His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,49

you.”

“She knows about me?”

“Unfortunately. I’ve never been able to slip anything past her. She picked up on the way I looked at you the day you met her. She’ll give me plenty of shit about it, but she’ll be discreet. Be right back,” he says, heading off. “Make yourself at home.”

“But—”

He’s already gone, leaving me to frantically tighten the belt around my robe and fret about the opinions his sister may or may not be forming about me right this very second. True, I have no idea where my relationship with Michael will go from here. And true, we’re all theoretically grown adults who have sex. I’d just prefer that Michael’s sister didn’t know we had fresh sex. Like, minutes ago.

Ah well. Nothing I can do about it now.

I’m glumly wondering if there’s any liquor nearby and checking the nearest cabinet when I hear the unmistakable sound of the elevator doors whooshing open.

“That was fast,” comes the low rumble of Michael’s voice. “Appreciate it.”

I freeze, forgetting all about the drink. It’s not that I want to listen, mind you. It’s just that the apartment has Carnegie Hall-worthy acoustics, and I haven’t yet figured out how to click my ears off.

“Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Mia replies cheerily.

“Let’s do this without the commentary,” he says.

“Not a chance. If you drag me over here on an emergency clothes errand, you’re going to get commentary. That’s just how your world works.”

His resigned sigh comes through loud and clear. “Fine. Get it all off your chest.”

“So what happened?” she says gleefully.

“We had a minor, ah, snafu. Spilled some wine.”

“Really?” she says with laughter dripping from her voice. “Not so minor if the wine managed to rip her dress like this. But some of those Zinfandels pack a punch.”

I cringe and cover my hot face with my hands.

“I’ll take that,” he says with infinite patience. I picture him snatching my dress back from her and replacing it on the bench. “Anything else?”

“So how’s your night been?” she says, laughing now.

“No complaints,” he says, and the trace of smugness in his deep voice does tingly things to my insides, let me tell you.

“I’m so happy for you,” she says. I picture her hopping with excitement or giving him a hug. “You finally got your dream girl. And I really like Ally. I think she’ll be great for you.”

“Thanks.”

I find the husky note that creeps into that last word oddly touching, but my mind has shifted to yet another new and head-spinning development tonight, and that gets all my attention.

His dream girl, she said.

Ally, she said.

Which means that…

Wait, what does that mean? More than her noticing a vibe between us in the ER, that’s what. That he spoke about me to his sister before tonight? That his feelings about me were strong enough to compel him to do that? That’s wonderful. Thrilling.

On the other hand…

On the other hand, I’ve spent a large portion of the last several years trying to talk myself out of thinking that Michael had any feelings for me at all. A lot of time thinking I was wrong when I was right from the beginning.

A lot of time feeling as though I were crazy.

I turn away from whatever they’re saying now and wander deeper into the kitchen, because I don’t want to hear anything else. I just heard more than enough to process, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Bewildered? Upset is too strong a word. Maybe just…unsettled. I’m not sure whether I can trust Michael and, worse, whether I can trust my own instincts.

I need a minute to think. And a bathroom break.

Since I don’t dare go anywhere near the hallway right now, I head up the back staircase, which is the kind of spiral number that you see in Architectural Digest and the local firehouse. Another long hallway with rooms spinning off leads to his bedroom, which is the only one with the lights on. It’s no surprise that the room is as darkly masculine and elegant as the rest of the place, with a massive bed that could easily sleep a family of six. I visit the bathroom, studiously avoiding my reflection as I wash my hands and splash water on my face. By the time I return to the bedroom, he’s coming in from the hallway.

“There you are,” he says, looking pleased with himself as he hands me a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus. “The left side of the bed is mine,