Billionaire Romance Series: Dreams Fulfilled (1-3)

by Scarlett King

  His question catches me by surprise. I’m not sure I’ve ever given him a working theory beyond telling him, “This is obviously supernatural. Let’s see what we can catch on tape.” On the other hand, we’ve never spent over a week in the cold, away from our families on the holidays, to chase what could be our first real proof of the supernatural. Nor has it ever been this big, with this many witnesses.

  “Give me a moment,” I mutter over the rim of my coffee mug. “This is a little hard to put into words.”

  “It always is,” he grumbles, and I feel a stab of worry. He sees my face and just offers a tight smile. “Sorry. I’m just sick of the snow. Can’t we just go ghost hunting in New Orleans for a few months?”

  “That’s actually damn tempting,” I admit as the tension breaks, and he lets out a little laugh. “No, seriously. You’re right. We’re probably going to end up presenting on this at the conventions, so I had better have my thoughts organized.”

  He nods slowly and waits for me, staring broodingly out the window. I catch the exact moment that he notices Jack: his expression darkens, his eyes narrow slightly. I swallow and look down at the tabletop, trying to gather my thoughts.

  In all the years we’ve been doing this—meticulously cataloging supernatural events and testing their validity, publishing books, giving talks at conventions, and interviews for blogs and podcasts—there’s never been one single big discovery like this. No ‘Aha!’ moment where we absolutely knew we had proof that people would have to believe. Plenty of hopeful moments—and a lot of letdowns—but we’ve never found our Holy Grail.

  We’ve come close: the haunted house in North Carolina with the constant scrambling sounds in its walls but no signs of infestation; the San Francisco vampire that really did have what looked to be a photo of himself from 1863—even if David swears to this day that the guy in the picture was just a doppelganger.

  We’ve come back from our investigations with proof that impresses those in our field, and we’ve managed to make a name for ourselves among American parapsychologists. The problem is that we can never convince everyone to let go of their preconceived beliefs and take in new information. No matter how convincing our evidence, people always want to run it through their cultural, religious, and personal filters—just like David does.

  And that’s what makes our job so challenging. It’s also helped us learn how to cover all our tracks and be meticulous about our research and theories.

  “The only working theory that I have so far is that whoever is responsible for this, their motives would be the same regardless of whether or not they are using some kind of supernatural ability to pull this off. It’s a boost to the town—its economy, its reputation, its celebration of the holiday…” I’m rambling, I realize. I go quiet, cheeks heating up a little.

  He sits forward. “Okay, that part I can get behind. Go on.”

  “Our prime suspects are Jack and his father, Dr. Whitman. Do we even know if their familial connection has ever been confirmed?” A lot of the local ‘information’ on people seems to be based on assumptions and rumors.

  I’m used to the New York rumor mill; it churns 24/7 in small towns and big cities. It is even worse on the Internet: from whispers in boardrooms to breathless social media posts by tween girls, it runs an endless stream of what-ifs, fluff, filler, and bullshit—and sometimes, the occasional gem. Like the collection of local folklore surrounding the Whitmans.

  “Very little about Dr. Whitman is confirmed, except for his history of propping up the town every winter with donations, benefits, and parties. As for Jack, he has a confirmed career as a hotshot local skier and playboy with a whole lot of awards and prizes.” He’s reading from the file on his phone.

  That makes me feel better about spending so much time getting everything updated last night. I wasn’t sleeping anyway, but it is still nice to know that I spent my bout of insomnia being productive. “Nobody’s entirely sure what kind of doctor Whitman is, though. Some say he has a PhD in folklore, some says he’s a pediatrician, some say he’s a child psychologist. There’s a whole list. Scroll down two pages,” I tell him.

  “Oh wait.” He flicks his finger over his phone screen and pauses to swallow down more coffee.

  I’m still working on my eggs. I’ve been eating more slowly than usual, my attention all over the place, what with the investigation, the holiday, David, Jack, the sex dreams I’ve been having about both of them since we got here…

  I cover my face with my hands, blushing furiously. I’ve been trying not to think about those, especially in David’s presence.

  It’s true, though. It’s the reason I couldn’t sleep last night. Better that I lose sleep than wake up feeling that way again—heated but unsatisfied, but mostly frustrated as hell from the images my mind teases me with.

  But I can’t help it. My head keeps filling up with images and sensations that have never happened, but that I wish would. If only things were different.

  In one dream, I’m wrestling with Jack on an honest to God pile of furs over who gets to be on top. He’s laughing playfully and letting me win…sometimes. There’s snow falling outside the odd little cottage, and the icy draft whistling past the window panes bites any bit of my skin not covered by the furs—or him—but the heat inside of me seems to burn it away.

  And then there are the dreams about David. David making me feel pleasure for hours on end, instead of turning me on and then leaving me lying there cold, confused, and frustrated.

  Though my dream self doesn’t seem to have any issues finding release, my real self isn’t so lucky. I don’t know how it feels to climax, and no matter how hot my dreams are, my body just won’t go that far on images alone. I keep waking up shaking and sweaty—aching with unfulfilled need.

  I don’t like dwelling on David’s failings as a husband, because if I do I end up getting this stabbing headache in my temples that I can’t get rid of for hours. And then I can’t handle being around David for a while.

  I remind myself of a few things as I wait for David to finish skimming the file. It helps keep my old frustrations at bay.

  First, after our breakup and after spending a few years speaking to other women about their own failed romances, I learned that David was pretty typical of early twenties guys—both in bed and out. I could have forgiven his flakiness, his goofiness, and even the sexual inexperience if he had been willing to admit to it, to listen, and to learn. But he was convinced he knew everything already, and I quickly got too frustrated to deal with that.

  Turns out, most young guys seem to think they know everything about sex—or are at least too proud to admit that they don’t.

  If only I had known, I might have been more patient and kept trying. Or I would have at least found another way to approach the subject.

  In my dreams, I get a taste of what might have happened if I had. And it’s heartbreaking.

  I’ve never had an orgasm in my life. For a while after our relationship ended, David’s voice stayed in my head, blaming me for being ‘uptight.’ It lingered, even though I had fought back at the time, demanding to know what a guy with an ‘I’m going in dry’ T-shirt could possibly know about satisfying women.

  In the end, we both lost. I learned the hard way not to get too serious too fast, especially when you’re just starting out. Knowing someone as a friend and knowing them as a lover and potential husband, it turns out, are two very, very different things.

  David learned the hard way that if you can’t please your woman, and you don’t want to learn, then you don’t get to blame her for that. You don’t call her frigid, you don’t ask what’s wrong with her, and you don’t otherwise add insult to injury by being a shitty lover and then calling her one.

  And if you do, then you’d better get ready for her to unload six months of sexual frustration, humiliation, and heartbreak at you in one five-minute verbal barrage, and then watch her turn around and start packing her things.

  I shake myself out of my re
verie to see that David is chuckling obliviously, probably over some of the Whitman folklore I gathered while he was interviewing some of the store owners. I surreptitiously wipe my eyes, face turned toward the window. Jack is out there, chatting and laughing a little with a big biker guy that I peg after a second as Daniel Gates’s brother, Aaron.

  Aaron seems to be in an awfully good mood for a guy whose brother went straight from the hospital to jail recently. Curiosity distracts me enough that some of my sadness lifts. My failure to launch with David is in the past, after all. I’ve already decided not to let it ruin the present.

  How I wish I could have had just one single night with him that was even half as good as my dreams.

  Chapter 4

  David

  * * *

  I’m trying to pretend I don’t notice, but something’s going on with Andi. I know she didn’t sleep much, but even factoring that in, she seems…distracted. Unhappy.

  I’m trying not to bring it up, because that’s an emotional minefield I can’t risk crossing. It’s possible that she’s just as sick of Phoenicia as I am. Or maybe she’s worn out from the cold, the holiday season, and all the legwork we’ve been doing.

  Or maybe being around me is making her unhappy.

  I try to dismiss that last idea as stupid and pointless, but the truth is, I just don’t know. The holidays are a tough time for a lot of singles. They are for me. Andi is more romantic than I am, and I’m a little worried that it affects her more.

  I’ll ask her what’s up in private later, if she doesn’t seem to be getting better. I know it’s none of my business—at least not beyond the concern of a friend, anyway. I don’t want to make her feel smothered.

  It’s been rough, these years of pretending I’m not still in love with her. It’s roughest when she’s hurting. I see her in pain, just within hugging range, but I know that if I touch her like that then I’m at risk for a bad case of boner-brain and all the awkwardness that comes with it. Not to mention that it would probably just add to her discomfort.

  Being a gentleman about this is tough sometimes. But I’d rather have her in my life as a friend and business partner than not at all. And I don’t want to make her unhappy again. Landing such an awesome woman and then finding out that I’d driven her away by making her miserable—without even realizing I was doing it—was the worst wake-up call of my life.

  It’s so easy to rationalize every annoying, destructive habit you have when you’re only focused on yourself. But when you’re living with another person, and they have to deal with all those flaws—or worst case, get hurt and irritated by them—being oblivious like that has a high cost. Most kids in their early twenties don’t have everything figured out right away, and clearly Andi and I didn’t, either.

  The problem was my assumption that I did, in fact, know everything there was to know about love, sex, and relationships, and her assumption that I should. At twenty-two, I was still figuring out tax forms and how much alcohol I could drink safely without waking up in the hospital. She has admitted since that her expectations were too high—but some of them really, really weren’t.

  I keep pretending to read the report I already read this morning, to give her a minute. I hope that she’s not staring out the window just so she can catch a glimpse of Jack. I know he’s out there, chatting with the local bouncer.

  I go back to the file on my phone. “I like this one the best. The one about Dr. Whitman being a Navy medic who is covered with tattoos under his shirt, one for each person he’s killed.”

  She looks back at me, and her smile flickers to life again. “Yeah, and supposedly he’s so nice now because he’s trying to repent for all he’s done. Unfortunately, I think we can write that one off as a colorful fiction.” But then she glances back out the window. “The question is, how do we verify which, if any, of these stories about Whitman are true?”

  “We’re gonna have to finally pin him down for an interview. I don’t care if we have to do it in the middle of a damn snowstorm—he’s not putting us off again. He’s our prime suspect. If we can prove he’s behind the mistletoe, then it will all boil down to what method he used. Mundane, or…not so mundane.”

  Though I really suspect we’ll just find out he hired a bunch of agile kids to sneak around putting up mistletoe for fun and for getting his town some good press.

  “I guess I was worried that when you were asking me what our working theory was, that it would come out a lot more far-fetched than ‘a local philanthropist is probably behind this, but we’re not certain if he used magic or not.’ At least with this we have something to work with still.” Now her smile comes alongside an self-conscious laugh.

  “Oh, you mean like: ‘A local philanthropist is actually Santa Claus’? Yeah, that is far-fetched.” I can’t keep the teasing note out of my voice, and she laughs in embarrassment.

  “I wasn’t gonna say it like that, but yeah.” She finally finishes her waffles. She’s the slowest eater I have ever met in my life. I don’t really mind; it just amuses me. “You know,” she muses as she sets down her fork, “nobody would take us seriously if we said Santa Claus or something like that was behind it. But everyone’s fascinated, and you know that is exactly what they’re telling their young kids when asked.”

  “That’s a good point. The guy does look the part, and everyone likes the idea of a Christmas miracle—even if they don’t believe it on a practical level.” It is pretty cute. If I ever have kids, I know I’ll be telling them this crazy story on Christmas.

  “But if we try to present the ‘Christmas miracle’ angle with anything but our tongues firmly in cheek, we’ll lose all credibility.” She tries to distract herself with a drink of coffee, but her mug is empty, and she sets it down with a disappointed look.

  “You want more coffee?” I get up, grabbing my mug. She nods, and I grab hers, too, and go to fill it from the urn. Two cups in and I’m starting to feel properly awake, but she’s still got a glaze to her eyes.

  When I make it back to the table, I’m absolutely sure she’s watching Jack. The strength of my reaction shocks me; I almost drop one of the mugs. I strengthen my grip just in time, but a few droplets scald my fingers as I set the mugs down.

  “What are you looking at?” The words come out sharp and angry before I can stop them.

  She looks up with a shocked expression—and with her cheeks full of color. “Sorry, what?”

  “You’re staring at Jack Whitman again.” I lower myself into my seat, doing my best to keep my voice quiet and my tone less…pissy. She’s not mine anymore. That phrase is really starting to become more like a mantra.

  “I’m not staring at him,” she snaps back defensively. “I’m trying to figure out how he fits into all this.”

  I’ve blown it already, and I know that, but I still can’t let it go. “No, seriously. Every time I look over at you I catch you watching the guy. What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing.” Andi’s hand shakes slightly as she lifts the mug. Her cheeks are pink and she is avoiding my gaze.

  I know what it means, coming from her. And I’m jealous as hell.

  “Andi, sweetie, the guy’s a player. What are you doing?” Her cheeks go redder, which makes me angrier—and that embarrasses me because I’m not supposed to be jealous right now, or angry, and I know it. And that just pisses me off more.

  “Look, his being cute and charming isn’t relevant right now. I’m trying to figure out if we’re focusing on the wrong suspect,” she says simply. “Jack’s more of a showman: more energetic and certainly more agile. I also suspect he has more friends among the younger set than his dad. In that sense, he would have an easier time pulling this off.” Then her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

  It’s like a slap in the face. I know she’s trying to hide her interest in Jack—but maybe she’s also trying to ignore the subject. She could be shifting the focus of her interest from getting into his pants to getting to the truth about him. I should trust
her.

  Besides, it’s her life, not our life. “Nothing.” The coffee’s too hot; it scalds my throat as I swallow it down.

  She stares at me…and then her eyebrows go up and a teasing smirk curves her lips. “Are you getting jealous of one of our subjects there, Dave?”

  I snort. It’s really pretty tough to stay pissed off at her. “I’m not jealous.”

  “Coulda’ fooled me.” Her lips quirk, and the teasing expression leaves her face. “Seriously, David, the guy might be eye candy, but so what? You stared at Gabby’s ass almost constantly when she was showing us up to our room, and you didn’t hear me complaining.”

  Now her voice has an edge to it, and my ears start to prickle as my anger melts. Oh yeah. Gabby.

  The desk clerk, a petite blonde with a tight little skier’s body, was a welcome sight after driving up from New York City.

  And I sure did get an eyeful as she was leading us up to our room. I just forgot that Andi would probably notice.

  “Okay, okay,” I concede, backing down a little reluctantly. “I’m not a hypocrite. And I wonder about Jack’s involvement in all this, too. I’ve also got a lot of unanswered questions about him and his dad in general.”

  Am I salvaging the conversation? I think I am. But deep down, I can still feel that bit of honest jealousy simmering away, making me wary every time she looks in Jack’s direction.

  “That’s fair enough. I do, too. In fact, I wonder about a lot of people in this town. I’m still not sure how so many of them can be treating this…phenomenon like it’s just business as usual.”

  She takes a swallow of coffee and looks over as a new family comes through the glassed-in lobby beside the breakfast room. I follow her glance as the family of four moves in a huddle toward the reception desk.