The Billionaire's Promise by Lia Hunt

Author:Lia Hunt [Hunt, Lia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781953520678
Publisher: Paige Press, LLC

Chapter Fifteen

Emery

Harrison’s childhood bedroom is officially nicer than my entire childhood house.

It’s painted in light gray with midcentury modern furniture, including a desk and a giant king size bed. There aren’t any posters of ladies in bikinis, but rather, several abstract art pieces tastefully arranged on the walls. My guess is that each of them are worth thousands and thousands of dollars.

There’s even a wooden bar cart with gold trimming, stacked completely with expensive bottles, selections of fresh limes and oranges, bottles of bitters, and all the mixing tools. I look at Harrison and raise my eyebrow at the sight of this.

“You had a bar cart in your bedroom?”

“Ah, no,” he explains. “That’s here because we’re guests. I wasn’t a ten-year-old running around with a gin and tonic or anything.”

“That makes me feel better,” I murmur. “But seriously, Harrison. This is…extremely nice.”

He shrugs. “It’s just a guest room. I don’t think anything of mine has been here in well over a decade.”

There’s something a little sad about that. Sure, my room back home is a bit too nostalgic, but Harrison’s room… It’s almost like he’s been erased from it.

“At least they didn’t turn it in to a gym,” I say. “Isn’t that what happens in the movies?”

“They wouldn’t need to,” Harrison says. “Genevieve’s converted one of the guest houses into her own yoga/Pilates studio. There’s an instructor standing by at all hours in case she feels ‘inspired’ to exercise.”

I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He just laughs.

Could our worlds be any more different? If I wanted exercise, I rode our horses or went for a run.

Of course, Harrison’s got his own gym, too. I shouldn’t be that surprised. And his place is just as lux as anything in this house, if not more. But there’s something about knowing Harrison that’s made his penthouse seem almost normal. Or maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe it was easier to think of him as someone who at least, at one point in his life, knew what it was like to do his own laundry. But clearly, this was how he was brought up.

I walk around the room and land on two black-and-white photos. One is of Harrison and his dad, side by side. Harrison’s in a cap and gown, clearly at his graduation, and his dad’s smiling. It’s identical to Harrison’s. But somehow, even smiling, they both manage to look insanely serious.

Next to the photo is a picture of an old car. Not like an old retro car, but a crappy old Toyota.

Harrison follows me over.

“I guess Genevieve kept a few things in here to make sure it’s still ‘my room,’” he says. “God, that car.”

“What’s the deal with that?”

“My dad had me build that car piece by piece,” Harrison says. “He told me I needed to learn how to build something from the ground up. He knew it’d be easy for me to grow up into a spoiled brat, so he saw to it that I knew the value of hard work.”

I smile. I like that.

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