Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  Take that, Mom.

  I wasn’t alone. I had a cat.

  That was a terrifying thought. If one cat turned into two or three, then I was in official trouble. Should I obtain any further pets, I’d make sure to keep my mother in the dark. I’d tell Poppy everything about my conversation with Mom over dessert and commiserate. I curled up on the sofa, pulling my laptop onto my portable memory foam desk.

  “So, how is the fanboy?” Poppy asked. “I didn’t see him today. I really thought he might show up to your signing. It would have been perfect, you know. Meeting your number one fan in your element, looking your best.”

  She had restrained herself longer than normal, even though I knew she’d been dying to ask. She toyed with her red hair, pulling a lock in front of her eyes to check for split ends.

  My browser opened to his Facebook page. I tried to finish typing the couple hundred hand written words I’d scrawled earlier, but something kept pulling me back to his profile. It felt like we had been communicating by letter for so long, it was time to move this along. After much angst and turmoil, I had deleted three messages before finally settling on the classic instant message with a little smiley face.

  “I think he was at rehearsal or something, according to this latest post,” I said, scrolling back to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

  I hadn’t known Poppy had been cyber–stalking Tristan too. I hadn’t really been stalking him today, but I had been occupied with the few hundred people who had made it to Brooklyn on a Tuesday. I didn’t want to mention that I planned to meet him in person soon, but Poppy changed the conversation so easily.

  “Let’s skip the boring convo and go straight to dessert,” Poppy announced, standing up from my desk. “My idea of a balanced diet is a piece of pie for each hand.”

  “Better pie than something… else,” I teased her with a saucy wink. “Fridge. Get two forks.”

  “I’ve never had one in each hand. Maybe you should write a book about it,” Poppy bantered back. “Ménage is all the rage right now. Bless you, Lydia, we will never pay for dessert again.”

  Along with the apple pie from this morning, I had baked a dark chocolate and raspberry filled pie the night before but hadn’t had the time to eat any. Poppy pulled one of the pies from my fridge, grabbed two forks, and crawled onto the sofa with me, curling up her long, lithe body. She rested her head on my shoulder and handed me a fork.

  “I can’t believe you wrote this much by hand,” Poppy said, picking up my notebook so she could see the words I had scrawled. “Funny how my eyes are drawn straight to the word ‘cock.’ Just how big might the impressive organ be?”

  “You would head straight to the naughty bits.”

  It was almost illegible to anyone but me. She flipped through the few pages as she scanned the prose, and I concentrated on the few words I had managed to write in my document. Poppy handed the notebook back, and I resumed my typing.

  “They really love you, you know,” Poppy said.

  Her offhand compliment soothed over me. We were feeling the soaring high of a press event that went well. There had been a line of people out the door of the bookstore, almost down the block. I was feeling good, confident.

  Loved.

  My computer pinged with a message from Facebook. No other website had the same annoying notifications. Poppy gasped, her lips filled with a mouth full of pie, and stared at my computer screen.

  I took a deep breath and leaned forward to click on the notification.

  Hello ☺

  As if they were made of ice cubes, my fingers froze over the keyboard. I knew Poppy stared at my screen and waited for me to type a reply. I took another deep breath, trying to give my brain enough oxygen for it to be creative.

  After a few blank moments, I realized that my conversation with Mom earlier had shaken me a little bit. I had my reasons for being alone, dammit. My reasons for not wanting to trust. My reasons for wanting to take things slow.

  I’d survived a bad relationship with a narcissist. I had been wide–eyed and naïve. I thought I had truly been in love, but he had seen it as an opportunity to destroy me. I had moped for months and months before pulling myself back up by my bootstraps and using my writing as a crutch. My first novel had been born of pain. I had just wanted a world where love reigned supreme, and all obstacles fell away to reveal the happily ever after. The one it looked like I wouldn’t get outside of the words on the page.

  I’d fallen out of love with him and fallen in love with writing.

  “Lydia.” Poppy’s voice, mid–chew, bought me back to the present. “Are you going to reply?”

  I flexed my fingers. “Right.”

  I’d let my thoughts get away from me again, and a wandering mind seemed to have become my latest bad habit. I pushed my hair away from my face and positioned my fingers on the keyboard. I knew Poppy wanted to speak up, to help me, but she resisted.

  Can I ask you a question?

  I hit send without thinking about it. Poppy nodded her approval. She picked up the remote to the tiny TV set that was mounted on the wall in front of us and turned it on. For the next forty–five minutes, we debated over a Marilyn Monroe flick versus You’ve Got Mail, a debate that went on so long that we eventually settled for a replay of 27 Dresses, just because it had started.

  We ate through the entire pie, and I let myself feel only slightly guilty, riding the sugar high to the bitter end. I would probably have to take a long run tomorrow to make up for it, but I deserved it after my event. I’d knocked the PR out of the park.

  “I feel like it’s fitting, seeing how you started your book at a wedding,” Poppy said, cutting through the white noise in my head as I waited on pins and needles to hear the ping again. I always gave her my books a chapter at a time for editing. Doing it that way let me concentrate on typing the words remaining in front of me.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I knew a watched browser wouldn’t ding, so I got up to make us both some peppermint tea to soothe our carbohydrate overloaded stomachs. While the kettle boiled, I pulled down two large ceramic mugs and put a tea bag in each. I could feel my body vibrating on a wing and a prayer. Would he answer me back? He had to. If he wasn’t interested in me romantically, he never would have written all those letters by hand. Right?

  I wondered if he was too busy to get back to me right away. I checked the time on the oven. The clock read eight p.m., meaning he was in the middle of the first act of the show. I had to relax. I had to let myself breathe.

  “Lydia,” Poppy called from the living room, “he said, ‘of course you can.’” Poppy used her generic boy voice, deepening it two octaves as she repeated the message. I rolled my eyes as the kettle whistled notification of the boiling water.

  “Hang on,” I called. “Tea’s ready.”

  I poured the two mugs in record time, adding a dash of cream and cocoa powder without spilling on myself. I carried them into the living room, handing one to Poppy. I set the other on the coffee table and resumed my spot on the sofa. Without giving myself the chance to chicken out, I started typing.

  “Oh my god, you’re asking him out,” Poppy squealed a little breathlessly as she read the words appearing on the screen.

  “To coffee,” I corrected, “I’m asking him to meet me for coffee.”

  Coffee felt right. Official. No one went on lunch dates and dinner seemed so formal. Nothing was worse than two people who hadn’t had much contact interviewing each other over the calamari. Plus, he worked six nights a week. I figured that it would be impossible for him to do a dinner date unless it was a Sunday, and who did dinner on Sunday?

  I typed the message as quickly as possible, reread it to make sure I didn’t seem desperate and hit send. I could feel my heartbeat reverberate through my body, thudding through my chest, into my head, fingers, and toes.

  Please, say yes.

  “Take a deep breath.” Since Poppy was my best friend, I knew she could sense that the freak out meter
had risen to a ten on the scale. I concentrated on filling my lungs with air, holding that for five seconds and releasing for ten seconds, hissing the stale air through my teeth. I’d learned the diaphragm breathing technique in yoga class, and I relied on it during times of stress along with my Austen quotes.

  “There is no way he’ll say no,” Poppy said. “He’s so into you.”

  I smiled at my best friend as she clutched her hands to her heart. She was right. Poppy managed to annoyingly be right about almost everything.

  His reply pinged back in less than a minute. He had given a time and an address to a coffee shop near his theater. I felt all the air leave me in a rush.

  I have a date!

  “You have a date,” Poppy repeated my mental celebration through bestie telepathy.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” I pushed my stupidly trembling hands through my hair. “With someone who’s already been vetted.”

  I almost couldn’t believe it. Poppy had already hopped up and was heading to my bedroom, most likely to sort through the piles of my clothes, trying to decide what I would wear. I sat immobile on the leather sofa, stunned, and stared at the neat type on my laptop.

  It finally felt real. Lydia Singleton was getting a second chance for her fairytale ending.

  I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.

  If I don’t take your likeness now,

  I might never have another opportunity.

  – Elizabeth Bennet

  Chapter 4

  Lydia

  I dressed in the Poppy–approved outfit that included a short, red cotton sundress that showed off my long legs and wildly impractical black platform heels. Kind of like an ensemble that I’d wear to a publicity event. Or a date. Scratch that because I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been out with a single man. Regardless, the colorful and flirty skirt made me feel confident.

  Beautiful even.

  I sat at a table for two, arranging my skirt in a billow of fabric around me. Since it was the middle of the day on Friday, just before the rush of initial theatergoers, I had been prepared and stuffed a notebook with a pen into my oversized tote. Even if he were late, I could make use of the time by scratching some book ideas on the paper.

  Even though my intentions were good, I couldn’t concentrate. I kept looking up every time the jingle rang out above the heavy oak door of the quiet coffee shop, like Pavlov’s dog to a bell. I tapped my pen against the page. I had only written a handful of words, a couple paragraphs of description, and… it sucked. A testament to my nerves. In an effort to calm myself, I had already consumed a large vanilla latte. Fantastic. I should have known enough to go with chamomile tea.

  Anxiety coursed through me. It had been years since I had been on a real date, not some mother initiated set–up. I found myself forgetting how to date like a normal person. I focused all of my attention back to the page in front of me, resisted the allure of the notification jingle and refused to snap my head up again. He wasn’t late. I was just early, trying to control the situation and myself as per my usual habit. And failing. It might have been better had I been fashionably late and flounced toward him in a rush of female bravado. But no. I’d insisted on being twenty minutes early and was now freaking out about it. Typical.

  I chewed the end of my ballpoint pen while I stared at the pages in front of me. Usually, the ambiance of a little café provided a perfect backdrop for quality work, but today, I felt like every molecule in my body vibrated on the highest setting. I stared at the door again, hoping it would open. Poppy had once told me that the anticipation of a date usually was better than the date itself.

  I couldn’t wait to tell her of her error in judgment. Disabuse her of that notion as I raved on and on about the success of my outing.

  I’d actually put pen back to paper and chewed on my bottom lip in concentration when he entered. Staring down at the words on the paper, I realized they made sense this time. I could use the notes to roll into a chapter outline for later.

  “You look so beautiful when you’re concentrating.” It took me a moment to realize that he stood in front of me, holding a rather extravagant bouquet of roses. Unconsciously, a smile sprang to my face. Flowers? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been the recipient of a romantic gesture by a handsome man. “Tristan Markham.”

  I rose to my feet, held out my hand in greeting, and he clasped it in his warm one. He gently leaned in and kissed my cheek. I inhaled, and my knees grew wobbly. The man smelled divine. His thick hair fell over one eyebrow and his piercing eyes looked straight through to my soul. I could feel my heart rate speed up as he reared back and smiled.

  “Lydia Singleton,” I returned. He handed me the roses, and I could feel my face ignite. The only problem with having auburn hair and fair coloring was being an easy blusher. The heat crawled up my neck to land on my cheeks. I willed my heart to stop galloping against my chest wall. We both sat, and I placed the notebook and pen back in my bag.

  “What are you working on?” His sexy voice rumbled between us, like a low purr that set something off in my body. Shit. I needed to get out more.

  “Oh, just the new book,” I said with a smile. I hoped the answer proved elusive and mysterious. I couldn’t give away too many details, or Poppy would have my head on a plate.

  “I see how it is,” he teased. I giggled like a schoolgirl, nodded, and blushed even harder.

  “How about we get some coffee and get out of here,” Tristan said, “I’m a little anxious. I get one Friday night off a month, and that’s today. A walk would do me good after being cooped up inside the theater all week. It’s very dark in there, you know.”

  Flattered that he had chosen to spend his one Friday night off with me, I grinned. An answering smile flickered onto his lips.

  “We should go to the park,” I suggested.

  The weather loomed outside in all its warm glory, and I wanted to make the most of it. I spent too much time holed up in my apartment, and I needed the fresh air too. He nodded in agreement. “That sounds perfect.”

  I felt my nerves, my tension melting away as I collected my things, placing the bouquet gently in my oversized handbag. It was important to remember to breathe, to just be myself. Poppy had given me this advice, practically talking my ear off the night before. I remained pretty nervous, but I hoped it didn’t show outside of my rosy hue.

  We exited the coffee shop and stepped into the mid–afternoon sun. Conversation flowed between us, even easier than I had imagined. We had more in common than I’d expected. After he explained it in vivid detail, I was eager to see his play, and he wanted to hear all about my latest book.

  It felt natural. It felt right.

  It felt like it could be the start of something.

  I attached my arm to his elbow, like I had seen in old movies, and I felt truly elegant as we strolled.

  “You’re so brilliant,” Tristan crooned, complimenting me as we walked down the path. Over the past ten minutes, he’d gushed a bunch of similar compliments, and I soaked them all in. It wasn’t something I was used to, but I enjoyed it. “Your books are amazing. They’d be great plays or movie scripts if you ever want to branch out.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I countered with a soft laugh. “I haven’t even made the Times best–seller list. There won’t be any movie producers calling anytime soon.”

  “Hey,” Tristan said. “I’m serious.”

  Tristan’s intelligence and imagination came through in vibrant color. It was like he could see a million different possibilities. In his presence, all was right with the world. My world. The one that could be dark and lonely as I infused all my characters with my own hopes and dreams, put pen to paper and prayed some anonymous reader would enjoy the fruits of my labor.

  I envied him his charming and free–flowing personality. Tristan Markham wasn’t tied up in knots. He didn’t appear to care about reviews or critics or his next audition. He threw himself in
to the work at hand and gave it his heart and soul. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could do the same if he loved a woman. And not just any woman.

  Me.

  “You just want to star in the stage adaptation, don’t you?” I asked with a laugh. “It’s like I infuse the character with humanity and then you bring it to life.”

  “Totally,” Tristan said, “but you’re so talented. All I do is mimic real emotion on the stage. I’m an imposter. I read Love and Loss in preparation for this play, and it was so distinctly Austen. Like you totally get her. It was as if you crawled inside her brain and stayed awhile. You’re like a modern–day Jane Austen, but way, way prettier. Stunning really.”

  I felt my cheeks flame anew. Never had a guy so thoroughly complimented my beauty and my brains. I knew I was considered attractive to the opposite sex with my unique coloring and womanly curves. But this? He was so charged, so electric, that I felt more alive simply by being near him. Tristan Markham was some kind of masculine heroine cocktail, and I wanted an IV drip of him. I found that I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “So, if you ever want to make one of those masterpieces into a play,” he continued, “let me know because I’ll be your main man.”

  You’re so damn fine, I’d like you to be my main man everywhere except in one of my literary fantasies.

  “I will make sure to do that,” I said, shaking the lustful thoughts from my head.

  Hell, I didn’t even know the guy. But after all of our written discourse, I felt like I’d known him forever. Soulmates in a past life or something. I had never considered turning my books into a play, and it was something I probably wouldn’t think about again. It was just so easy to get excited and let myself go when he brimmed with enthusiasm.

  Tristan grinned, causing a dimple to wink at me. “You’re so smart. You’re sexy as hell. How is a girl like you still even slightly single?”

  He had unknowingly walked right onto a landmine. I swallowed hard and exhaled. Good thing my mother wasn’t present to list all of the shameful reasons I’d never been able to land a man.