Andrea is a particular type of high-end sex worker who doesn’t like viewing herself that way. But her brand of trophy wife isn’t there to love your kids, or ease away your stress, or do much of anything besides look good on your arm, spend your money, and fuck. Like an escort. Once I realized what she was truly after—and it took me longer than I like to admit—I tried to free myself of her, but she already had her hooks sunk into my family.
* * *
Driving helps clear my head. Early winter in New York this year was been short on snow until last week, when we got dumped on for four days straight. Now the worst of it is cleaned up enough for people to move around normally, but the whole landscape on either side of the winding mountain road is blanketed in two feet of white.
* * *
I pass by the Whitman’s Dutch revival mansion, an enormous white structure with soaring gambrel roofs, a profusion of columns, and trim in scarlet and green. Even during the day those two have enough lights and decorations that their sprawling front lawn looks like a fairy land. The local kids love it; so do I. Andrea, predictably, called it “garish,” but she has all the Christmas spirit of a coal hopper.
Phoenicia has gentrified a little over the years, some of the touristy shops giving way to boutiques and specialty stores. One thing it’s always been, though, is big on holidays. But when I pull onto the main street and start looking for parking, it looks just a bit like the Phoenicians have gone overboard. What is with all the mistletoe?
* * *
I’m still wondering about that a half an hour later as I step out of the tobacco shop where I’ve picked up an inlaid wood desk humidor for Mom’s new boyfriend, Mitch. It, and the antique jewelry box I got Mom as a substitute gift, nestle in cocoons of tissue paper inside my shopping bag. I’ve got nothing to actually do back at Mom’s place aside from making small talk and dodging Andrea, so I’m trying to come up with excuses to prolong my shopping trip.
* * *
My phone goes off as I step outside, and I sigh and reach into my pocket to check it. My mother’s number. Of course. Andrea would never call herself, not when she can get my poor, gullible mom to summon me home for her.
* * *
Mom means well. She just desperately wants me settled with a houseful of cute grandkids, and Andrea has lied to her about her intentions this whole time. My mom is a very honest woman who has so little experience with lying that she can’t tell when she’s being led on. So Andrea uses her, and she argues in Andrea’s defense in return.
* * *
I tuck the phone back into my pocket, determined to at least have a few more minutes to myself. I’ll tell her I was in the shop buying the humidor. It’s the excuse I gave for coming down here, anyway. I’m certainly not admitting to my mother that I left the lamp she’s been coveting for months on my damned couch.
* * *
Fortunately, her birthday’s in January, so she’ll just have to wait to get it then.
* * *
Phoenicia is lovely as always. I would settle here myself if it wasn’t so far from everything I’m doing. As it is, I’ve thought seriously about weekending over here in a house of my own. But God, the crowds are thick today. Not that that’s any surprise, given the date.
I stand out of the way as best I can, trying to ignore the sharp smell of the mistletoe hanging everywhere. Maybe I can duck into the cafe for some lunch. Or even grab a few more gifts to tuck under the tree. I’m looking up and down the street, weighing my options, when I notice a lovely young mother approaching me.
* * *
She’s small, youthful, and almost delicate looking, with large, innocent green eyes, wispy blond hair gleaming like spun gold against her pale cheeks, and lips painted a simple pink. I can’t see much of her figure under the gray wool blanket she’s got wrapped around herself and her child, but that doesn’t matter. I’m already charmed. Especially when I notice the lack of a wedding ring.
* * *
Behave, I warn myself, though really, the lady’s sweet face reminds me of how I’ve been longing for a little more sweetness in my life. Especially after spending the morning dealing with that bitter, gilded viper that’s invaded my mother’s home.
* * *
The cherub she has with her is dark-haired and olive-skinned, her brown eyes full of wonder at the world as she gazes around. The two of them talk for a moment—and then the mother notices me and hesitates.
* * *
I quickly pretend not to be watching her, busying myself again with my phone. I text my mother with “in shop, call soon” and glance up again, noticing the blonde gazing at me all wide-eyed. I’ve been recognized.
* * *
It happens sometimes, even though I’ve been behind the cameras in various capacities, instead of in front of them, for over ten years. Most people reach a certain level of stardom and wealth and blow it on a lavish lifestyle, drugs, friends, what have you. I invested it, determined to create a production company where I could create good movies without tripping over corporate politics.
* * *
Things turned out better than expected. So I’ve been out of the spotlight for a while, at least on that level. I’m the man behind the curtain now.
* * *
But not to this one. I see the old dazzle in her eyes for a moment, and then the most charming attack of shyness that I have ever witnessed. For a moment I wonder if she’s going to walk up to me, or run away. I’m disappointed when she lowers her gaze and moves to walk around me instead.
Then the little cherub in her arms, mischief in her eyes, leans over and lays a smooch right on my cheek!
* * *
The poor woman freezes, her eyes flying wide open again, and looks up at me in a panic. I let out a laugh, even more charmed than before, and glance up at the bundle of mistletoe hanging directly over my head. “And a merry Christmas to you too,” I inform the little girl, who is grinning hugely.
* * *
“Oh my God,” the woman mumbles in such a mortified tone that I want to pat her shoulder and tell her it’s okay. I mind her personal space, though, and just maintain my smile and shake my head.
* * *
“It’s no trouble. She caught me fair and square!” I give the woman a smile, and she starts to relax, seeming a little baffled that this is actually happening. Poor thing. It’s all right, dear, I’m not going to bite!
Unless you want me to, of course.
* * *
There was a time in my career when that starry-eyed look coming from a beautiful young woman would have had me angling to get her into bed. With fans, it’s generally fairly easy—and fun for all, at least when I do it. Looking at her and at the soft light in her eyes when she gazes up at me, I’m tempted to do it again.
* * *
“Yes, I did catch you,” the little one insists, and then says firmly, “And that means you owe me and Mommy a cocoa! The kind with the whipped cream and peppermint sticks!” She even pokes a finger into my chest.
* * *
The poor woman. It’s all I can do not to laugh as she gives her opportunistic child a look of horror. “I—I’m sorry,” she starts, but I just smile and shake my head.
* * *
“Don’t you worry about any of that. I’m charmed, and fortunately for us all, I could really use the distraction.” I gaze down at her as she stares up at me, still slightly starry-eyed. Her little girl is beaming with such deep self-satisfaction that I almost start laughing again. This kid really knows what she’s doing.
* * *
“My name’s James,” I say warmly, never breaking the woman’s gaze. I’ve missed having someone look up at me like I hung the moon, especially after Andrea’s hot-cold mix of manipulative sweetness and disdain. There’s nothing manipulative about this woman. “What’s yours?”
* * *
“Lorena,” she murmurs tentatively, as if she’s worried I might be playing a prank on her. “This is Cindy.”
* * *
3
Lorena
When we walk in the door of the chrome-countered, checker-floored café, I still don’t know whether to reprimand Cindy or thank her. Never in my life would I have dreamed that a man like James Norris would end up taking me out for cocoa, but here he is, holding the door for us.
I set Cindy down with a sigh now that we’re out of the cold, and roll my throbbing shoulder before removing the blanket and draping it over one arm. She waits beside me patiently, looking around at everything but staying quiet. I take her hand again and we follow the waitress to a table. James pulls out my chair.
As I’m sitting down, my mind’s eye suddenly conjures Manny sliding into the seat across from me as I scoot in unassisted. He was young and artless, but devoted—the kind of romantic who had trouble expressing it. He forgot to pull out chairs. I wince slightly, and hide my expression by quickly snatching up a drinks menu.
“Clever of them to sell hot drinks in all these different flavors when it’s this cold out,” James comments as he sits down. He towers over me, even when sitting—a giant compared to me and Cindy. “I understand that Miss Cindy likes the peppermint cocoa. Do you have a preference?”
He’s leaning toward me, his voice a deep, friendly purr, and my heartbeat suddenly pounds in my ears. I can’t catch my breath. I can smell his musky cologne, and the faint scent of mistletoe still hanging around him. “I …” I force out, and then look hurriedly down at the menu.
Maybe I should have just kissed him and been done with it. It can’t end up more awkward than this.
“I’ve never had most of these,” I admit finally, in a soft, hesitant voice. If we ever go for a treat, I get a cup of something very plain and let Cindy revel in her whipped cream-covered delight. I’ve never even heard of most of these drinks.
“Well, what appeals?” he asks without missing a beat.
I look down the list and pick one, a little desperate to avoid trying his patience. “Um … maybe the salted caramel?”
“Salted caramel it is. Clearly you need a treat too, after carrying such a big girl around all by yourself.” His eyes dance even more in person than they used to in my magazines. His charisma pulls at me like a magnet. I might have had a crush on him before, but right now, as I bask in the light of his smile, I forget every one of my problems all at once.
How does he do that?
He orders two salted caramel mochas and peppermint hot cocoa, all in their biggest size, and a plate of fruit turnovers to share. Cindy bounces happily at the prospect, and I have to admit my mouth waters a little too. I can bake pastries, but unless I have a lull between my jobs there’s no time to do so.
Immediately after the smiling waitress walks away, his phone rings. “Ah, sorry,” he says, fishing his phone from his jeans pocket and checking it. He frowns. “It’s family. Please give me a moment.”
He turns partially away before putting his phone to his ear. “Yes, hi Mom.” A pause. His smile starts to look a little forced. “No, I ran into a friend in the tobacco shop, and we’re having a hot drink before I drive back up.”
I try to distract myself by looking around, but I’m dead curious, and find myself listening in regardless. There’s a certain amount of tension to the long pause that follows as his mother talks, as if he’s listening to a lecture. “Mom, look, I understand that she invited herself to Christmas, but that is between Andrea and you. She and I haven’t had a relationship in several months.”
My ears prick up. What?
James has been linked for years to the notoriously high-maintenance model-actress Andrea Case. He has never been seen in public with anyone else. But apparently, all of that came to an end earlier this year, while I was too wrapped up in hustling to pay my bills to keep tabs.
“Mom, please don’t let Andrea push you around like that. It’s bad enough that she invited herself over for Christmas. This is your home, and I came to visit you. Not her. If she can’t handle my leaving for a while, she can always come join me.”
The corner of his mouth curls knowingly; Andrea doesn’t seem the type to brave the snowy streets of Phoenicia, and it seems that he’s counting on that.
So Andrea is still following him around even though he’s told everyone that they are quits. She apparently is conning his mom and is trying to control him. And he’s just trying to come down here for a little break or something, but Andrea won’t even allow that. I have a nose for putting stories together, and this one has me intrigued.
“Don’t let her worry you, Mom, it’s fine. I’ll be back soon.” He hangs up and puts his phone away, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry. Family holiday … things, you know how it is.”
“Not really,” I reply honestly, which gets me a sharply curious look. “It’s just me and my little one here. My husband died two years ago on deployment.”
He blinks in surprise, and his gaze sweeps over us again. I brace myself; he’s taking in the thin puffer jackets we’re wearing, the wool blanket we were using as a shawl, the careful patch in my shoulder bag. I have nothing to be ashamed of; I’m a good person in bad circumstances, and I’m doing the best I can.
But … what wealthy man ever sees it that way? Aside from Dr. Whitman and his son, of course. But even they’re considered eccentric—exceptions that prove the rule. This man, James, whom I’ve daydreamed about since I was twelve, has no reason to sympathize. No reason not to dismiss me as cheap, lazy, and just a step above a beggar—if that.
My cheeks burn and my eyes sting alarmingly. My stomach shivers with a mix of humiliation and dread. How will he react?
“Ah, well then. That’s unfortunate. I thought perhaps that you were here to see relatives.” He seems to want to say more for a moment, but then sits back and smiles at the waitress as she brings our drinks. He seems a little relieved by the interruption.
I’m more than relieved. Though after a moment, I realize that the look on his face is more concerned than anything. I push the conversation on to what I hope is more comfortable territory. “So, you’re visiting family?”
I know his mother lives in the area. Every local who follows the movie industry at all knows that. But it seems rude to just assume, as if I know about him from anything besides online gossip articles.
“Oh yes,” he says, perking up. “My brothers and I visit my mother every year and stay for a few weeks. She’s a bit like the Whitmans—she goes mad for Christmas and everything to do with it. Her house looks like a parade float right now.”
That makes me smile. “That’s adorable.” My own house, well … I just can’t afford Christmas lights. We have a tiny tree in the front yard that we trim with peanuts and popcorn and let the birds and squirrels eat, only to string up more the next day. But at night, there’s nothing in my yard but darkness.
“I’m sorry if I’ve brought up something that is uncomfortable for you,” he says quietly as he slides our drinks to us. They are each in a huge mug, with a small mountain of whipped cream on top. Cindy’s has a candy cane stuck into it, which she eagerly pulls out and starts using like a dipping stick. I make sure I have extra napkins handy for her before turning back to him.
“It’s not like that. We haven’t been on our own very long, and I’m still getting used to Christmases alone.” That part’s true.
Even back when my parents were too busy drinking to do anything, my Aunt Erin would always take over, making sure that I had something to celebrate, at least for a few days. After she passed away, I had one Christmas with Manny before he shipped out. And now it’s been two bleak years of Cindy and I fending for ourselves.
I just wish I could give her a better life than this. Cindy is as happy and content as I can manage. Fortunately she’s not a demanding kid. But when she gets older, when she’s in school, having a poor single mom will weigh against her socially, just as it weighs against
me now.
I don’t really have many friends in town. Clients, sure. Nobody has a problem with me doing their books, cleaning their houses, or looking after their pets. They will share a church pew with me, a bus seat, or the counter at the cafe. They just have a problem with being seen with me in any situation where we might be taken for … peers.
Even now, I can see the curious looks from locals and shoppers as they see the three of us together; the plain, slightly ragged girl, her adorable but inadequately dressed kid, and the billionaire superstar. I know what some of them must be thinking: what’s he doing with her? And it makes me feel a little better, like I’m thumbing my nose at their stupid prejudice.
Relying on charity upstate, regardless of your run of bad luck, wins you no friends, even when you’re a war widow. But James isn’t from upstate. And as I notice he’s still listening to me and has made no move to leave, I really start to relax.
“Well, that’s rather sad. And you live in town, then?” He spoons aside some of his cream to keep it from getting on his nose as he takes a swallow of his drink. “Mm. That’s divine. Really, Lorena, you should try this.”
I hesitate. It smells decadent enough to make my mouth water, as does the scent of the pastries. I wanted to save it a moment longer, but I need the distraction from the awkward topic.
Billionaire Romance Series: Dreams Fulfilled (1-3) Page 2
