A Secretive Deal with My Billionaire Boss (by Gregory Ellington) novel Chapter 387

Chapter 387

Madison

I twisted Ethan’s dinosaur shirt, trying to get his squirming arms through the sleeves.

“Can we get dessert?” He bounced on one foot while I wrestled with the fabric. “A big one? Like this big?” His arms spread as wide as they could reach, nearly smacking me in the face.

“We’ll see.” I pulled the shirt down and reached for his shoes. “Right foot first, buddy.”

“But I want a big dessert. With ice cream. And chocolate. And more ice cream on top of that ice cream.”

“That’s a lot of ice cream.”

“I know!” His eyes sparkled with the kind of pure enthusiasm only four–year–old could muster. “Can we get pizza too? With pepperoni? And can I have soda?”

“No soda. Nice try.”

“But Mom!”

“Nope.” I tied his shoes and stood, smoothing his hair. “Go ask Grandma if she wants to come with us.”

He raced from the room, his footsteps thundering down the hallway with all the grace of a tiny elephant.

I grabbed my purse and keys, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. The blue dress Alexander had bought me years ago still fits perfectly. I’d told myself a thousand times to throw it out, donate it, burn it. But here I was, wearing it to dinner.

Pathetic.

“Grandma!” Ethan’s voice carried from the living room. “We’re going to dinner, and I’m getting a huge dessert!”

“Is that so?” My mother’s amused voice filtered back.

I found them in the living room, Ethan practically vibrating with excitement while my mother sat in her chair, book in hand.

“You’re coming, right?” I asked.

She shook her head, marking her page. “You two go ahead. I’m tired, and this book just got interesting. Besides, you should have some quality time with my grandson.”

“Are you sure? We can wait if you want to rest first.”

“Go. Enjoy. I’ll be here when you get back, watching my shows and probably falling asleep in this chair.”

Ethan tugged at my hand. “Come on, Mom! I’m starving!”

“You ate a snack an hour ago.”

“That was forever ago!”

My mother laughed. “Take him before he wastes away to nothing.

“Okay. Call if you need anything.”

“I won’t need anything. Now go.”

Ethan was already at the door, bouncing on his toes. “Bye, Grandma!”

“Bye, sweet boy. Be good for your mother.”

“I’m always good!”

I herded him outside before he could start another negotiation about dessert. The evening air was just right, a gentle breeze

Chapter 387

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weaving through the trees and bringing with it the scent of blooming flowers.

“Can we go to the place with the breadsticks?” Ethan asked as I buckled him into his car seat.

“Mario’s?”

“Yes! With the unlimited breadsticks!”

“We’ll see.” I climbed into the driver’s seat. “Buckle check?”

He tugged at his straps. “Check!”

Mario’s was fifteen minutes away, a family–friendly Italian place that served decent food and tolerated enthusiastic children.

Ethan chattered the entire drive, jumping from dinosaurs to his friends to the volcano project to whether ice cream counted as dinner if it had fruit in it.

“Nice try,” I said, pulling into the parking lot. “But no.”

“But strawberry ice cream has strawberries!”

“That’s not how nutrition works.”

“It should be.”

Mario’s was moderately busy, the dinner rush just starting. We got a table near the window, and Ethan immediately grabbed a crayon to attack the kids‘ menu.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, scanning my own menu even though I already knew what I wanted.

“A volcano eating pizza.”

“Volcanoes don’t eat pizza.”

“This one does. He’s special.”

Our waitress appeared, young and cheerful. “Hi there! What can I get you folks to drink?”

“Chocolate milk!” Ethan announced.

“Please,” I prompted.

“Please,” he added, flashing his most charming smile.

“And for you?”

“Just water, thanks.”

She left, and Ethan returned to his masterpiece. I let my gaze wander around the restaurant, taking in the familiar decor. Red checkered tablecloths, fake grape vines on the walls, soft Italian music playing overhead.

Then I froze.

Two tables away, partially hidden by a decorative screen, sat Alexander Knight.

My heart lurched into my throat. What were the odds? What were the actual statistical odds that he’d be here, in this restaurant, on this night?

He was with Anthony Williams, and both men focused on their conversation. Alexander’s shoulders tense even in a casual button -down shirt. Anthony gestured animatedly, clearly telling some story.

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