Flash Marriage To My Secret Billionaire

Finley woke to silence. Not the usual city silence, which was really a low hum of traffic and distant sirens, but a deep, peaceful quiet. Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes across the bare wooden floor.

For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then it all came rushing back. The fight. The rescue. Garrison. This room.

She had slept through the night without a single nightmare. It was a small miracle.

She slipped out of bed and padded out of the room. The study door was open. The camp bed was neatly folded and leaning against the wall. Garrison was gone.

A piece of paper was taped to the front of the refrigerator. His handwriting was a strong, clean script.

Went for a run. There's breakfast in the fridge.

A small smile touched her lips. He was as thoughtful in the morning as he was in a crisis. She pulled open the heavy refrigerator door.

It was completely empty. Except for a single, solitary bottle of mineral water.

She stared at the vast, white emptiness. Then she started to laugh. A real, genuine laugh that bubbled up from her chest. Of course. They had forgotten the most basic thing. Food.

She pulled out her phone, ready to order a bagel and coffee for delivery, when the front door clicked open.

Garrison walked in, dressed in a gray t-shirt and black running shorts. His hair was damp, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forehead and arms. He looked vital and strong and so intensely male that Finley, standing there in her worn pajamas with her hair uncombed, felt a sudden, sharp pang of self-consciousness.

His eyes met hers. His gaze flickered down her body for a fraction of a second, then respectfully back to her face. He broke the awkward silence first.

"I apologize," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I forgot about the whole 'no food' situation."

He held up two paper bags. "I brought coffee and bagels."

Finley's blush subsided. "Thank you," she said, taking the bag he offered. The warmth from the fresh bagels seeped into her hands.

They sat on the floor again, eating their breakfast in the sun-drenched living room.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"The best I have in years," she admitted. "Thank you."

"Good." He took a sip of his coffee. "Do you have any plans today? If not, I thought we could go to the store. Get the essentials."

That was exactly what she wanted to do. To fill this empty space. To make it a home. To do something normal.

"Yes, I'd like that," she said.

"Finish your breakfast. I'll go take a shower," he said, disappearing into the study, which apparently had its own small, en-suite bathroom.

While he was gone, Finley ate her bagel and started a list on her phone. Pots and pans. Dishes. Silverware. Towels. Cleaning supplies. She thought about prices, about brands. His salary was good, but not infinite. They had to be practical. She didn't want to be a burden.

Garrison emerged a few minutes later, showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a simple black Henley that stretched across his broad shoulders. He saw her tapping away on her phone.

"Shopping list?" he asked.

She nodded, a little shyly, and showed him the screen. "I started with the kitchen. Is there anything you think we need to add?"

He scanned the list. She had noted specific, budget-friendly brands next to several items. His lips twitched, but he suppressed a smile.

"It looks very thorough," he said, his expression serious. "We'll get what's on your list."

When they were ready to leave, he grabbed a set of keys from the small bowl he'd placed by the door. She recognized them instantly. The worn Honda key fob.

The last, lingering question in her mind about the Bentley from the night before vanished. It had been a rental. A prop. This, the reliable, slightly beat-up Japanese sedan, was his reality. Her reality now.

The car was small. Sitting in the passenger seat, her knee was only inches from his. When he shifted gears, his arm brushed against hers. A tiny, electric spark of contact that made her hyper-aware of his presence.

He navigated the Brooklyn streets with an easy confidence, making small talk to fill the silence. He asked about her studies at Columbia. He told a funny, self-deprecating story about a project at his "office."

It was the first time they had talked about anything other than contracts and crises. For the first time since she'd met him, Finley felt herself relax. She was just a woman in a car with her husband, on their way to run errands on a Saturday morning.

He pulled into the sprawling parking lot of a Target.

"Ready?" he asked, turning off the engine.

She looked at the massive red bullseye on the front of the store, then at him. She nodded.

"Ready."