A Family For The Billionaire ✅

11.

Aston knew he was in trouble the minute Aubrey walked out of the elevator into the foyer in one of those feminine, flowery dresses she wore. Only this one seems to have a little more oomph— a little extra cleavage, a slit up in one side, or was his  overheated brain imagining that?

He felt like something had flipped a switch inside, jumpstarting an electrical pulse that shot through him whenever Aubrey was near. It was like the exhilaration of implanting a successful business plan—only a hundred times harder and sharper.

He didn't want to fight it anymore. Didn't want to fight her.

Make love not war. Wasn't that a phrase from days past? His mother used to say it. Not that had gotten her far. Her inability to go war against his father had turned her life into endless days of drudgery—until Aston had stepped in to change hat.

Aston opened the door to his penthouse to allow Aubrey inside. Her heels clicked on the glossy black title. She breathed deep, "Something smells incredible," she said. Her slight smile intrigued him. Was she nervous?

When she swallowed, it confirmed his suspicions, though he had to look hard to notice, "You weren't kidding that you could cook," she said.

"I just need to finish a few last-minute things. You aren't averse to any particular seafood, are you?" She shook her head, bringing his attention to the thick dark hair swinging around her shoulders.

"That's good, or else this would be a complete disaster," he said with a laugh they seemed to break the unexpected tension between them, "I'm finishing some shrimp scampi. The sides and salad are ready, but I wimped out on the dessert."

"Not you," Aubrey mocked in her sassy way

"I'm not a pastry chef. I figured since we didn't make it to dessert the other day, I'd go by Vincent's and pick up a praline cheesecake."

The O of her mouth was encouraging—and sexy as hell, "Sounds awesome," she said, "But I'm surprised you would admit you can't cook everything."

"I realized a log time ago that there was no point in pretending to be something I'm not."

Her delectable body went still for a mere seconds, but Aston caught it. He should have expected a question to follow.

"Was ir a problem? Early on?"

He waved her farther into the living area as thoughts swirled through his kind. He watched her take in the comfortable luxurious space. Aston has never thread to live in  showplace. A few designers had tried to convince him otherwise, but eventually he'd found someone who understood his preferences. The magnificent space was in one of Savannah's formerly dilapidated shipping warehouses, now refurbished for people who could afford the best—although his 'best' meant an awesome sound system, overstuffed leather furniture and a magnificent view. Not high-priced works of art and anemic, uncomfortable chairs.

Aubrey seemed to agree, "Wow," she breathed as she approached the wall of windows looking out toward downtown and the river.

The architect had pushed out the walls so the floor extended all the way to the stone arches that used to frame an old balcony for shop watching. The arches were now fitted with glass panes for an extended view from inside the unusual room.

"This is an incredible blend of old and new," she said, "I'm very impressed."

"It's relaxing when I finally make it home at night." The black mirrored tile from the foyer gave way to glossy wood floors in the living room areas. Aston walks over to the bar in the fat corner, "Having you here gives me a chance to use the bar. I hardly ever have company." He fixed the martini she requested while she stroller along the long wall of windows, skirted the corner bar and continents along the shorter wall.