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Married to the Secret Billionaire
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I’m a billionaire, but she doesn’t know it.
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It’s another perfect day in paradise. I take my favorite route down to the beach, the one that runs behind the resort, accessible only through an obscure gate that nobody but the hotel staff and me seem to have found. It’s easier this way. Less risk.
The moment my feet touch sand, I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever else I might be dealing with out in the real world, here, when it’s just me and nature, I can relax. Forget about all the people who want—no, need things from me. Forget about the pressure, the performance I have to constantly put on for the world.
All the bullshit, in other words.
It’s why I came here. Why finally, after so many years of putting up with all the aforementioned bullshit, I decided enough was enough. I’m not about to give this up for anything.
My gaze drifts toward the distant part of the beach, already crowded at this hour for Maui. Up where I am it’s a little more secluded—there are a lot of rocks, which means less surfers here, which means less girls sunbathing and hoping to catch the eye of one of said surfers. It’s a blessing and a curse. Means far less eye candy for me, but also less risk.
Still, I can’t help stealing a long glance across the sand, toward where all the beautiful women—models, actresses, heiresses and post-grad girls with trust funds and daddy issues—are bathing their long limbs in the sun. It’s tempting, I can’t lie. But I’ve imposed a rule for myself. After last time, I’m not making any mistakes again. I’m not going to lose paradise over a pair of sweet, soft tits. It’s just not worth it.
So, my self-imposed rule is no hooking up with anyone for my first three months here.
It’s been two months and one week, and trust me, I’m counting down the days already. But I need to wait. I need to be sure I’ve really blended in, done it right this time. The last thing I want is to hook up with some society climber who recognizes me. Then I’d just have to start the countdown clock all over again, somewhere new. Somewhere less idyllic than Maui, too, most likely.
So, with a grimace, I turn away from the sunbathers and stride toward the empty stretch of sand on the far end of the beach. Instead of beautiful girls with sexy curves, I drink in the palm trees that reach all the way down to the shoreline here, and the rocky tidepools. I walk until my legs throb, and then I turn back around, sweat making my shirt stick to my back, and head back the way I came, up the back stairs and into the resort. It’s almost time to begin my shift.
All part of the act, the disguise. Nobody would expect to find me working, least of all doing this, and in this spot, too.
I picked this resort carefully. It’s sprawling, beautiful, but it’s also not one of the hottest resorts in town these days. It tends to attract an older crowd. Less showy money and more tired retirees who are sick of displaying their wares.
Funnily enough, despite the fact that I’ve only just turned 33, I find myself starting to relate to the retirees more these days. Maybe I’m just aging young. Or maybe it’s because I’ve already lived through enough wild lives to want a quieter sort of life than most other people in my former social circle.
When I reach the pool, which is already filling up with said retirees, all women, and all well over the age of 70, old Mrs. Jenkins waves in greeting. “How are you this morning, Ankor?”
“Just fine. How about you, Sandra?”
“Oh, you know.” She affects a grimace and kicks her legs at the side of the pool. “My arthritis has been acting up again. Hoping a morning swim will clear it up.”
“I hope so too. You try that stroke I taught you yesterday?” I ask, stripping off my shirt, and trying to ignore the way all the old ladies immediately fixate on my abs. I’m not an idiot; I know most of them don’t take this class for my brilliant teaching methods. But still. They’re all sweet in their own ways. And I can’t lie, after over two months of self-imposed solitude, it’s nice to have the company. At least for the next couple hours of my day, I can relax and enjoy myself. If that enjoyment means I have to become the butt of a few innuendos, well, I’m man enough to take it.
“You know I just cannot get the kick right,” Mrs. Jenkins is saying.
“Oh me neither,” pipes up Ms. Humbolt. “Is it both legs at once? It doesn’t feel right when I try.”
“Let’s go over it again.” I dive into the pool, and when I surface, I find all their eyes on me, and wicked smirks on their faces.