Be My Babygirl A Billionaire Romance - Jane Henry Page 0,43

between us. “Okay, next question. Favorite animal.”

Over the course of the hour-long drive to his grandma’s house, I find out his favorite animal was an old pug that died last year. His name was Elvis Presley and he’d had him since he was eighteen.

In addition to the multiple breaks to his leg from his football injury, he also broke his arm when he was seven and again at eleven, falling from the same tree both times. He loves steak and potatoes but despises sweets. His favorite season is winter—he likes the cold and his favorite time of the day is when the sun sets over the city.

He doesn't watch television unless it's the news, and he only reads business articles or nonfiction. He hates injustice, lazy people, and people who have no manners. He loves the elderly even though they can be crass, and children, which I found surprising.

And his confession has me envisioning what our kids would look like. Would they have my eyes and his height, or his eyes and my blonde curls?

We pass farms and fields as we move further into the country. Everything out here is so green, so lush, compared with the dry brown of back home. I guess there is one plus for such a humid environment: the plants really seem to thrive.

The houses grow further and further apart, and I’m waiting for us to pull up to some dilapidated whitewashed farmhouse when suddenly, a massive Greek-revival-home-meets-southern-charm mansion appears out of nowhere. There are six huge white columns that reach up to a third story roofline. The home is made of a pale brick that’s almost pink in color, the extensive wide trim painted white, the shutters that encase the giant windows, black.

I can barely speak. “I thought you said you came from humble beginnings.”

“I did. But what grandson worth his salt doesn’t spoil his grandma who raised him when he comes into a little cash. She used to clean this mansion back in the day, for only dollars an hour. She said the man was a mean drunk, and her work was never good enough for him. The moment I could afford it, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and I bought it. And it’s Gran’s to live in for as long as she’d like.”

“It’s massive. Fifty people could live here comfortably.” I can’t tear my gaze from the beautiful home.

“And they often do. My grandmother is one of those people who’s never met a stranger. She’s often got people down on their luck, or recovering from illness or a surgery, staying with her. Not to mention, my brother and his frequent visitors.”

“And your ex,” I mumble.

His brow furrows. “What was that?”

This is no time for a deep dive into our relationship. “Uh... sex. I said, I owe you sex, from earlier when I was tired and I’m sure we’ll be able to find more than enough private places to sneak off to—”

He sits up further in his seat, pointing to the mansion. “There’s Rawley.”

The car pulls to a stop before the enormous front porch. I look through the window to see a man that looks very much like a younger version of Darius standing on the top step, waiting for us. His hair is a lighter brown, his eyes lighter as well.

I find I don’t like his smile. It makes me uneasy, like he’s calculating every smile, gesture, or word he’s about to say.

The driver holds open the door and Darius grabs my hand. “Come. You have quite a few people to meet.”

And then he freezes, the smile dropping from his face.

Emerging from behind Rawley is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She has ice blue eyes, wavy, chestnut hair, and a complexion like a porcelain doll. She’s tall and thin, with an ample set of breasts that ride high on her chest. When she smiles, it's like she’s a contestant in a beauty pageant.

One who already knows she’s won the crown.

Chapter 12

Darius

Jesus. That didn’t take long at all. I knew we’d see Tiffany when we returned home, but I never expected she’d show up within seconds of our arrival.

There was a time when I thought she was pretty. Beautiful, even. But now all I see is malice in those ice-blue eyes and vanity in her every perfect feature.

Rawley leaves the porch and trots down the stairs, giving me a massive hug. I pat his back awkwardly. Rawley isn’t a hugger. What the hell is going on