Billionaire Flawed 1(52)

Amy thought a moment, then nodded.

“Well Mr.—Thomas—I guess that I’m willing to give it a try,” she conceded, adding with a shy smile, “And you may call me Amy.”







Amy awoke the next morning to find herself in paradise.

Even before she opened her eyes she experienced the sensation of divine luxury, a feeling supplied by the presence of a lace trimmed floral print comforter as it cradled and coddled her body; a form further comforted by the shine of luminous sunbeams as they flew inward through a nearby window, and by the scent of roses that seemed to grow just outside the same window, intermingled with the more distant but uncomfortable scent of fresh cooked buttermilk pancakes.

Finally opening her eyes, a still sleepy Amy basked in the vision of a bedroom that seemed custom made for a princess; a luxurious refuge adorned by café style floral print curtains, plush ivory carpeting and ivory, bronze bordered bureaus.

“How on earth did I end up here?” she mused, thoughts thick and groggy. “Oh, I don’t care—as long as I am not required to move anytime within the next year or so.”

A loud knock on her bedroom door stirred her awake moments later; reminding her with a jolt as to her current location—and also of the man who owned this home.

Gathering her crisp cotton sheets tight around her chin in a protective move, Amy called out in a tentative voice, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Thomas. I’ve come with your breakfast,” her host answered, his tone tentative and reverent.

Amy nodded—then pondered just how ineffectual such a move was with a closed door between them.

“Come in,” she said finally, sitting upward in bed as her door swung open to reveal a most unusual sight.

Although dressed in the denim blue jeans, crisp white shirt and black rawhide boots and hat combination typical of a rancher, her host still looked every inch the role of a dashing butler; carrying as he did a tray topped with a hearty stack of piping hot buttermilk pancakes, and a tall brown mug that brimmed with steaming hot cocoa.

“Breakfast is served,” Thomas announced with a grin, seating himself on the edge of her bed and setting the tray before her. “Enjoy.”

Amy did just that seconds later, digging deep into her succulent morning feast as she pinned her host with inquisitive eyes.

“Delicious!” she praised him, adding as she inclined her head sharp in his direction, “I simply must ask, though, who occupied this room before I did?”

Thomas shrugged.

“No one to speak of, Ma’am,” he told her. “Truth be told it was never slept in before last night.”

Amy nodded.

“So you as a Texas rancher tend to prefer lace comforters and floral print café curtains?” she queried, accompanying her words with a long hard look that brought a loud guffaw from deep in Thomas’ throat.

“Not at all, Ma’am,” he admitted, adding with a soft smile, “You see, my ma and pa were the original settlers who claimed this land, about 15 years ago. Their home still stands, just up the dirt road.” He paused here, adding in a sentimental tone, “My pa always insisted that his home be decorated in the style of a ranch house—with a lot of browns and blacks, with rawhides hung up all over the home and statues of bulls and horses on every available surface. So when I built my own ranch house, I set aside one room just for my ma—a place where she could come, write the poetry that she loved to pen, and just stare out the window at the Texas moon.”

Amy smiled.

“Well that was kind of you, Thomas,” she praised him, adding as she took another hearty bite of her steaming hot pancakes, “Are your folks still living?”

Thomas shook his head.

“My pa has been gone for six years, my ma for three. I miss them so much,” he revealed, adding as a telltale veil of tears brimmed forth from his aquiline eyes, “I’m sorry, Ma’am. I know a cowboy ain’t supposed to cry.”

Amy said nothing, just wrapped her arms around his muscled shoulders and pulled him closer to her; telltale tears escaping her own eyes as the two tilted their foreheads together and their hands clenched between them.

“Do not even dream of apologizing to me,” Amy insisted, adding as she ran a comforting hand through the silken lengths of his thick gold hair, “I reckon that, at this point, we both need a good ol’ cry.”

The couple said nothing for several moments, just leaned into one another as their hands remained clenched and their tears fell free between them.

A wave of warmth coursed free through Amy’s being as she tilted her chin upward; smiling soft and tender as her doting host wiped the tears from the surface of her fair-skinned cheeks.