I’m keeping as calm as I can, and for a moment she actually seems to be considering this idea. I press on, gentling my tone, trying one last time for reason. “Look, in all honesty, you really shouldn’t waste your time and attention on me. I’m sure a good number of wealthy men would be happy to have you.” And would never listen to you long enough to realize what a shrew you are. Go find some dumb, shallow ass looking for a hot young thing, and leave me be.
I take another swallow of my brandy. My attempt at diplomacy, when what I really want to do is take her to pieces verbally, wears on me. Yes, I would practically kill to have Lorena here in her place. I barely know the girl, and I already know that.
Unfortunately Andrea’s brief moment of clarity passes, and she falls back into her perpetual role of seducer, lips curving in a sly smile. “It’s you I want,” she purrs, slinking over, and I roll my eyes so hard that they ache. This time not even my dick is interested, even when she stands over me to give me a face full of her cleavage. “And I’m used to getting what I want.”
Instead of seeing Andrea, I see Lorena’s smile in my mind, her innocence, her courage in the face of exhausting effort and rough odds. We only spent an hour together talking, but it was enough time for me to know that she is far more my type than Andrea.
“Not this time,” I rasp, breathing through my mouth so Andrea’s perfume won’t overwhelm me.
“Aww.” She runs a ruby-tipped finger over my shoulder through my turtleneck, and I pull away. “Now, don’t be difficult. You don’t know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I growl, but she just smiles lazily. I down the rest of my drink and get up, moving away from her. She follows. “This is reaching the point of stalking, Andrea.”
“Stalking?” She stops dead, laughing incredulously. “Do I make you feel threatened or something? Poor baby!”
Back when her opinion meant something to me, that would have stung like hell. But the little twinge I feel now is easy to push past. “Threatened? You are ruining my holiday with my family because I won’t get back together with you. I don’t know how much clearer I can be that I am not interested in anything with you. I’m starting to think I’ll need a restraining order to keep you at bay.”
I hate myself a little for being so nasty back, but it does the trick. She backs off, eyes wide with shock. She never expects much resistance from anyone, which makes her obsession with my stubborn ass that much more baffling.
She simply doesn’t seem to be smart enough to understand that she’s never going to win this one. She can’t get it through her head that making a mess of things for me won’t attract me back to her side. Ugh, what did I see in her?
She lifts her chin, lips wobbly and eyes bright, and then says in a snotty voice, “What you don’t understand is that I’m your best option. I have the connections. I can help you build your fortune, or I can ruin you.”
“No, you can’t,” I reply tiredly. I’m a billionaire producer with influential friends in multiple industries across the world. She’s a washed-up model who lost her shot at supermodel stardom because she was too fucking difficult for anyone to work with.
These days she can only manipulate people who are too trusting, like my mother. But every rich man in Hollywood seasoned enough to know the type, or connected enough to know her story, knows to avoid Andrea. She can’t use her body to drive her point home as well as she once did.
I was at a low point, lonely and distracted by tireless work, when she attached herself to me. Now she keeps clinging on, an angry parasite fighting to reattach. “Andrea, please. Stop embarrassing everyone, stop lying to my mother, and go home.”
She shakes her head as she withdraws from the room. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes, it very much is.” I look down at my glass and drain the rest of the contents—then pour myself two fingers more. It’s going to be a long night.
5
Lorena
Cindy’s sugar high from her afternoon feast of cocoa and apple turnovers lasts for a solid four hours. I end up chasing her around our snowy yard, building a snow dragon, and making snow angels until we’re both exhausted and starved.
Homemade crockpot chicken soup stretched with vegetables is a little plain after such a gorgeous snack, but neither of us mind. She devours two bowls and watches three hours of Christmas specials before she finally runs out of steam. I eat a bowl of it, clean up from dinner, and get a little work done.
I rewrite one of my client’s budgets, mend one of Cindy’s dresses, and clean up the kitchen. I sit with her now and again as she watches TV, and we cuddle on the couch under our one good blanket as I stare at the screen, but see James’s smile and hear his voice. I’m stuck on the man, and it would feel nice if I didn’t feel vaguely guilty about it.
When Cindy drowses off for good, I carry her to bed and go back to work.
My daughter is sound asleep and the house is locked up carefully by the time I settle in for a bit of me-time with my stack of library books. I’m catching up on Dean Koontz as fast as interlibrary loans can get the books to me. They’re like popcorn—a little bland and repetitive, but you really can’t have just one.
My room is getting chilly. To save fuel, I turn the heat down to sixty at night and give Cindy the space heater, relying on flannel and down to keep myself warm in my aunt’s high, ridiculously bouncy, iron-framed bed. Right now, my toes are toasty, but the end of my nose feels like I’ve got my head inside my fridge.
The big, creaky house feels a little spooky at night. We’ve sealed the insides of all the windows with plastic to keep the heat in, and the drafts pull at them futilely, making tiny crackling noises and pushing at the curtains like ghosts. Downstairs, all the lights are off, with just the hall light and my bedside light cutting the gloom.
It’s the darkest time of the year. Ironically, Cindy’s not afraid of the dark at all—but I am. The dark, the cold, the emptiness. Winter’s a bad time for me.
I nearly levitate off the bed when my phone rings.
I answer at once, worried that the sound will wake Cindy. She’s a deep sleeper, but still. “Hello?”
“Miss Lorena? I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I have an odd favor to ask.” It takes me a few moments before I realize that it’s James on the other end. “Is this a bad time?”
“I, uh—” Oh God, wait, what’s going on? I feel a little disoriented, and have to check the lettering in my book to make certain I’m not dreaming. “No, no, it’s fine. I was just doing some reading. What’s the favor?”
“Well, it’s abrupt, but I was just wondering if you’d like to come out and have a drink with me.” His voice is strained, with that strange note I recognize from when he spoke about the warmth in my small family. There’s that sadness behind it again, and I can’t resist it—any more than I can resist the idea of seeing him again.
“I can’t leave my daughter.” I hesitate. I normally wouldn’t let a man I don’t know well into my home with my sleeping daughter, in the middle of the night. But … “I don’t have much here, but if you want to come over?”
A pause. “Sure. What’s the address?”
I tell him and we hang up, and then the real work starts—trying to get ready to welcome a billionaire into my humble home. I draw the line at getting dressed again. It’s too cold; I’m too tired; and the purple, fuzzy robe is actually the newest piece of clothing I own. But I do hustle around the living room, picking up toys and books, grabbing a stack of papers off the coffee tables and straightening the blue blankets covering both of our couches.
I kick the heat back up to seventy for now, and hear the boiler rumble to life in the basement. The heat registers tick as they come on, and I sigh with relief as the first wave of warm air wafts through the living room.
I hear his soft knock at the front door a few minutes later.
It’s started snowing again, I notice as he comes in trailed by a blast of cold air. He brushes flakes off t
he shoulders of his forest green parka and then starts taking it off, smiling down at me tiredly. “Thanks for having me. I really needed saner company than I’m dealing with back home.”
“I’ll make us some tea.” I point him at the tiny coat closet, and turn to go put my battered red enamel kettle on. It came with the house, just like the furniture, the linens, and all the cabinets and drawers full of my aunt’s knickknacks that I’m still going through. I’m just filling the pot and lighting the aging burner with a match when he pokes his head in.
“Hi,” I greet him calmly, though it’s a little alarming that he suddenly seems almost desperate for my company. “Peppermint all right?”
“That’s fine.” He walks over to one of the mismatched, padded chairs I set around our breakfast nook table, the old wood creaking under him. “Seriously, thanks for having me.”
“What happened? If you feel like talking about it, I mean.” I speak carefully, not sure what I’m inviting him to unload.
He sighs. “The short version is that my ex has spent the entire evening driving me crazy, embarrassing my mother, and making one brother glad that he’s married and the other glad that he’s gay.” He snorts. “Plus, my sister-in-law hates her as much as I do, but blames me for Andrea being around.”
I wince. I don’t normally get into strangers’ problems, since I can barely carry my own, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. If anything, I usually care too much. “So you called me so late because this is the first chance you had to slip out?”
He shakes his head. “I was trying to just get through the evening. But she decided to try to pick the lock on my bedroom door so she could slip into my bed and seduce me.”
“That’s … crazy. She was actually out there with a hairpin or something?” Who is this woman?
“Credit card. She kept at it for twenty minutes and I just gave up trying to sleep and left.” His expression softens then, those gorgeous eyes gazing into mine hypnotically. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away sooner, honestly. Somehow I think you’d have been better company this evening.”
A sound comes out of my mouth that’s something between a scoff and a laugh, my cheeks prickling with heat. Oh boy. “I spent my afternoon and evening chasing my kid around between work errands. She was flying on sugar. I think she left footprints on the ceiling in places.”
He laughs, the tensions slowly clearing from his face. “See? Much better company. I can already tell.”
That surprises me. Most men I have met, except for Manny and his dad, are indifferent at best when it comes to sugar-crazy two-year-olds. But liking kids and having patience with them is also a good sign, I catch myself thinking.
Wait. A good sign of what? This guy doesn’t have any interest in me besides being friendly and getting his mom some good help. There’s no way he’s … interested.
Except here he is in the middle of the night waiting patiently while I scrape the bottom of my box of peppermint tea, telling me that he’s here because he needs the company of someone who is nothing like his apparently shrewish ex. How can I ignore that?
And if he is interested, how can I resist?
Manny. The surge of guilt nearly makes me spill the tea. Were he alive, I would never cheat. But it’s been two years. I’m lonely. And apparently, so is James.
My hands shake a little as the idea of moving on rolls into my head for the first time since Manny’s death. It’s this girlish crush. It’s making me stupid. He hasn’t actually said anything about being interested in me sexually or romantically, so I shouldn’t assume.
But what if he is interested?
My toes curl inside my slippers and I clumsily manage to finish putting the tea together. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. I glance back through the archway into the living room and see that he’s moved, with him now sitting on my shabby couch with his legs crossed, eyes focused on me thoughtfully. What does he want?
“Did you want to tell me what happened?” I ask as I bring him his mug of tea. Our fingers brush as he takes it, and it’s all I can do not to drop it in his lap. Oh boy. “I mean, I’d probably make a crappy bartender, but you don’t usually see people going out in a snowstorm to hang out with a near stranger and avoid their family.”
“Not my family. Just my ex.” He sighs. “Andrea might be the perfect arm candy for the paparazzi, but she’s just not my type, and she doesn’t get that.”
He watches as I sit on the couch across from him. “And worse, she’s decided to manipulate my mother into helping her get access to me. My mother just wants to see me settled, and Andrea knows just how to take advantage of that. That is the whole reason she was able to butt in on our Christmas.”
“That sounds horrible.” It does, though I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t just tell Andrea to step off and leave his family alone. Maybe her manipulation of his mom prevents that. If she needs an assistant, she might not have the energy to devote to fending off that kind of family drama. “I don’t get why she still thinks that she has a shot, though.”
“Most men in my position don’t marry for love. We find someone beautiful and basically use her for sex, connections, and to make us look good—in exchange, they get access to our fortunes. She expected the same from me, and she doesn’t understand that I’m not into it.” He gives me a small, tight smile and then takes a sip of tea. “Mm, this isn’t bad. What brand?”
“I grew it.” Making the backyard into a working vegetable and herb garden took me two years, thanks to my lack of time. The things that have really flourished so far besides the native chicory are the mint plants.
Peppermint for the stomach. Spearmint and chocolate mint for flavoring. Catnip for nerves, and because Cindy gets so excited when there’s a kitty in the yard.
If Manny’s money finally comes through for us, I’m getting her a pair of kittens. Until then, her snow bunny is wrapped in the Sunday comics and waiting by the hearth.
He blinks in surprise and smiles. “It’s lovely. Good and strong, no chemicals. So you’ve got a garden going? My mother wants one but has a bit of a black thumb.”
“I can help her there.” I take a swallow of my tea, and then add in a bit of the last of our honey. I move carefully, handling the raw local honey like gold; the jar was a gift, and I don’t know when I can replace it. “Did she express any interest in having me work for her?”
“A great deal, actually.” He takes another generous swallow of the mint tea and smiles thoughtfully. “No cat allergies, right?”
“No. I like them, and Cindy adores them.” The neutral subject seems to be calming him down; he’s relaxing, smiling more. Or maybe it’s the company.
And maybe I shouldn’t punish myself just for speculating on that. Can’t a girl dream a little? “I’d have to get a look at your land to tell what will grow in the yard, and what would need to be grown in frames or pots and brought inside in winter.”
“That’s lovely. I’m sure this will work out.” He fingers his mug for a moment—a big blue ceramic whale with the tail forming the handle, part of my aunt’s eccentric collection. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever handled an eviction of an unwanted guest?”
I let out an awkward laugh. “Um, well, that’s the part I can’t understand. Does your mother like her so much that she will just let her stay even if she’s causing problems?”
He chuckles and lowers his head, his smile looking a lot more like gritted teeth for a moment. “Oh God.” He looks up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts.
“My mother is a very sweet, very nice woman, who, like you, is a fairly recent widow. She had fifty good years in with Dad, but that doesn’t make her miss him less. It makes her pretty lonely.
“I try to get up here every weekend, but Andrea befriended her to help lighten my load back in the day, and I was stupid and supported that. Then things with Andrea went to hell and I discovered she’s been using us all. My mother, though, can’t quite grasp that her ‘friend’ isn’t worth trying to repa
ir things with.”
I realize that I’m sitting there staring at him with my orange floral mug halfway to my mouth, and hastily take a sip before setting the tea aside. “I’m so sorry. Maybe if your mother was less lonely, it would hurt her less to kick this fake friend to the curb? I could help.”
I know all about being that desperately lonely. In the early days of my widowhood, when I was stumbling around without direction or anyone to go to, predators started to seek me out. They were like sharks scenting blood in the water.
Some of them infiltrated my online support groups looking for victims to use for sex, attention, and cash. They circled around, spewing false sympathy and understanding, telling me they were there if I ever needed to talk. All the while, they were planning to use every single thing I told them as leverage to get what they wanted.
Unfortunately for them, I was loyal to both Manny and his child, and when they pushed too much, I got angry. Then they would see something in me that was too strong for them to bother with, and flee.
Unfortunately, that type of man has been the only kind of person to show any real interest in talking to me, outside of my three fellow widows.
I’ve tried to be understanding about how my friend pool suddenly dried up. Depressed people are depressing to be around. But when I lost Manny, I saw too much of the worst side of people—including people I thought I knew, and once counted as friends. How easily so many abandon others in need, or see them as wounded prey.
“You look very sad suddenly,” he says in a low, musing voice, instead of answering my question.
“I can sympathize with your mom. That’s all. I understand about being an isolated new widow. It does leave you vulnerable, especially if you trust the wrong people.” I gaze at him wistfully.
Please don’t be the wrong person for me to trust. Please don’t be using me, or planning some screwed-up prank. I’m tired of feeling like we lost the last good man on Earth when Manny died.
Billionaire Romance Series: Dreams Fulfilled (1-3) Page 4
