She was doing this. Dear lord, she was doing this.

Marjorie was silent as the elevator crept up, floor by excruciating floor. When the elevator finally dinged, she jumped.

“Floor twenty-five,” the elevator attendant said, smiling at her. “Have a nice evening.”

“You too,” she said breathlessly and stepped out into the hallway.

Floor twenty-five was a narrow, straight line from the elevator, with two potted plants and a bench right in front of the elevator doors. Down one end of the hall, she could see one door, and on the other side, another door. Only two doors on this floor. These must be penthouses, Marjorie realized, and her stomach gave another funny lurch. She’d known that Rob had a big room back at the resort, but it had never really occurred to her how much money a billionaire had.

Or was he even a billionaire anymore? Either way, he was still obscenely rich. She could only imagine how much a Park Avenue penthouse cost to buy, given that her tiny apartment on the Upper East Side was almost two grand a month to rent.

Swallowing hard, she crept toward Rob’s door. Her stomach lurched in protest. What if he was entertaining someone? Oh god, what if he wasn’t home by himself? Should she have called? Or was it better to just spring her visit on him and hope to catch him doing something? She felt sick. Was that trust? Did he even deserve trust yet?

Good sweet lord, what was she doing here? She was pretty sure she was going to throw up from nerves, even as she walked to his door and knocked twice.

“Coming,” called a male voice from the other side. She heard steps jogging toward the door and her courage threatened to give out. Oh god, what if he was here with someone? She’d die. She’d just curl up and die right here on his doorstep. She’d—

The door opened.

Rob stood there, his hair messy, his chest sweaty. His chest naked and sweaty. He wore a pair of grubby jeans with holes in the knees, and his feet were bare. White flecks covered his skin. He was holding a paint roller.

His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Holy fucking shit, Marjorie! What are you doing here?”

Oh, no. Oh, no. “Um, you told me to come by anytime—”

“I know I did, but Jesus, it’s—” he looked at his bare wrist, grimaced, and then craned his neck, looking into the apartment behind him. “Two in the morning,” he declared, then looked back at her. “Why are you here at two in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest protectively. “Why are you painting at two in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said with a grin. “Insomniac, remember? Anyhow, I was looking at the walls of this place and kept thinking that they needed a coat of fresh paint, and the painters weren’t coming until next week and I figured I could just do it my goddamn self, and,” he paused as the paint roller dripped on his foot. “And . . . shit. I think I just left a trail from the bedroom all the way to the front door.”

A giggle escaped her, the sound slightly hysterical. Yeah, she was pretty sure she was going to pass out.

He gave himself a little shake, then grinned. “Come in. Come in. Come get high off my paint fumes with me.”

Marjorie laughed again, and stepped inside.

The apartment was a mess. Plastic sheeting covered the floors, and the walls were bare—and stained from the prior occupant, she guessed. A stack of boxes were piled into one corner of the room. Overall, though, the apartment was enormous, much bigger than her own. Actually she was pretty sure his living room area was bigger than her entire apartment. “Are you moving in?”

He blinked at her. “No, I thought I’d break in and paint the place, and then just leave again. Like a vigilante.”

She snorted. Okay, that was a stupid question. A vigilante painter. Even as she thought about it, she chuckled. And then she began to laugh.

His smile curved his mouth, and he rubbed his neck with his free hand, and she realized he was nervous to have her here, too.

And she kept laughing. The entire thing was absurd. She’d been so freaking nervous, and here she was, and he was painting. Painting! There were no party girls. No sexcapades. Nothing but Rob in bare, paint-spattered feet on plastic sheeting and a penthouse that smelled of paint fumes.

Hysterical laughter erupted from her, and she just kept laughing and laughing.

“Marjorie?” He asked, a puzzled look on his face. “You okay?”

She smothered the hysterical laughs that kept bubbling up, pressing her fingertips to her lips, and nodded. When she could breathe again, she pointed out, “You’re dripping on the plastic.”

He looked down. Then, he shrugged. “Eh. Carpet’s shit, too. If paint gets on it, I’ll replace everything.”

“Your place is huge. Don’t you have friends that can help you with this?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t have any friends.”

For some reason, that sobered her and tugged at her heartstrings. She pulled off her sparkly shoes and placed them by the door, and then held out her hand. “You’ve got me.”

The smile on his face grew broad as he looked her up and down, admiring her form. “You’re the sexiest friend I have.”

She plucked the paint roller from his hand, trying not to blush. “You just told me I’m the only friend you have.”

“Fair enough.” He shut the door and headed back into the apartment. “You’ll have to forgive the mess. I’m still getting set up. Just signed paperwork on this place last week. The old tenants were smokers so the place has been airing out for a few days, but I can still smell it, so I’m hoping the paint kills a lot of it.”

Marjorie gave it a tentative sniff. Sure enough, it did smell like cigarettes. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, but I got the place for a song because of the stink.” Rob stretched and turned toward the hall. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Her gaze fixed on his tight ass in his jeans, and the two dimples at the base of his spine. There was a smear of paint there now, and she longed to put her fingers there and wipe it clean . . . actually, she just wanted to put her fingers there.

This was just . . . weird. She’d come to Rob’s in the middle of the night expecting to make a passionate declaration, and instead they were being friendly and . . . painting.

Marjorie tiptoed across the paint-splattered plastic and followed his more confident steps down the hall. She peeked through doors as she passed them, seeing a study with ugly wallpaper and wooden built-in shelves, a posh, tiled bathroom, and an empty room that might have been a bedroom. “So you bought a fixer-upper?” she asked politely.

“Yep.” He gestured at the ceiling. “The old owner lived here for thirty years or something. That’s why everything’s so outdated. I figured I could put a little elbow grease and a few dollars into the place and make it nice.”

“I see,” she said carefully as he walked down the hall into a room with double doors. This had to be the bedroom. It was enormous, with a lifted step where the bed would go. There in the center was an air mattress with a blanket and pillow tossed on it, and his laptop propped open on one corner. Cords trailed over to a plug in the wall. It looked so incredibly college-dorm-era and so out of place for a billionaire that she just stared at it for a long moment before glancing around again.

On the far end of the room, there was a door to the master bathroom, and off to one side were the painting supplies. A wall of windows looked out on the Manhattan skyline, and the windows were currently open to let the air ventilate. Faint sounds of traffic murmured below.

Despite the outdated look, the place was still huge. And for Manhattan, that couldn’t be cheap. She wondered just how broke he was after donating his money, and an uncomfortable twinge of guilt hit her. “Um, exactly how much was the ‘song’ you paid for this, Rob?”