I shook my head. “No, that would be way too obvious. You forget, he knows what I look like because my head shots are all over my social media. I’ll just write to him and arrange a meeting. I’ve got my big girl panties on. We have to meet in order to see if there’s any chemistry.”
“You have to meet him,” Poppy insisted. Her face was alight, practically glowing with my revelation. I pulled the letter out again, unfolding it.
“He has such a way with words,” I said, staring at her as she read it. “I’m scared he’ll give me a run for my money.”
Poppy snorted. “He’s an actor. Aren’t actors all deep, great romantics drawing on their deepest, darkest emotions?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, finishing my third mug of coffee. “They don’t actually run around in downtown Aurora. I’m not sure I’ve ever met an actor, but they’re probably dramatic.”
I scanned the letter again, taking in his blue ink and neat cursive writing. It was so much better than mine. Used to typing, I always wrote written words like each one had been an afterthought, shoved together with run on sentences and scratched out words. He wrote in an effortless style, like he had taken years to think of precisely which words would go in precisely which order, almost like an ornate piece of art.
I was a storyteller, but with my books, I had time to think and edit, my laptop always open. The letters were much more spontaneous than that. I liked the spontaneity, but I wondered what he really thought of me. Men weren’t my normal reader. A small part of my brain screamed out for attention, telling me in bright, red warning lights that the guy was yanking my chain.
“I hope it works out for you,” Poppy said, “and please tell me when you meet him. I want to know. I’m invested.” If she was envious, even slightly jealous, she didn’t show it. She finished her coffee and took the letter from my hands again, reading it.
It felt weird sharing something that had been so private to me for so long. I knew Poppy would understand, that she would talk me into doing the right thing. Or the wrong thing for all the right reasons. Sometimes with Poppy, I couldn’t tell. But her heart was in the right place.
“I know you’re invested,” I teased, “why do you think I told you? I had to bounce it off my bestie.”
“You know,” Poppy exhaled an exasperated sigh, “I made a mark in my calendar the last time I went on a date. It’s been two months.”
It had been far longer for me, but I didn’t want to admit it. My face flushed with embarrassment at the thought alone. I was such a fraud. A well–known romance author who wrote flowery words, and she had no idea if they were even true. And panty–dropping passion. Hell to the no. I had mostly been pouring my energies into my book, but then Tristan had written to me, and it seemed as if my pussy had finally awakened with some initial tingles.
“Anyway, I decided something recently,” she declared after an unusual pause.
No doubt Poppy’s monumental decision had come at around three in the morning after making some type of mistake. I had let my attention drift out the window as my mind drifted to my not so secret admirer. I pictured Liam Hemsworth in my mind’s eye.
As I daydreamed, I noticed the beauty of the day, summer glory just on the brink of fall. The leaves hadn’t started to turn yet, but a brisk chill hung in the air, one that warranted a little heavier jacket, and one that signaled the changing of the seasons. A renewal. It was my favorite time of the year, and I cherished watching mothers pushing strollers, and men and women walking arm and arm through the gently falling leaves in vibrant hues of red and orange.
“What decision?” I asked, dragging my eyes from the tranquil scene just outside the plate glass picture window and back to Poppy.
“I’m done with sleeping around,” she declared and leaned back in her chair, her fingertips pressed to her temples. On the outside, she looked defiant and strong, but her eyes told a different, sadder story. “From now on, I’m waiting for the right man. Please tell me there’s a right man out there, Lydia?”
“That’s a noble decision,” I said with a wink and a smile. I had no idea if the one even existed, but since I wrote about it daily, I thought it best to ride the train of fantasy to the bitter end.
“I want kids and a husband, Lydia,” Poppy said in a whisper as if admitting the fact out loud was something to be ashamed of. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m not getting any younger. Why, oh why do I have to live in this youth and beauty obsessed city? All I want is a nice man to settle down with and adore, and all I can find are narcissistic corporate raiders.”
I shrugged and took a swig of my coffee. I didn’t have an answer for that. Truly, I didn’t know. I wanted the same things for myself, but I’d been unlucky in love. It wasn’t for the lack of trying, not for the endless blind dates, the Internet profiles. It just wasn’t working. At least, not until recently. I hoped and prayed something positive would come of my written flirtation.
“Good luck,” I said, “please tell me you won’t be online dating.”
“God, no.” Poppy leaned forward again. “There are a couple of promising options at work though. There’s Charles, who has that whole British thing going for him. Or Jake, who is young but cute and looks like he might want a one–way ticket to Cougarville. There are options out there in the flesh not hiding behind a Nigerian money scam.” Poppy dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin, ever so ladylike. I had less decorum when I wiped my mouth with mine.
This felt like the beginning of a truly great saga. Once she started dating in earnest, I pictured multiple hilarious dating mishaps I could work into my manuscripts. When life imitates art. There had to be a book already about that. I dug into my bag, pulling out my debit card. Poppy did the same, telling our young server to split it down the middle.
We walked out together, sliding on sunglasses, and adjusting our coats. I turned my face to the sun, knowing that within a couple of months I’d be seeing my own breath. Poppy and I walked to the corner together, then she would catch the subway uptown, and I would hoof it back to my little apartment.
During the short walk, I wrote my next letter to Tristan in my mind. I moved as quickly as I could down the sidewalk. Fully preoccupied in my romantic thoughts, I tried to record the details of the perfect prose to be used later when I put pen to paper.
There was something so surreal about the situation, and even though I had one of the letters in my bag, I still couldn’t believe it was happening. To me. When I got to my apartment, I dumped my bag on the kitchen counter, hanging my jacket up on the hook by the door. I sat at the little desk that faced the window with the best views of the city and pulled my notebook toward me. I picked up my favorite pen, a Mont Blanc from my mom celebrating my college graduation, and started with today’s date.
Then I stared at the paper, my thoughts swirling. All of my prior thoughts fled like fall leaves on a stiff breeze.
Where to begin?
Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed.
But pride…where there is a real superiority of mind,
pride will always be under good regulation.
– Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter 2
Callum
I reviewed the plan one more time, a true study in real estate perfection. If I could reach that far around, I’d pat myself on the back for thinking of it. Papers littered the workspace, splayed out in front of me, months of toil on a project that really was a labor of love.
Nolan Banks, my coworker and owner of Banks Realty, sat across from me, a Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and the final plans for the theater in the other. He nodded, evidently impressed. There had been silence in my office, hidden in the back corner, for nearly half an hour while he looked through every piece of paper I had.
I glanced out the window at the obstructed view. Nolan, Chase, and Charlie had the best offices on the executive floor. I guessed I shouldn’t complain. I was paid well and treated fairly at Banks. Grantham Banks even encouraged Pro Bono projects to
improve the philanthropic image of the company. Still, Nolan’s silence grated on my last nerve. He had a special skill of a stellar poker face when it came to business, not giving away any of his thoughts. He left me to stand and suffer as I watched him going over the plans. Every few seconds, he’d sip on his latte that some poor intern had fetched him. I checked my phone a couple of times, just out of sheer awkwardness.
He flipped through the pages of the folder, as he had done a couple of times already. Nolan looked relaxed, leaning back in the soft leather chair, an ankle over one knee. His black shoe gleamed under the fluorescent lighting.
Nolan didn’t speak while reading, and his lips were pressed into a tight line. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t make any comments. It was enough to drive me insane. I didn’t speak up, not wanting him to lose his place and have to start over. Probably not wanting to break the stilted silence like a toddler looking for approval from his daddy. I needed to remain resolved. Astute. A couple more minutes of silence, then he shut the manila folder he held and tossed it back onto my desk.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice calm in spite of my nervous energy.
It felt like my entire career rode on the success of my first vanity project. The crew wanted to break ground, and if something stupid prevented it, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to fix it in time. He let me hang in silence for another long moment, taunting me, teasing me.
“These look great,” he said, tenting his fingers in front of his nose and nodding, “because it’s the King James, right?”
“Yes.” It took everything inside of me not to sag in relief. “It’s right next to the Nederlander. Across the street from it, actually.”
“I think I’ve been there,” Nolan said. “Pretty cool place.”
“It was an opera house in the late 1800s, then in the 1920s, it became a vaudeville theater.”
I had spent so much time and energy learning about the King James, it seemed I could spit data and attributes about it in my sleep. It felt good to share every fact I knew with Nolan, who actually gave a shit. His bottom line depended on the success of the project. And Anne Banks loved anything that showcased her charitable works.
“It only really produced plays starting in the late 1990s, but it hasn’t been used in years. The last show was some awful tragedy about a boat. Some pretentious version of The Old Man and the Sea, I think. We’re going to build up, then add seats and a balcony. I’m looking to double the number of seats.” I couldn’t keep the ring of pride out of my voice.
The modest King James was a smaller theater, tucked away between all of the true Broadway theaters, getting lost in the shuffle. A stunningly beautiful work of art, but faded, just past its prime, boasting only about two hundred and fifty seats.
I wanted to make it the premiere Broadway Theater before the next Tony Awards. I had been in the planning stages for this project for a lot longer than I liked to admit. Because, well… I had a personal interest in the theater community. I wanted to make sure that it was perfect before showing anyone. It had been such a hard secret to keep. The only person who knew was my actor brother, Tristan. And he had suggested the theater in the first place, so that didn’t count anyway.
“When there aren’t plays in production,” I continued, “we could hold poetry readings and other types of concerts. Maybe get the New York Philharmonic Orchestra to play. The stage should be big enough. And maybe weddings and other events, if there’s a demand. The facility also has a nice reception room that could host a good–sized catering hall.”
A smile tugged at Nolan’s lips. I had given it a lot of thought, and since producing shows could be such a precarious business, I decided that we needed something else as a back–up. I was almost sure that we wouldn’t break even if it were solely a Broadway theater, so many shows barely recouped. But with other events, we stood a chance.
“Mother would love that,” Nolan said.
Nolan’s mother, Anne Banks, a nosy and overbearing woman, ruled the current NYC charity and philanthropic circle. I knew my project would appeal to her ostentatious personality. The King James was almost as gaudy as the woman herself. She almost dominated the social whirl. Her influence would mean a lot, and Nolan and I both knew it.
If my new theater could benefit Anne, that became a plus. The support of Mrs. Banks meant more money backing the project and more publicity. Nolan handed the plans back to me. We had talked about everything it seemed – building time, building plans, budget, everything that needed his input. I couldn’t believe that it was actually happening. Nolan sipped from his coffee cup, his attention diverted to the bright sunshine just outside of my office window. I focused on rearranging the folders on my desk. Everything for this project had been kept neat and organized. I hadn’t wanted to lose anything. Nothing would slip through the cracks on my watch.
Nolan looked back, his intense eyes boring into me. He had this way of making me feel like a specimen under a microscope. I straightened my posture, intent not to squirm
“Why this?” Nolan asked. After so many weeks of planning, of preparation, it was the first time he’d asked about my personal feelings.
“My brother is an actor,” I said, giving him the bare data. That part was easy to explain. The other part… that proved more difficult, so I kept it to myself. “I guess I just saw the opportunity and took it.”
Nolan nodded, content with that explanation. “Do we want to stick with the King James as a name?” Nolan asked. “It has a lot of nostalgia and history around it. It’s tough to say if re–branding is a good business decision in this situation.”
I pulled out a folder containing my research on that very subject. “I have a couple of ideas about it.”
“We aren’t naming it The Markham, are we?” Nolan’s gentle, teasing question caused a smile to tug at my lips. I’d never once considered naming the theater project after myself. “Then again, on second thought, that would really piss off my mother. And as you know, yanking her chain is one of my favorite pastimes. And my father’s.”
“That thought didn’t even cross my mind,” I said.
I flipped through a couple of folders and pulled out a piece of paper where the art department had completed a 3D rendering of what the new marquee would look like. I turned the piece of paper over to him, and he picked it up, appraising the drawing with eagle eyes.
“The Cordoza?” His eyes flicked from the paper, back to me, and back to the paper. “What’s the story there?” I couldn’t come up with a ready answer, so I stayed silent and let the moment pass between us.
“Amelia,” I said after several seconds ticked by, “she was an old friend.”
That simple answer hit close enough to the truth, and I figured that he wouldn’t pry due to our strictly professional relationship.
“I’m sure this Amelia person would love the idea of a theater named after her. Don’t all girls love musicals?” Nolan asked. “You’ll have to invite her to the opening. Tell her to wear her favorite little black dress.”
I felt like a knife had been plunged into my chest after the murderer singed the steely blade over an open flame. I swallowed hard, keeping my face and tone carefully neutral. “Oh, she died a few years ago.”
Nolan’s eyes met mine, and in that moment, empathy filled his. Like he understood everything without any further words between us. He didn’t ask for an explanation or a longer version of the story.
That story was still painful to talk about. I knew he wouldn’t pry, and I was grateful for that. Nolan handed back the rough drawing, and I placed it carefully back into the folders.
“I feel like we should be popping some champagne.”
I smiled. Nolan liked any excuse to drink. He worked hard but played just as hard. He had been a true party guy before he managed to settle down. In the months after getting married, I had seen him really grow and develop, not only as a businessman, but as a friend as well. We had never had the warmest relationship, but I hoped that that was be
hind us. I really liked Nolan and admired his business acumen. In spite of having his name on the door, he possessed a stellar work ethic and knew the real estate business inside and out.
“Congratulations. I’m sure The Cordoza will be a great success with you at the helm.”
“Thank you.” I sure hoped so. I was pouring everything I had into this theater, for Amelia, for my brother. It was a big project, my biggest to date, and both nerves and excitement battled within me.
“And Callum… I’d take it as a personal favor if you let my mother think she’s more important than she actually is. It will keep her nose out of bigger deals.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Give me a list of your mother’s charity organizations, and I’m sure we could set something up. Don’t worry. I’ll keep her busy and entertained.”
He opened his mouth to reply when a light knock sounded at the door. We both looked up and Charlie Banks, neé de Monaco, sauntered in. She kissed her husband on the cheek and braced herself on my desk. We’d gone out on one date back in the day, but it had been obvious that Charlie loved Nolan, even then. I still admired and respected her as the infallible VP of legal at Banks.
“What are we looking at?” she asked. I handed her one of the files, and she looked it over. “Oh, right. The new theater. This was a great idea, Callum,” she said, looking at me with warmth in her eyes, “maybe it’ll launch the next Hamilton.”
Charlie had had her own pet project, a low–income housing development that she had worked on. She was the first person I approached about my theater project, wanting to get her advice. She loved it when I’d mentioned it, and I knew that it was something I wanted to do.
“You’re a woman obsessed,” Nolan said. “With… a uniform wearing antique from the bygone era when your incredibly hot husband is within touching distance.”
She faked a swoon and batted her eyelashes at Nolan. “Girls love a man in uniform, even if he’s from the eighteen hundreds.”
Nolan snorted but waggled his eyebrows a few times. “I could put on a uniform.”
Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 2
