Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  "Surprised?" Tristan asked. I took the flowers from him, inhaled their aromatic fragrance and he popped the bottle of champagne.

  "To say the least," I said, "is this even legal?" His smile turned from charming to cunning. A little bit of the delight left his eyes at my question. I don’t think Tristan liked being challenged in any way.

  "Don't worry about it," Tristan said.

  "Aren't you doing a show later tonight?" I asked.

  "Don't worry about it, gorgeous girl," Tristan repeated. “This night is only about you and me.”

  I stared at him for a long second, unable to imagine him taking a night off and giving any of the limelight to his understudy. This was too much. I had never been one for big public spectacles, and this was so over the top. It felt touristy. And I’m a native New Yorker. All I needed was a selfie stick and a spotlight to make the surreal moment complete. I felt like I’d stumbled into some alternate Disney universe where the princess had a thicker waist and unruly auburn curls.

  I wasn't sure how to communicate my embarrassment and discomfort without seeming bitchy and selfish. I had no idea how he could manage something of this magnitude since he claimed himself a starving artist. I knew, somewhere, that I was supposed to be charmed, flattered. Any girl would love this, and while part of me did, the part that wanted to bloom like a spring flower basking in the warm sun, an even larger part said stop the presses. Something was off. Not right. Another shiver crept up the back of my spine even though I’d grown toasty warm underneath the blankets.

  He draped an arm around me, pulling me close. I sipped from my champagne glass. The effervescent bubbles tickled my nose and the roof of my mouth. I ran my tongue along my teeth, desperate to rein in my roiling feelings. I knew I shouldn't have mixed alcohol with an empty stomach, but I was determined to enjoy this and set my feelings aside for Tristan’s sake.

  "You don't do anything half–way, do you?" I asked, snuggling deeper into the cushioned bench seat.

  I curled up, putting my head on his shoulder. People stared as we trotted past, moving out of the way of the draft horses. As my mind raced, I tried to enjoy the passing scenery. I could feel the breeze hitting my face and, for a couple of moments, I concentrated on dragging deep breaths into my lungs. Nothing I did eased my anxiety.

  I had to have been overreacting.

  "Simple isn't in my vocabulary," Tristan told me, spearing me with a gaze. “Look, Lydia, you're in the big leagues now." I giggled, but only because I thought I should. My stomach flipped and I really felt like throwing up.

  "People are staring." I felt the need to point that out. Outside of appearances for my books, I didn’t seek the spotlight. I didn't like the fact that everyone on the path not hustling to their next destination had cast their scrutiny in our direction. Judging us. Creating a story inside their heads that may or may not be true. Tristan was used to it. He spent all of his time under the public microscope, so I figured he thrived on it and just assumed everyone else felt the same way.

  "Then I think we should give them something to stare at." His grin turned wicked as he leaned in for a kiss. I let him kiss me, even though the prospect of people watching us made my stomach turn over again and not with pleasure.

  Nothing happened when he kissed me this time. I thought I would feel a rush, heat in my veins. A swirl of Monarch butterflies flitting from bloom to bloom. Nothing. His lips were warm and moist but they did absolutely zero to incite any passion inside my body. I reared back in surprise, hoping I didn’t have a patronizing expression on my face. In spite of the lack of sparks, I didn’t want to offend him after he’d gone out of his way to be so gallant.

  His free hand moved to the small of my back, pulling me closer when all I wanted to do was protect the space between us. I could feel my heart racing in shock and annoyance, so I stiffened just a tad. The defensive move sent a look of alarm to his chiseled features.

  "What’s wrong?" His voice had dropped to an incredibly sexy whisper, and passed near my ear. The man could act. His tone and inflection perfect in every situation. I started to suspect I’d been unwillingly cast in a reality show that I wanted no part of. Every encounter we’d had perfectly set up like a scene in a scripted rom–com. I didn't have an answer so I improvised.

  "Later. I mean, not here," I said, evading the inevitable. I’d have to tell this gorgeous and sexy man I just wasn’t that into him. Honesty was the best policy but not in this moment. I’d seen glimpses of his anger and it frightened me. What if I told him the truth and he set me on the curb miles away from my apartment? I didn’t usually carry much cash with me if I wasn’t expecting to hail a cab. I’d had my purse snatched years ago right in the middle of a crowded street. I’d lost hundreds and learned that lesson the hard way.

  I pulled myself away from him so I could look into his eyes, trying to gauge his headspace. We faced each other, wrapped in our own little personal bubble.

  “Lydia?” Tristan’s expression drooped as if he’s just heard about the death of his puppy. I sighed, knowing that I’d caused it by my strange and unexpected reaction to his dream date.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, knowing he valued all of the attention on him.

  “I thought it would be cool to show you the theater project at the King James,” he responded, a smile touching his lips but not yet reaching his dejected eyes.

  I wondered if I should mention seeing Callum at Grounds Zero but I had seen the way they had reacted toward each other so decided against it. Tristan’s brother was in charge of the restoration. Would he be there? A shot of adrenaline coursed through my body, my nerves firing on all pistons again. Strange. Just the thought of Tristan’s surly but gorgeous brother had me tied in knots. It was the stuff of novels. Maybe I’d be inspired to solidify my next story idea.

  The words Callum had said to me just days before flooded back, painting my brain with strokes of red danger. His warning floated through my consciousness as Tristan responded, rattling on about the King James. I wasn't even listening, although I tried. I really did. How I wished Poppy were here like a little brazen angel perched atop my shoulder. She’d say, he looks good on paper, kid. Too bad he just doesn’t do it for you. Time to snip the cord. Cut his fine ass loose. I searched in vain for anything that would sort out the confusion threatening to overwhelm me. Could it be possible that things just weren’t quite as they seemed between the two men?

  Clarity fought valiantly but mystification won this battle.

  "Aren’t you excited to see it?" Tristan asked. It took me a couple of moments for me to realize that he’d asked me a question. I had completely zoned out on his conversation, but I hoped I had kept the look on my face interested enough to keep him from putting me on the spot. He had questions and I didn’t have answers. Or the courage to call this off right here in the middle of a busy New York street behind the ass of a huge draft horse trotting as if its life depended on getting its human cargo to the King James.

  “I am. I love the charm and nostalgia of a restoration project. I think it speaks to the creative in me.”

  He nodded. “So what did you do today before our date?”

  "I wrote a few thousand words. I found this great coffee shop, so I think I will be spending a lot of time there. I love it there, it's so homey and warm. And it smells divine" I said, taking a deep inhale as if I’d just beamed myself back there to savor the tantalizing aroma of dark roast and caramel. I set down my glass of champagne, my second. I needed to cool it before I blurted out something I didn’t yet know how to articulate in a way Tristan would be willing to receive the unwanted and unexpected information. I had apparently reached the level of inebriation where I couldn't stop my runaway mouth. Just as I admonished myself not to mention his brother, the words tumbled out. "I also had a nice talk with Callum the other day."

  "My brother?" Tristan asked. “You talked to my brother, Callum Markham? How the hell did that happen?”

  "We don't have any other people in common,
let alone people named Callum," I said. “It’s a pretty unusual name. The first time I’ve ever even heard it.”

  Tristan stared at me, disbelieving. Like he thought I was pulling some rude practical joke on him.

  I continued, compelled to verbalize my experience like some grade schooler with her first crush. “It was actually really civil. He's really nice. At least to me."

  "You can never talk to him again." Tristan's voice went hard and cold, as if he had quickly detached himself from the situation. From me.

  "Why not?" I asked, suddenly indignant. As a writer, it pushed all my buttons when people censured me and made unreasonable demands around what I could and could not say.

  A sprig of anger laced his tone as he leaned back in the seat, angling away from me. “Because he's jealous, and he always has been. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Lydia. He oozes charm and charisma. The kind of magnetic bullshit that makes women’s panties fall at their feet. But he’s a slut. A worthless male slut that thinks he can do whatever he wants and have whoever he wants because he’s rich and good–looking."

  I took a deep steadying breath, surprised at the vehemence behind his verbal attack of his only sibling. I had a feeling that their anger toward each other was more than just brotherly rivalry and the ghosts of the past. Something more was at play here. Something deeper.

  "That's not a reason," I said. I fell through that hazy dreamy state of my alternate universe and straight back down to the cold, hard ground.

  "It is a reason. It is," Tristan spat. We’d widened the gap between us during the course of the conversation. Anger lit his eyes and I fought the urge to give in and recoil. I set my jaw.

  Although it’s not wise to die on every hill, some faraway part of me wanted to double over and land on my sword. In defense of Callum.

  I inhaled, trying to keep myself calm. Fighting. Losing. “You have no right to tell me who I can and cannot converse with," I said. I didn't see the big deal. Why didn't he want me to be friends with his family? Was he embarrassed of me? Of my occupation? It wouldn’t be the first time a man was scared away because I made my living writing sexy books. Some people’s conservative natures didn’t allow for something like that to be public knowledge within their social network.

  Was that the reason for this mini–tirade?

  "I can if it's my brother," Tristan said, "you should listen to me. I know my brother, and you don't."

  I didn't realized I’d raised my voice until I felt a tickle in my throat that escalated into a fit of coughing. A mother jogging alongside a stroller stopped to gape, fascinated by the drama unfolding in the ‘perfect date night’ carriage. I pulled my gaze away from Tristan, unable to look at him for another second. If the horses hadn’t been moving at such a steady clip, I’d have bailed out the side door and found my way home on foot. I put more space between us as we continued down the route. I could see the newly lit marquee of the King James about two hundred yards in the distance. The white spaces blank where a future show would be highlighted along with its stars.

  Please God, get me to the King James as fast as possible so I can catch a cab and get away from this annoying and patronizing bastard. I have no idea what I ever saw in him.

  "I don't understand," I said after a few seconds had passed, unsure of what else to say that wouldn’t reduce our conversation to an all–out shouting match. Silence is golden but I couldn’t let the matter drop. If my mom were here, she’d scold me for my trademark stubbornness. I crossed my arms over my heaving breasts. Tristan turned away and stared at the passerby. So that’s how it was going to be? I refused to look at him.

  I knew I had started the pissing match, by being unable to stop myself from speaking my mind. He heaved a gigantic sigh, as if he were conceding to a petulant child.

  "I don't want to talk about this," he said. “You’re obviously not going to see reason.”

  "I do want to talk about it," I snapped. "Because clearly there is something I'm missing. Please, explain,” my voice leaked acid. I rarely ever yelled, but it seemed I was incapable of keeping my temper, “if you can.”

  The alcohol didn't help either.

  I refused to look at him as the theater loomed ahead. Anger seethed inside me. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

  "You don't know him like I do, Lydia." It was the way he said my name, voice dripping vitriol and poison, bullets designed to hit their target with deadly precision. He talked to me as if I were naïve and stupid, and he had the vast wisdom of the universe. Envy colored his tone a vibrant shade of green. "He has always been jealous of me. He has always wanted what I have, and I have you now."

  "What on earth do you mean by that?" I asked.

  A charged moment passed before he answered. “Can’t you see what’s happening, Lydia? Are you that ignorant? He's obviously using you to get to me. He's only being nice to you because he knows it will get back to me." He said it as if it were the gospel truth. As if Callum couldn't do anything without an ulterior motive that involved throwing shade at his own brother purely for sport. He was treating me like a child, someone unable to make their own decisions about people. Worse yet, he wanted to build a series of blockades between us. I knew enough of the world of relationships to know that if they started out this difficult, they weren’t right.

  I let a couple of seconds pass between us, unable to respond to his ridiculous rhetoric.

  "You can't tell me who I can and can't spend time with, that's insane. In what year, exactly, do you think we're having this conversation? Has this antique carriage transported you back to the Dark Ages? You’re not wearing chainmail, Tristan Markham!"

  "You don't know him like I do," he shouted, intent on making his point. Winning. Convincing me of his warped version of the truth. "I grew up with him. I know him in ways you will never know him. I'm doing this to protect you. Can’t you see that?"

  "Oh, yeah right," I said, "he's your brother not a common criminal. And I don’t need your protection. If I happen to see him around town, I’ll have a conversation with him whether you like it or not. Why would I be rude to an acquaintance just because you say so?" His eyes flashed with anger and then something even deeper. More sinister. I had wanted this night to go well. I had daydreamed of impressing him with talks of books and movies, had fantasized about debating the finer points of literature with someone who would appreciate the discourse.

  Something in me so desperately wanted this to work even though I knew it was destined to fail. Sometime between this moment and arrival at the King James, the budding fairytale would be over. Dead. I had wanted a man to really get me on an emotional and intellectual level. I had wanted to make that special connection leading to a future, but it seemed as if that might never happen. Was I doomed to become a wallflower, firmly on the shelf?

  "I am trying to protect you." He repeated the words in frustration, as if he couldn't believe anyone could have an opposing opinion.

  I took the bottle of champagne and refilled my glass out of spite. Then I drained it and placed the glass at my feet.

  “I don’t need your damn protection!” The bubbles had gone to my head and my anger had pierced my heart in a way I’d never felt before.

  “Yes, you do, woman!” On the strength of his shout, he slapped the front of the carriage near the shiny black horse’s rump. It snorted, reared up a few inches and took off at a canter.

  “Whoa!” The elderly driver pulled back on the reins but he was too weak to stop the horse’s frantic movements. The carriage careened from side to side.

  “Fuck you stupid tourists. Get the hell out of my city!” A business man in a pinstriped suit shouted at us and gave the middle finger salute as he jumped to safety on the sidewalk. Good grief, could this evening get any worse? As we sped toward the King James, the carriage continued to pick up speed. I clutched the seat with both hands, my knuckles turning white and burning under the effort.

  “Now look what you’ve done with your
lip, you bitch!”

  I turned my head to look at Tristan and what I saw ignited terror in my belly. His crazed eyes pierced me with a glare so lethal had it been a weapon, I’d have been run straight through. In that moment, I thought he might be capable of anything and I didn’t want to find out how far it might escalate. I had to get away from him. Forever. In my champagne induced haze, I tried to stand on my wobbly legs. A sway of the carriage shook me to my core and my legs buckled underneath me. Instead of falling back into the seat, the motion of the conveyance caused me to lose my balance and I tumbled over the side.

  “No. No. No!”

  I could feel Tristan’s hand frantically clutching my blouse as he tried to haul me back inside but the slippery fabric wouldn’t allow for a tight enough grip. I’d clamped my eyes shut against the wave of nausea and terror that overwhelmed me but when I opened them a sliver, all I could see was the pitch black of the pavement whirring by.

  Then I was falling.

  Oh, you take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.

  – Mrs. Bennet

  Chapter 8

  Callum

  I needed a book. Not just any book. Her book. So I stood inside a small independent bookstore, and while I had been browsing the new releases in biographies so as not to attract attention, I found myself in the fiction section once the coast proved clear. My shoulders tightened as unexpected nervousness assaulted me, creating a sheen of sweat on my brow. I swiped at it with the back of my hand. I wasn’t sure what caused my high anxiety. Either that I might encounter a woman in the romance section who would berate me and tell me to get the hell out of the female turf, or rash judgment by the store’s employees. Either way, uncomfortable didn’t even begin to explain my current state of turbulent emotions.

  One thing I knew for sure. My brother was a classless, clueless mother fucker who needed to be taught a lesson. Ever since we’d been kids, Tristan had done whatever he wanted without any thought to the consequences, and things tended to careen completely out of control. Just like a week ago when he’d almost killed Lydia Singleton. If I hadn’t been leaving the King James to hail a cab home at that exact minute, she’d have become a classic version of author roadkill.