The Billionaire’s Secret Love (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance) by Alexa Wilder, Ivy Layne Page B

Tate’s dark blue eyes. “I was coming to see you,” I said nervously, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. He eyed it, then looked at me.
    “You were?” He stepped into the hallway and let the door shut behind him. “Can we go to your apartment? I have some things to say.”
    I nodded and turned around, fumbling for my keys. It reminded me of the last time we’d been at my door together. I’d put a lot of the blame for my panic attack on Tate, but that hadn’t been fair. The reporters may have been calling his name, but he hadn’t been the reason they were there. And he’d gotten me away from them safely, had taken care of me when he didn’t even know what was wrong.
    I let us in, putting the basket on the kitchen table. “Do you want anything? Beer? Coffee?” I asked, feeling awkward. Tate shook his head.
    “Can we sit down?” He went to the couch, and I followed, my carefully rehearsed speech falling apart in my head. I’d planned what to say, had a list of points I’d wanted to make, and now, I couldn’t remember a single one. I joined Tate on the couch, my knees pressed together, trying to think of what to say.
    At a loss, I finally blurted out, “I’m sorry.”
    “Why are you sorry?” Tate asked in surprise. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize. If I’d answered Holden’s call, none of that would have happened.”
    I shook my head. “It’s not your fault I have anxiety attacks, Tate. And it’s not your fault I had that one. It’s just something I have to deal with. Even before the shooting, I was shy. I’ve never liked attention. I’ve gotten much better, but I don’t know that it’s ever going to completely go away.”
    “What does that mean for us?” he asked, moving closer and taking my hand in his, lacing our fingers. I looked down and closed my fingers around his, gripping them tightly.
    “I don’t know,” I answered as honestly as I could. “I care about you. A lot. More than I should, considering I don’t really know you that well.”
    “I feel the same way.” Tate reached out and tilted my face up to his. “I can’t stand the idea of losing you, Emily. You fit with me. I don’t care about the rest of the world. When I’m with you, everything feels right. Whatever we have to do to make this work, we can do it. If you don’t want to come to my building, I’ll move. There are family events I can’t avoid, but you don’t have to deal with anything you don’t want to.”
    I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I don’t want you to move, Tate.” A half-laugh escaped me, and I shook my head. “I saw my therapist yesterday—talked to her about how I was feeling. It helped me clarify some things.”
    “And?” Tate asked.
    “She reminded me that getting better is about facing my fears, not running from them. I’m never going to be okay with the kind of thing that happened yesterday. And I don’t think I’m going to love the idea of going to events where there are a lot of reporters. But if you’re willing to be patient while I work on getting better, I want to try.”
    “It’s not about patience, Emily,” Tate said. “I want to be with you. I want you to be happy, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. You only have to tell me what you need.”
    “You,” I said. “I just need you. If you can stand by me while I keep trying to handle this, that’s all I want. A chance to be with you.”
    In answer, Tate pulled me close, his lips taking mine with a desperation I hadn’t felt before. I matched it with my own. Two days apart felt like a year. I’d been so scared I’d ruined everything by pushing him away. I fell back into the couch cushions, Tate on top of me, loving the weight and heat of his long body pinning me down. I ran my fingers through his hair, holding his hand, kissing him back with everything I had. When his hand slid under my shirt, I broke the kiss and