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Book: Waking Up with a Billionaire (The Overnight Billionaires Book 3) by Katie Lane
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Authors: Katie Lane
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always freaked him out. Having grown up with two rowdy brothers, a carousing father who came in at all hours, and a snoring grandfather, he was used to noise. After Nash had moved in with Eden, the house had suddenly been quiet…and empty. At first Grayson had thought the quiet would help him paint. But it had the reverse effect. The quiet seemed to suck all the creativity right out of him, and he was left with his logical brain. A brain that always ended up in the same place.
His mom.
He’d seen enough pictures of her to know what she looked like. In fact every feature was stenciled into his brain. Even now he could pull up her image in vivid detail—the deep indigo of her eyes, the uneven curves of her lips, and the delicate bones of her body. But while he could visualize her, and even sketch her, he couldn’t pull up one memory. Not one. Not of her eyes filling with love. Of her lips pressing to his cheek. Of her arms hugging him close.
Which made no sense. He had been young when she died, but not so young that he shouldn’t be able to remember one thing about her. Especially when he had other memories. Like catching his first fish with his father when he was four. And crashing on his bike when he was five. And winning a drawing contest when he was six. He remembered every detail of those events, from the color of the scales on the fish to the color of his first grade teacher’s dress when she handed him the blue ribbon. But not his mom. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find memories of his mother.
Grayson’s thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of snoring coming through the wall. He listened for a moment before a smile broke over his face. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
He woke to early-morning light. It took a few blinks to remember he had a guest. Or more like a captive. Surprisingly, he liked the idea of Chloe’s being his captive…maybe a little too much. Climbing out of bed, he headed for her room. He opened the door to discover what she had been doing last night. He stared at the paint splattered all over the wall above his headboard. He hated to admit it, but Chloe painted better than he did. Beneath the painting Chloe slept. She had taken off her sneakers and jeans and was sprawled on her stomach. The hem of her T-shirt rode up, and he could see her red panties and the half moons of her bare butt cheeks. One had a streak of purple paint.
Grayson’s right hand twitched, but he ignored the involuntary movement and closed the door. He showered and got dressed in another gray suit. He had a multitude of things to do that day, including the interview. But before he went to work, he collected some food for Chloe. He wasn’t much of an eater, so the pickings were slim. He chose the nonperishable items—a jar of peanut butter, a box of stale crackers, a couple of PowerBars, and three diet colas that had been left in the refrigerator months before by one of the models who had posed for him.
He put the food in a grocery sack, then retrieved her duffel bag from his car and took both back to his room. When he opened the door, Chloe had rolled to her side and was hugging the same pillow he slept on. He studied the sweet curve of her leg wrapped around the soft, down-filled pillow for only a second before he set the bags on the dresser. The zipper on the duffel bag was partway opened, and something glittery caught his attention. He had never been much of a snoop, but he couldn’t help sliding the zipper the rest of the way open.
The glittery name on the front of the shirt had him glancing over at Chloe. He could understand her having the nightshirt from his collection: As a model Madison got first choice of lingerie and had no doubt shared with her friend. Even the panties Chloe wore were from French Kiss. But if Chloe was leaving town and had packed only one small bag, why would a nightshirt with his name be included?
The question stayed with him all the way to French Kiss’s
His mom.
He’d seen enough pictures of her to know what she looked like. In fact every feature was stenciled into his brain. Even now he could pull up her image in vivid detail—the deep indigo of her eyes, the uneven curves of her lips, and the delicate bones of her body. But while he could visualize her, and even sketch her, he couldn’t pull up one memory. Not one. Not of her eyes filling with love. Of her lips pressing to his cheek. Of her arms hugging him close.
Which made no sense. He had been young when she died, but not so young that he shouldn’t be able to remember one thing about her. Especially when he had other memories. Like catching his first fish with his father when he was four. And crashing on his bike when he was five. And winning a drawing contest when he was six. He remembered every detail of those events, from the color of the scales on the fish to the color of his first grade teacher’s dress when she handed him the blue ribbon. But not his mom. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find memories of his mother.
Grayson’s thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of snoring coming through the wall. He listened for a moment before a smile broke over his face. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
He woke to early-morning light. It took a few blinks to remember he had a guest. Or more like a captive. Surprisingly, he liked the idea of Chloe’s being his captive…maybe a little too much. Climbing out of bed, he headed for her room. He opened the door to discover what she had been doing last night. He stared at the paint splattered all over the wall above his headboard. He hated to admit it, but Chloe painted better than he did. Beneath the painting Chloe slept. She had taken off her sneakers and jeans and was sprawled on her stomach. The hem of her T-shirt rode up, and he could see her red panties and the half moons of her bare butt cheeks. One had a streak of purple paint.
Grayson’s right hand twitched, but he ignored the involuntary movement and closed the door. He showered and got dressed in another gray suit. He had a multitude of things to do that day, including the interview. But before he went to work, he collected some food for Chloe. He wasn’t much of an eater, so the pickings were slim. He chose the nonperishable items—a jar of peanut butter, a box of stale crackers, a couple of PowerBars, and three diet colas that had been left in the refrigerator months before by one of the models who had posed for him.
He put the food in a grocery sack, then retrieved her duffel bag from his car and took both back to his room. When he opened the door, Chloe had rolled to her side and was hugging the same pillow he slept on. He studied the sweet curve of her leg wrapped around the soft, down-filled pillow for only a second before he set the bags on the dresser. The zipper on the duffel bag was partway opened, and something glittery caught his attention. He had never been much of a snoop, but he couldn’t help sliding the zipper the rest of the way open.
The glittery name on the front of the shirt had him glancing over at Chloe. He could understand her having the nightshirt from his collection: As a model Madison got first choice of lingerie and had no doubt shared with her friend. Even the panties Chloe wore were from French Kiss. But if Chloe was leaving town and had packed only one small bag, why would a nightshirt with his name be included?
The question stayed with him all the way to French Kiss’s
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