Page 69 of Her Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

What kind of woman did this? I was suddenly reminded of my mom, and of Kyle, who would have gone to bed last night not knowing where his own mother was. I didn’t deserve someone like Lucien. Didn’t deserve his kindness or his comfort, or the pleasure of his body.

I took one more step, and then I was right in front of the door. In the room, everything was silent.

I lowered the key and untangled the cord. Carefully, I inserted it into the lock, feeling for the right angle. As I pushed it in and turned, I heard an imperceptible click, signaling that the door was now unlocked. Taking a deep breath, I gently turned the handle and pushed.

And then, it swung open.

I peered inside, without taking another step.

In the room, I could see a desk. It was old, ancient, in fact. It looked like it must have been from the century before last, at least. A square of green leather covered it.

I’d seen things like this before. It was a writing desk, an old fashioned table you sat at to write letters with ink and paper. On the desk, there was a small black rectangle, about the length of my hand.

It was a journal. Leather-bound, and rather humble. Most of the stationery on Lucien’s desk was more modern-looking and expensive. It was shut closed, and on top of it, rested an old pen.

His diary, I thought. He keeps his diary in here. Where he writes down his private thoughts. Or who knows, maybe he’s working on the Great American Novel? I sighed, relaxing my shoulders. How stupid of me.

But as I sighed and turned, my hand pushed the door completely aside. I span and watched, eyes wide, as it slid open across the carpeted floor in the room. Nervously, I stepped forward and gripped the handle, in case it banged against the wall.

Now in the room—having crossed the threshold, I stared.

The desk wasn’t all that was in there. In the corner of the room was a chair.

Unlike the desk and its elegant chair, this chair was nothing special. Just a beaten-up old thing. It looked uncomfortable, and it had been hand-carved. But at the same time I could have sworn I’d seen the chair before.

And on the chair, perched on its seat, where a cushion might have gone, was a box. A small, wooden box with a golden, hinged lid.

I stepped towards the box. In the tiny, poky room there was barely enough space to swing my head. Nor was there any natural light—Lucien clearly didn’t come in here very often.

I knelt, and looked at the box.

Then, a deep voice rumbled from behind me.

“Open it.”

I span, and slipped, as I fell onto my ass. I looked up. Lucien was in the doorway.

In the little room, he looked like a giant. Dressed in a pair of soft pajama bottoms, he was bare chested. So I’d woken him up.

“Lucien,” I said weakly. “I’m sorry, I…”

“You were curious,” he said, his voice deep and husky. “So go on. Satisfy your curiosity, Laura Solomon. Open the box.”

“I don’t want to,” I protested weakly.

“You wanted to see what was in here,” said Lucien, stepping forward and absentmindedly thumbing through the journal. “So go on.”

His voice was dangerously calm, resigned, even. And I did as he said for fear of what he’d say if I didn’t. I put my hands on the clasp and undid it. Gingerly, with both hands on the lid, I lifted the lid of the box.

Inside were medals. Gold medals, silver medals, and ribbons.

“I told you. I was in the SEALs.”

“These are yours?” I said, my voice papery-thin. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.

Suddenly, I felt disgusted at what I’d done. I shut the box quickly, the gleaming medals disappearing from view. I stood, and walked out of the room. Lucien stood to the side, allowing me to leave.

“Lucien, I am so sorry,” I said. “I just…I thought…I’d always wondered, and…”