Page 29 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire
She types it into her tablet. “Done. You’ll have a full course delivered promptly at seven p.m. I’ll let the kitchen know it’s a priority.”
I thank her and head for the elevator, my mind already racing.
If I can’t leave this island yet, then I’m going to use the time I have to show Ivy that she’s not just part of some storm-soaked detour.
She’s been the best part of this entire trip.
CHAPTER 9
IVY
The lights are dim when I return to the suite. Candles flicker along the sideboard, and the soft hum of music plays from a speaker somewhere near the kitchenette.
The table’s set.
Cloth napkins. Real silverware. A bottle of wine beside two crystal glasses.
Carter stands near the window, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, shirt half undone like he just stepped off a yacht and into my dreams.
“You did all this?” I ask, my voice soft, uneven.
“I thought we could use a reset,” he replies. “Dinner. Just you and me. No storm. No baggage.”
I want to say something sarcastic. Deflect. But I can’t.
Because this is the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me. I should leave. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”
He pours the wine and hands me a glass. The stem is cool against my fingers, but my skin is already warm.
He pulls out my chair, and when our fingers graze, my pulse stutters.
Dinner starts slow. Too slow. Coconut-glazed shrimp. Charred pineapple salad. Lobster risotto that melts on my tongue.
And Carter? He doesn’t push. Not exactly.
But the heat in his eyes doesn’t let up—not once. He watches me like he’s starving. Compliments the way I bite my lip when something’s good. Tells me I look stunning in this dress even though it’s the same one I shoved into my suitcase three minutes before my flight.
I laugh too loud. Sip too much wine.
We talk about everything and nothing. About a show we both love. About my favorite coffee shop back home. About the best pie he’s ever had in a truck stop diner in Tennessee.
Every now and then, his foot brushes mine. And I don’t move it away.
We’re both pretending we’re not dancing around the edge of something.
When dessert arrives, it’s a plate of delicate pastries shaped like hibiscus flowers, drizzled in mango honey, flaked with edible gold.
“I told the chef to surprise us,” he says, his voice lower now. “But if I’m honest? Nothing tonight has surprised me more than you.”
My stomach tightens. “Carter…”
He leans closer, elbow brushing mine. “You can tell me to back off. But I won’t pretend I don’t want you.”
I swallow hard.
Because I want him, too.
Every time our knees touch under the table, I feel like I’m going to combust.
