Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  William snorted. “Oh, and who would I fire when this has nothing to do with me or my crew? This is the fault of the home office, remember?”

  I paused. I didn’t know. I exhaled, trying to compose myself, and stuck my hands in the pockets of my coat. I took another deep breath and stubbed the toe of my Italian leather loafer into the boards below me.

  “Okay, I’m overreacting.” It was the overstatement of the century. And it seemed my personal cross to bear in life was to always be misunderstood.

  William sighed, arms crossed over his beer gut. I always got a distinctly paternal feeling from the man, but I wasn’t sure why. Like he wanted to break into a lecture and had to struggle to keep from indulging himself.

  “We’re doing our best here, Mr. Markham. You won’t find a better crew or a better price in this city. Which is why I’ve been employed as a main contractor with Banks since the eighties.”

  He was right. Banks Realty had worked mostly with William’s company for a long time. There was a sense of loyalty, a bond I couldn’t break. And I shouldn’t. I needed to buck up and suck it up. Maybe I needed to get laid. I hadn’t had much desire since Charlie Banks told me to go take a flying leap. Perhaps it was time to get back out there and fuck off some of this worthless tension. Just as long as doing so didn’t get me embroiled in some woman’s delusional fantasies involving her emotions.

  I nodded and slapped a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Keep me updated, please. We do need to pick up the pace on this.”

  “Of course, Mr. Markham. We’ll seize every opportunity to move things forward and pick up speed. You can count on it.”

  I wasn’t just anxious to see the project finished, I was excited. The theater held so much potential, and I brimmed with excitement to see it resuscitated, not continue the slow death it had endured up to this day.

  “Thank you, William. Have a nice day.”

  The pleasantry felt like a barb after our heated conversation. I’d made him defensive, and I prided myself on avoiding that very thing. I had done an awful job at not taking my anxiety and anger out on the construction crew. I left the stage, going to inspect the audience seating when my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the ID. Tristan. I had half a mind to ignore the call, but I took it, seating myself in the plush, red velvet seat, and snuggling into the welcoming cushion. My body steeled for the debate ahead.

  “What’s up, Tristan?” I asked in way of a greeting.

  My relationship with my brother was rocky at best. We had never been close because of our night and day differences. Back in high school, I’d seen him endure some awful bullying since he’d been a geeky theater kid. His freshman year, he’d been hazed by being suspended over the second floor stairwell by his ankles and ended up in the ER with a severe panic attack. My mom had never let me forget it, swearing I should have intervened. And I hadn’t. I’d just stood there and watched it all. Between Tristan’s anger, our mother’s passive aggressive rancor and my own guilt, I felt like I still owed him something positive to assuage my regret. I’d been trying for years but this theater project provided just the ticket out of family purgatory.

  Hell, I just didn’t get Tristan, and I probably never would. He spent his days pretending to be someone he wasn’t, and I was trying to make the world a better place. A saw buzzed in the background, and the rapid talking in a proper British accent floated over the line. He must have been in his current theater because I could barely make him out. I heard the high–pitched laugh of a girl, and I used my free hand to plug my other ear.

  “How is the theater looking?” Tristan asked. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. It may have been his idea, but this wasn’t his project. I was under zero obligation to keep him in the loop. If he hadn’t been accountable for eight performances a week during his play’s current run, he’d probably be here now breathing down my neck.

  “It’s going fine,” I said, keeping my voice calm. With the combination of his background noise and the construction around and above me, I felt the need to yell.

  “Do you know when it will be done?” Tristan whined. He had never been that patient of a person. Tristan believed that he deserved great things, and he never wanted to wait for them. Or earn them.

  “Soon,” I barked. I didn’t want to give him an actual date because he would hold me to that. With my brother, it was easier to deal in hypotheticals than to deal with the fallout if he didn’t get his way.

  “Good, because I need a new play and soon. I need the momentum,” Tristan said. “This could be the turning point in my career. Don’t let me down, bro.”

  I’d fucking love to let him down. Maybe off the side of the high–rise just down the street. I took a deep breath, trying to take the high road.

  “Momentum for what?” I asked, ignoring the punch in the gut our conversation caused.

  Tristan puffed out a breath. “You know I’m planning to move to Hollywood. I really want to be an action star. I want to do movies. I told you the last time we had dinner at the parents. I can’t do that without the new theater. You know opening night will be epic.”

  I didn’t remember any planned move to Hollywood, but it was entirely possible I hadn’t been listening. We barely spoke, but he liked to think that I knew everything about him, even though I didn’t. I pressed two fingers to my temples. I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, as it often did when I talked to my brother. He was so demanding, so self–centered. So delusional.

  So fucking not me.

  “It will?” I asked, more as a dig than any real concern.

  I heard the audible sound of a door shutting before he continued. I could appreciate his passionate ambition, but not the means to the end. His bad qualities, cultivated by an inordinate amount of indulgence, outweighed his perseverance.

  “It will, and you damn well know it,” he clipped, his voice quieter now. “And starring in the first show in the new theater would practically write my ticket to LA.”

  “So, you want to leverage the Banks social network as well as our parents?” I asked.

  Of course that’s what he wanted. He didn’t answer for a long moment, and I knew that I had caught him. “You know that I went to law school, and I made something of myself. I’ve never ridden the familial coattails. You should do the same thing. I don’t know why you’d want to depend on the name of your parents for the rest of your life.”

  “We’re filthy rich, Callum. Don’t tell me you haven’t walked through a shitload of doors that opened because of it. If that’s what you’re selling; I’m not buying.”

  I didn’t know why his present bad attitude surprised me because I’d been dealing with it since he could talk. Tristan was content to do as little work as possible to get what he wanted. That hadn’t changed. When he went off to college, my mom and I had hoped for the best, but any growth or maturity hadn’t materialized. My parents still paid his rent, and God knows what else.

  “Listen,” I said. “The crew just got started, and a project of this magnitude takes time. Or, did you want to fall through the rotted out floorboards during your curtain call? Be fucking patient.”

  “You know,” Tristan said, his voice taking on a threatening tone. “If you don’t get this done, maybe I’ll call Andy Cohen and get on The Real Housewives of NYC.”

  I blinked. What the fuck was he talking about? I frequently crossed paths with the cast of the reality show during charity functions, but I hadn’t been made aware Tristan did the same.

  “You’d embarrass the family because you have to delay your personal gratification for the good of this project?” I asked. “Does your new girlfriend know you’re a douche?”

  “I would,” Tristan said without a moment of hesitation while ignoring the second part of my question. He was so self–absorbed. He wanted his way and as soon as possible. If we didn’t look so much alike, I’d swear he’d been adopted.

  “Mom will despair of you ever growing up,” I said.
>
  Tristan countered immediately. “She did that a long time ago.”

  “We’re getting it done, and I’ll keep you updated.” I suddenly had the desire to drown myself in a large vat of coffee. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Fine,” Tristan said and hung up without saying goodbye.

  With great reluctance, I pulled myself from the seat, shoving my phone back into my pocket. Every conversation with my brother managed to exhaust me.

  Coffee seemed vital.

  My favorite coffee house, Grounds Zero, was located near where the twin towers fell. The doorbell chimed as I entered. The wind whipped around my shoulders, ruffling my hair, and pushing me forward as the warmth and aroma of the interior hit me in the face. Practically empty inside, I glanced around, surprised since the place normally bustled with customers any time of the day or evening.

  I ordered their biggest possible dark roast, wishing I had brought a book with me or something. I still liked the feel of the weight of a book in my hands and hadn’t succumbed to the allure of the Kindle app. Right now, I’d become engrossed in an enthralling biography, and I wanted to finish it.

  Only light conversation and typing permeated the atmosphere. My head calmed down, and I could hear myself think again for the first time since I’d entered the theater. I’d wanted to get away from the madness of the city, and Grounds Zero provided the perfect place to recharge and unwind before heading back to the office. I watched a couple of mommies hold a table in the corner hostage with their babies, thankfully both asleep, rolling their strollers back and forth as they chatted in soft voices.

  I breathed a deep sigh when the barista called my name. I took my cup and turned to find a spot. A ray of sunshine beamed in through the plate glass picture window, and I headed in that direction until a bowed head made me stop short.

  In the corner, right where I’d wanted to settle in, was the girl from the park. Tristan’s girlfriend. I knew she didn’t see me, so intent on her note writing that her lips remained pursed in concentration. She glanced up and stared out of the window, a pen in her auburn hair, tapping another pen against her lips.

  I hadn’t really wanted to look at her when we met, but now that I had the time to observe her undetected, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. The woman was drop–dead gorgeous with her silky hair catching the sun while her full lips wrapped around her ballpoint. Her full breasts heaved underneath her t–shirt as she exhaled and started writing again. I stared at her for a couple of moments, trying to figure out what to do.

  I wanted to ignore her, but I couldn’t. My heart pounded against my chest wall, and I continued forward as if the woman had an invisible electronic pull drawing me to her. She hadn’t seen me, I was sure of it. She seemed like she was deep into her own thoughts, by the way she tapped her pen against her lips. She had a notebook on the table in front of her and a large cardboard cup in her hand. She looked as if she’d prepared to spend the rest of the day in that cozy spot. I felt a flicker of envy.

  Just like my airheaded brother to date another unemployed person.

  I wasn’t going to interrupt her. I was still wound up from the call with Tristan. I wondered what she saw in him besides wanting to ride his coattails. Maybe she was a model or another actress masquerading as a waitress. Sliding into a seat a few feet away, I pulled my phone out. I didn’t need to be back at work for a while, and I could take my time. It was nice to get away from the office, which was why I’d chosen to inspect the theater progress myself rather than sending one of my staff. I had been spending so much time at Banks I’d almost forgotten the color of the daytime sky.

  I tried to push everything from my mind; my brother, and the progress on the theater. I needed to take some time to recharge. I needed to take some time away. Sipping deeply on my dark roast with cream, I resisted the pull to open my work e–mail. No. I leaned back on the comfy armchair and inhaled, clamping my eyes shut.

  I still loved the atmosphere of coffee shops, always liked watching the people there while trying to imagine what they were working on. Writers? Businessmen? Students? They seemed to be closed off in their own little world, separate from the rest of the universe.

  Today, each time I opened my eyes, I felt them drifting back and forth to the girl in the window. Why the hell would she date my immature brother? She seemed so together. She still hadn’t noticed me, now writing frantically in the notebook in front of her. I wondered about the words on the page as her pen furiously swayed back and forth. The curiosity overwhelmed me, and before I censored myself, I stood and approached her table.

  “I’m sorry, excuse me. It’s Lydia, right?” She looked up, her eyes taking me in before sparking with recognition. Her expression remained pleasant and open. Hopefully, Tristan hadn’t told her about our strained relationship and that he hated me.

  “Tristan’s brother? Callum?”

  I nodded, not really sure why I felt so compelled to talk to her. Everywhere her emerald green gaze flittered, I tingled. I shook my head. I should have stayed at my table. I could feel my heart beating a rapid rhythm as she looked me up and down. I gripped my cup tighter so my hand wouldn’t shake. She gave me a small smile, and I felt it hit me in the groin.

  Fuck it, Callum. You need to stop this shit. This woman belongs to your brother.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked and could hear the sharp tone in the words. “I come to this coffee house a few times a week, and I’ve never seen you before.”

  She straightened her shoulders and tapped her pen on the table. “Working. I’m an author, actually.”

  A pause. I hadn’t known that. There was no possible way I could have known that. That answer tempted me to walk away. Another shallow creative type just like Tristan. No wonder they’d gotten together. So much for her mind being deep in thought about anything of consequence. Before she verified it, I knew she wrote romance. Typical woman with her head in the clouds instead of on solid earth where it belonged.

  Her deep green eyes ran over my suitcoat, and I felt an unexpected thrill of delight rush through my body as they settled on my midsection.

  “Oh,” I said, not sure what else would be appropriate. I didn’t want to talk about her frivolous career choice, and I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about my dipshit brother.

  “Listen, I won’t bother–”

  “Do you want to–”

  Our words collided together, and we both laughed.

  “Sit?” she finished her question, waving at the seat across from her with a flourish of her elegant hand. She closed the notebook in front of her, and I agreed, not wanting to appear rude, and slid into the seat across from her.

  “I like being in coffee shops to get my initial thoughts on paper, especially around my plot outline,” she continued. She put her pen down and looked at me. I wasn’t too sure what to say, but she continued talking so I didn’t have to. “After that, I just go home and type it all up into something more organized.”

  My eyes flicked down to her fingers toying with her pen, and my cock twitched. For the first time in over a year. Damn it. Why did it have to pick this moment to come back to life? “That’s interesting.”

  I wanted to know what she’d written today if only to assuage my curiosity and emerge victorious about my judgmental stereotype of her, but I didn’t want to cross a line. Maybe the answer would come out organically over the course of our conversation. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips and took a delicate sip.

  “I’m reading a biography right now,” I offered. She smiled gently. She had a beautiful smile with straight, white teeth and a dimple in her cheek. My hand itched to reach out and finger it. I almost sat on them to keep them from doing something inappropriate.

  “Oh, I mainly write fiction,” she said. “I never really have the patience to read about other people’s lives. I prefer writing about my characters so their lives can play out on the page. You know, sometimes I don’t even realize where my story went until I’m in the editing phase
.”

  I nodded. That was understandable. Once again, I wondered what she saw in my brother, I wondered what he was to her. She was gorgeous, kind, down to earth, the polar opposite to my brother’s dramatic ways. A breath of fresh air. Probably an introvert who just capitulated to Tristan’s every whim and handed over the spotlight.

  I raised my cup to my lips as we fell into silence again.

  “What are you writing?” The question, the one that begged to be asked, tumbled out before I could stop it. She laughed softly, bringing a furious blush to her cheeks.

  Her answering grin proved infectious, and defenses obliterated, I returned it with one of my own.

  I always believe in first impressions and his good opinion once lost is lost forever. So you see, it is a hopeless case, is it not?

  – Elizabeth Bennet

  Chapter 6

  Lydia

  I’d chosen Grounds Zero because I needed a change of pace from my apartment. I loved writing in a coffee shop, letting the words free–flow from my brain to the paper before going home to type them up. In the couple of weeks I’d been in the city, I had fallen into a pleasant little rut of delicious beverages along with focused plotting. Proud of myself for getting work done, I grinned and snuggled deeper into my leather chair.

  This particular afternoon, I sat in the corner of the coffee shop, one headphone in my ear while the noise of the coffee shop tinkled around me. White noise – a writer’s friend. I’d made progress into the first book, and that heartened me since Poppy cracked the whip all the time, giving me strict deadlines.

  Work slowed down because I kept staring out the window, trying to think, put the pieces together. The sun shone a vibrant golden hue outside the plate glass picture window even though fall had settled into NYC. I tamped down the longing to be outside and turn my cheeks to the wind.

  I sipped my latte and tapped my pen against my lips. I whispered the words I had just written to myself, trying to figure out how I wanted the current scene to develop. I had an appearance later that day, and I wanted to tell my fans good news and perhaps even give them a few paragraphs as a teaser. They were ravenous, and I enjoyed all of our banter via Facebook and Twitter, but this time, I wanted to read an actual excerpt.