Page 7 of Oops I Fell For The Billionaire Next Door

"Going."

But neither of us moves for another three seconds that feel like an hour. Her hand comes up, presses flat against my chest for a beat, warm through the wet shirt. Then pushes. Gentle. Firm. Get out of here. Her fingers curl against the fabric for a fraction of a second before she pulls away.

Walking back to my unfinished house in the rain, fifty pounds lighter, something still burning where her hand pressed against my ribs, I'm smiling so hard my face hurts.

She told me to call her Desi.

She gave me the good mug. She put her hand on my chest and had to push me away because the alternative was pulling me in.

The almost is going to keep me awake all night.

It does.

CHAPTER THREE

DESI

DESI

His generator dies on a Wednesday night.

I know because the glow from his property, that steady amber light visible through the tree line since his construction crew wired the temporary electrical panel, goes black at nine forty-seven. I'm sitting on my porch with a glass of wine, sketching a drainage plan for a client in Nelson who wants a rain garden on a slope that defies gravity. The night goes quiet. Then comes the knock.

Beck Rhodes is standing on my porch in the rain. Hair plastered to his forehead. Grey T-shirt soaked through, clinging to every line of his chest. Water dripping from his jaw. He looks ridiculous. He looks incredible.

"My generator died."

"Clearly."

"I don't have a flashlight. I don't have candles. I have one bar of cell signal and a dead espresso machine."

"So you walked next door in the dark in the rain."

"You were the closest light."

Something about the way he says it. Closest light. Standing there wet, sheepish, big, looking at me with those whiskey eyes that hold zero arrogance and total honesty.

"Get in here before you drown on my porch."

He steps inside. Water pools on my floor. The man takes up my entire doorway and then some, shoulders nearly brushing the frame. My cabin feels smaller with him in it. Every room does.

"Sit." I grab the afghan blanket off the couch, toss it at him. "I'll make coffee."

He wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Sits at my kitchen table. His knees almost touch the underside because the table's too low for someone his size. The domestic absurdity of it, Beckett Rhodes sitting in my tiny kitchen wrapped in a crocheted blanket from a thrift store in Trail, makes a laugh slip out before I can stop it.

He looks up. "You laughed."

"Don't get excited."

"Too late."

The coffee brews. Rain drums the roof. Outside the window, his property is a dark silhouette against darker mountains.

"I'll call the electrician tomorrow," he says. "Steve thinks the transfer switch might've shorted."

"You could just buy a backup generator. You can afford twelve."

"I could. Or I could come bother you every time the power goes out."