The Billionaire’s Promise (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance)

by Ivy Layne

  Vance raised his hands in defense and gave me his most innocent smile, all charm and sweetness.

  "I won't say another word."

  He didn't, and after a while, I forgot about the too-tight clothes, my embarrassment, and his hard cock. At first, because we did talk business during the warm-up, and business was always a good distraction. Then, once we started jogging, I couldn't think of anything but my burning muscles and my oxygen-deprived lungs.

  Why would anyone do this voluntarily? It was awful.

  Vance took me through intervals of walking and jogging that he told me were the best way to start a running habit. My heart sank at that information. Clearly, he intended for us to do this on a regular basis. Dammit.

  I survived the first run. I barely dragged my way through the second and third. I have to admit, once I got the step tracker set up and synced to my phone, I got a kick out of seeing all the miles I was logging. And I couldn't really complain about Vance paying me to work out with him.

  In terms of his fitness, it was a waste of his time to run with me. I slowed him down and couldn't go very far, even after a few weeks, but it was his time to waste and it wasn't like I was holding back his program. These days, he was up every day at dawn, either lifting weights or using the suspension system he'd installed in the roof garden. By the time I showed up in the morning—my start time was now nine—he'd already been working out for a few hours and was ready to wind down with a slow run.

  I didn't want to admit it, but after we'd been running together for a few months, I looked forward to it. It wasn't just that Vance was an entertaining companion. I did, truly, feel better. I don't think I lost any weight since running made me hungry. It also made my body feel good. I even started going back to yoga class. I had decided to agree with Vance. My ass looked good, and anyone who didn't think so could go to hell.

  Vance didn't tease me about the way that I looked after that first run, though I caught him eyeing me more than once with heat in his piercing blue gaze. I didn't say anything. I snuck a few glances here and there when I thought he wouldn't catch me. I couldn't help it. If he'd been hot before, now that he'd ditched the alcohol and replaced it with exercise, he was incendiary.

  I could manage to keep my eyes off him when he was dressed and we were working, but the shirtless jogging was too much temptation. I never flirted. I absolutely never touched. But I looked. The muscles, the tattoos, the washboard abs. God damn. A saint would've looked her fill, and I was no saint.

  Ironically, Brayden didn't like my new exercise habit. He was still pushing for plastic surgery, liposuction at the very least. Not going to happen. There were days, a lot of them, when I wasn't sure why we were still together.

  Relationship inertia. I wasn't in love with him. And I'd already realized I couldn't marry him. I was desperate for a family—I could be honest with myself about that—but I couldn't marry a man I didn't love. Especially when I wasn't even sure I liked him. But I couldn't seem to bring myself to do anything about it. I thought about telling him it was over. Then I thought about how empty the house would be when he was gone.

  I'd imagine what it would it would mean to be alone. Really, truly alone. I always ended up not doing anything. I was letting life carry me along, too scared to shake things up.

  There's a problem with that. If you don't take control of your own life, eventually, someone will take it from you. Then you're stuck dealing with the fallout from the mess you let them create. That was a lesson I'd have to learn the hard way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAGNOLIA

  * * *

  BLAST OFF

  * * *

  I wasn't getting out of bed. Ever. I was never, ever getting out of bed. Scratch that. I’d get out of bed to answer the door. I’d have my groceries delivered, and I could get up to let Scout outside.

  Other than that, I was never getting out of bed. I was going to lay here, in my room, and eat ice cream for the rest of my life. Possibly while watching action movies. Explosions made everything better.

  I know 'heartbroken girl eating ice cream' is a cliché, but I wasn't going to make it worse by watching sappy movies. Besides, I didn't think I could handle sappy movies, and I was done with crying. At least for the moment.

  Pounding echoed up the stairs, interrupting my self-pity. I ignored it. I'd already texted in sick to work and then turned my phone off.

  The pounding stopped, and I let out a breath of relief. Whoever it was would go away, and I could get back to my ice cream and the Die Hard trilogy. Just when I thought I was off the hook, the pounding started again, louder than before and accompanied by shouting.

  "Magnolia Henry, open this door right now, or I will break it down."

  Vance. I should've known he wouldn't be put off by a text. I should have called, but I hadn't wanted to talk to him. I hadn't wanted to hear him say I told you so.

  "If you don't let me in, I'll keep yelling and your neighbors are going to call the police," he threatened.

  It was unlikely. My house sat on five acres, directly in the center, and while I could see my neighbor's rooflines, we weren't in shouting distance. Though Vance was pretty loud. And I was in my pajamas and probably had chocolate ice cream smeared on my chin. I didn't want to entertain the police in my living room in this condition.

  Sighing in annoyance, I dragged myself out of bed, picked up the pint of Hagen Das, and went downstairs, shoving a bite of ice cream in my mouth on the way.

  Vance stumbled forward when I swung open the door, his hand raised and ready for another fit of pounding. His eyes widened at the sight of me, my hair in a messy knot on the top of my head, not a stitch of makeup, puffy red eyes and a pint of ice cream in my hand. I made a sad sight, and I knew it. I just didn't care.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Vance demanded. "Are those your pajamas?"

  I took another bite of ice cream and glared at him. Who was he to judge? At least I wore pajamas. I looked down at the threadbare pink- and white-striped broadcloth pajama set my grandmother had bought me when I was in college. They'd seen better days. The pink was faded, and all the bleach in the world wouldn't make the white stripes truly white again. Was this why Brayden had left? I didn't have it in me to wonder.

  "You don't look sick," Vance said. "You said you were sick."

  "I lied," I said.

  "Do you have coffee?" Vance asked, pushing past me to come in. "I tried making coffee, and it was terrible. If you're not coming into work, at least make me coffee."

  "Can't you take care of yourself for one day while I have an emotional breakdown?"

  "No," he said. "Is that what this is? An emotional breakdown?"

  I gestured to myself with the ice cream spoon, splattering drops of chocolate on the front of my pajama top. "Can't you tell?"

  Vance shook his head. "You tell me you're having an emotional breakdown, and you think that's going to make me leave? You've stuck with me through all of my shit. All those times you dealt with me drunk and hung over. Amy's overdose. Amy and me getting back together and breaking up again. You stuck with me when I went to rehab. You were waiting for me when I got out, and you kept my whole life together while I was gone. Now you're having a tough time, and you think I'm going to leave you here to eat ice cream and cry on your own? What did that twat do now?"

  I burst into tears.

  "Babe, don't cry. Don't cry. He's not worth it." I felt him take the ice cream and spoon out of my hands. One strong arm wrapped around my shoulders, and Vance led me to my kitchen, seating me on a stool at my island. I heard water running in the sink, then a cold, wet towel pressed against my hot face. I took it from him and tried to wipe away the tears. And the snot. My nose always ran when I cried. When I had myself under control and my face cleaned up, Vance asked again, "What did he do?"

  I let out a shuddering breath and said, "He dumped me. Two days before Valentine’s Day, and he dumped me."

  "Well, hallelujah," Vance said with an oddly dete
rmined grin.

  "I hate you," I said.

  "No, you don't. You hate him. He's an asshole. I'm your best friend. And he never deserved you, Magnolia. Ever. He was never good enough for you. The only person who didn't know that was you. You should've kicked him out years ago. I'm sorry that you're hurt. I hate seeing you unhappy. But that asshole leaving you is the best thing for you, and you know it."

  I didn't say anything. Vance was right. I should've kicked Brayden out a long time ago. He was an asshole, and I did deserve better. I shrugged, and Vance scowled at me.

  "Are you going to make coffee? Because you know if you let me do it, it's going to be shit."

  I pushed back the stool and went to the coffeemaker. I did want coffee, and if I let Vance make it, it would be disgusting. He could cook. He was actually pretty good in the kitchen, but every time he tried to make coffee, it was either too weak, burned, or as thick as mud.

  "I'm taking you out," Vance said. I stared at the slowly filling coffee maker in disbelief.

  "No," I said. "I'm not going out. I'm getting back in bed with my coffee and my ice cream and watching Die Harder. I'm taking the day off work, and I don't care what you have to say about it."

  "No, you're not."

  "You're not the boss of me," I said. I wished for my headmistress voice—that one always seemed to work on Vance—but instead, I ended up sounding like a disgruntled toddler. Vance crossed his arms over his chest and raised one eyebrow, looking like the debauched Viking I'd first thought him, charming and dangerous.

  "I am exactly the boss of you," he said. "And today is a workday. As soon as I get a cup of coffee in you, you're going to go upstairs, take a shower, get dressed, and then do what I tell you to for the rest of the day."

  Suspicious, I narrowed my eyes at him. "What are you going to tell me to do?"

  "We're going to brunch. You're going to drink a lot of mimosas, then we'll go to the movies, and then you'll go to bed early so you can wake up and be at work on time tomorrow."

  I poured us both mugs of coffee, handing Vance his. It was too hot, but I didn't care about burning my tongue. I needed the caffeine.

  "I don't want to go to brunch, and I don't want to get drunk. Anyway, you don't drink," I said.

  Vance blew on his coffee. "I didn't say I was going to drink. I hate mimosas. But you love them." He shuddered at the thought. "I'm going to keep you company. You can spend the morning telling me all about what a dickhead the twat is, and I'll agree with you because he is a dickhead and I've always hated him. Then you'll feel much better. That's how this works. Do you want me to call Charlie? She hates the twat as much as I do."

  "You need to stop calling him that," I said.

  "Why? You're not still defending his honor, are you?"

  "No, but it's vulgar. I hate that word."

  "I don't really like it either, but it fits him so perfectly I just can't help myself," Vance said.

  "Try," I insisted.

  "If I promise not to call the dickhead a twat for the rest of the day, will you come out with me?"

  Still channeling my inner toddler, I rolled my eyes. Not yet ready to agree to his plan, I asked,

  “Why do you hate him so much? You already hated him when we met.”

  Vance sighed. “You know I went to school with Brayden and his older brother, right?”

  I nodded, sipping my coffee.

  “The brother is okay, but Brayden was always a whiner and a bully. One year, he stole the charity fund his class was raising for Habitat for Humanity. It was a lot of money. Thousands of dollars. And he pinned it on another kid, one of the scholarship students. He almost got the guy kicked out of school.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I asked, shocked. Vance shrugged.

  “Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

  “Did he get kicked out of school?” I asked.

  “Kind of. He missed the rest of the school year, but he was allowed to come back.” Vance raised one hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for money. What a surprise, Brayden letting his parents bail him out of trouble.

  “I’m such an idiot. I should have kicked him out a long time ago,” I said.

  “No comment. Now go get ready while I call Charlie.”

  “Charlie can't come with us. It's a weekday, and she's working."

  "Charlie runs her own department,” Vance said. “She can let her assistant handle things for one day. God knows, she works enough. She hates her job, and she needs a day off."

  His comment distracted me from my own misery. "You picked up on that too, huh?" I asked.

  "Ever since she finished school and started working for the company full time, she's been miserable. But she won't admit it. Too stubborn to give up, like some other people I know."

  He gave me that raised eyebrow again, as if I didn't already know he was talking about me. There was nothing wrong with being stubborn. Or tenacious.

  Sometimes, it's hard to know when you need to stick with something and when it’s time to cut your losses. I knew Charlotte wasn't enjoying her work, but I didn't give her a hard time about it for the same reason she never gave me a hard time about my relationship with Brayden. In the end, we had to make our own mistakes.

  "Fine, I'll go out. But I want it on record that I'm doing this under protest. I liked my ice cream and John McLane plan better."

  "You'll have more fun with me," Vance said, confiscating the pint of ice cream before I could take it back upstairs. I managed to hang on to my coffee and finished drinking it after I got out of the shower. I wanted to spend the day in my pajamas, but if Vance was taking me out for brunch somewhere they served mimosas, I was going to put a little effort into my appearance.

  I put my wet hair up, starting with two long braids and winding them around into a loosely structured bun. I'd put on makeup and pick out something decent to wear, but I was not about to spend forty minutes blow drying my hair.

  All the makeup in the world couldn't hide the signs of crying, at least not the makeup I had at my disposal, but I did the best I could with eyedrops and cucumber gel.

  I thought about wearing a dress. Brunch always felt dressy to me. But I didn't want to. Showering and putting on makeup were enough of a concession. Every dumped woman has a right to wallow in ice cream and movies and occasional bouts of tears. If I was getting dragged out of the house, I was doing it in my most comfortable clothes. Though I wasn't going to wear my jammies. And after taking a good look at the set I'd just stripped off, maybe it was time to do a little shopping.

  I'm not going to say that Brayden being a cheating dickhead was my fault, but it's possible I could've tried a little harder in the lingerie department. Then again, it would have been wasted on him. Pulling on my favorite pair of jeans and my favorite t-shirt, I headed for the stairs.

  Vance met me at the front door, my purse in hand. "Come on, let's go. Charlie is going to meet us there."

  I followed him out the door, stopping only to lock it behind me. Vance didn't say much on the way to the restaurant. I'd expected him to either grill me on the details or jump right into insulting Brayden, but he did neither. He opened the car door for me and then took my hand in his as we drove down my driveway. The simple kindness brought tears to my eyes. He was a good friend. I should've remembered that. I wasn't alone without Brayden. I had Vance. I had Charlie. And other friends besides them. I hadn't needed to hang on to my crappy boyfriend. Still, I felt lost. I'd been the other half of a couple for so long. Even though I knew I was better off on my own, Brayden had dumped me and moved out so quickly I couldn't quite get my head around the idea of being single.

  Vance parked in front of the restaurant and led me past the hostess station to a table on the terrace, where Charlie was already waiting for us with a mimosa in front of my empty seat.

  "I shouldn't say this, considering the present company, but drink," she said, pushing the champagne glass toward me.

 
; I did. I'd said I didn't want to drink, and that I didn't want any mimosas, but the second I saw that tall chilled glass, smelled the fresh orange juice and the dry tang of champagne, I realized I'd been wrong. I did want a mimosa. I wanted several mimosas. And French toast. With hash browns and bacon.

  I drained half my glass in one long sip.

  "Do you know what you want to order?" Charlotte asked, tucking her sleek auburn hair behind her ear. She wore a sharp black suit, perfectly tailored, with a plum colored blouse and a matching scarf. Charlotte was beautiful, but she didn't seem to know it. I thought about her question. I'd been here before, and I was pretty sure about the French toast, hash browns, and bacon.

  "I do, why?" I asked.

  "Because I want to hear about what happened with that rat bastard and why you didn't call me," she said.

  "Oh, okay."

  "Tell," Vance commanded. Charlotte looked at him.

  "You don't know either?" she asked.

  "I was waiting for you," he explained.

  I let out a sigh. "He's been cheating on me for the last year." I drained the rest of my mimosa and pushed the glass to the edge of the table so the waitress knew to refill it when she came back. "With the daughter of the surgeon who owns the practice where he was interning and is now employed. Now that he's officially a junior member of the practice, he dumped me to move in with her."

  "What a fucking asshole," Vance said.

  "Are you serious?" Charlotte asked. Charlotte was a sweetheart, but she was tough as hell in her own way. She looked pissed. "Which practice is it?"

  I shook my head. "No, Charlie, no. He's a huge jerk, but we’re not going to do anything."

  "Why not?" Vance asked. "He deserves some retribution. He's been taking advantage of you, now you find out he's been cheating on you, and you're just going to let him walk away?"

  I was. I tried to explain. "I'm not going to do anything because if I do something, he's going to think it's because I'm so brokenhearted I can't live without him. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction."