushing. Just from him smiling at me. Oh, I didn’t stand a chance. I fumbled to remember what we were talking about. “It’s going to snow tomorrow,” I said.
    “I heard,” he said. He was carrying a paper bag, and he set it down on his desk and shucked his coat. I looked away, refusing to let myself stare. Lunch. I was eating lunch. I unzipped my lunchbox, and he turned at the sound and watched me take out my leftovers and navel orange. “You’re eating lunch?” he asked.
    “Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the no shit out of my voice. I got the impression that Elliott sometimes stated the obvious just because he wasn’t sure what else to say. It was sort of sweet.
    “Do you mind if I,” he said, trailing off and gesturing to my desk.
    Did I mind if he what ? But I knew what he was asking, and I said, “Of course. Pull up a chair.”
    He joined me at my desk, and took a sandwich out of his bag. It was wrapped in wax paper and was leaking mayonnaise at one corner. It looked pretty gross.
    My face must have reflected some of what I was thinking, because he said, “What do you have for lunch, then, that’s so much better than my sad deli sandwich?”
    “Leftovers,” I said primly. “Chickpea salad with walnuts and balsamic dressing.”
    “Sounds healthy,” he said, and smiled again. “But I’ll bet mine tastes better.”
    I gaped at him, too surprised that he was teasing me to think of a snappy comeback. “Well,” I said.
    Still smiling, he unwrapped his sandwich.
    I decided it was time to change the subject, and grasped at the first thing that came to mind. “So what does the name of the company mean?” I asked. “Zawadi Ya Maji.”
    I was sure I was mispronouncing it, but he didn’t correct me. “Hmm,” he said. “Gift of water, in Swahili.”
    “That’s what they speak in Uganda?”
    “Yes,” he said.
    I rolled my eyes. Getting information out of this man was like squeezing blood from a stone. “I thought it was more of a lingua franca,” I said, showing off a little. “Don’t they speak it all through East Africa?”
    He sighed deeply, like I was causing him indescribable amounts of pain with my questions. “That’s true. There are a number of languages spoken in Uganda.