Trusting the Billionaire (Weston Brothers Book 2)

by C. C. Snow

  “I sure as hell hope not,” I said, scrunching my face at the disturbing idea.

  He let out a low chuckle at my expression. “How did you guys meet?”

  Deciding it was a harmless story, I told him about my first weeks in Chicago. “Anyway, Ethan was the one who helped me find a job and that’s how we became friends and then roommates.”

  “It must be nice to live with someone you get along with,” he said.

  “It has its high points. And its lows. Sometimes there is no personal space because he knows me so well.”

  “Hmm…I can understand that. I feel that way about my family. There are very few boundaries.”

  “You seem very close with your brother,” I said, steering the topic away from me.

  “Jake’s my best friend.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said softly. “He seems like a great guy.”

  “Yeah. My brother is incredible. He became CEO when he was pretty young and catapulted the company to the top of the Forbes list. I don’t know anyone who I admire more.”

  I tilted my head, wondering at the strange note in his voice. Was it sibling rivalry or did Troy feel like he didn’t measure up to his older brother?

  “From what I’ve seen, you’ve done a pretty amazing job as CFO,” I said, my praise surprising us both. But I realized I was speaking the truth. Jake might be the driving force behind the company, but Troy played a big role in keeping it profitable. Based on the few reports I had seen and what Cora told me, Weston Enterprises was on track to have another record year. And it didn’t get there with an incompetent CFO.

  “Thank you,” he said, his face softening.

  I squirmed under his steady regard and looked down at the scarred table. The small glimpse into his insecurities made him seem more human to me. And that was dangerous.

  “Do you have any siblings?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the beat of hesitation. Guilt needled at me for the lie, but I consoled myself that the statement was true in spirit if not in letter.

  “I couldn’t imagine being an only child. I’m sure my parents had moments when they wished they had stopped at one, though.” His affection for his family was clear in his voice.

  Feeling a tightness in my chest, I took a gulp of my drink and almost choked.

  Troy leaned over and thumped my back as I coughed.

  “I’m okay,” I rasped and waved him away. Picking up a melting ice cube, I popped it in my mouth and sucked.

  When his eyes centered on my mouth, I self-consciously stopped and crunched on the ice until it was gone.

  “You must have been a handful,” I said.

  “‘You’ meaning Jake and me or just me?” he questioned with a wry smile.

  “I can’t see Jake making trouble, but you…” I let my voice trail off suggestively.

  He laughed and proceeded to tell me about some of the escapades his brother got into. He had a natural gift for storytelling, embellishing the details, pausing dramatically to deliver the punchline.

  “You’re making that up,” I said, eying him suspiciously. It was hard to imagine Jake, somber and intense, as a devilish little boy out to make mischief. “He did not suggest you put blueberries in the washer.”

  Troy nodded vigorously, “Yes he did. He said it would turn all the boring white sheets into a pretty blue. He assured me our mom would love it. Guess what? She didn’t. I lost dessert privileges for a week.”

  A giggle pushed out of my mouth at the pout on his lips. “How old were you?”

  “A very gullible six.” A smug smile pulled at his lips. “But I got back at him. On my father’s birthday, my mom baked him a chocolate cake. I ate the whole thing and then smeared the frosting on my brother’s pillowcase.”

  I gasped in horror. “You did not!”

  “Yes, I did. He wasn’t allowed any sweets for a month,” Troy said triumphantly.

  “He didn’t say you ate it?”

  He shook his head, his smile turning rueful. “No, that’s not how the game is played. Of course, I got sick from eating a three-layer chocolate cake so you could say we both got our just desserts.”

  I couldn’t contain my laughter then. The image of two little boys taking turns getting each other in trouble was too precious. “Your poor mother…and father,” I said when I could catch my breath.

  Blue eyes twinkled. “Let’s say they get really nice presents for Father’s and Mother’s Days.” He took another slow sip of his drink. “Are you close to your parents?”

  Years of habit kicked in and the answer slid out easily. “Not really. Mom is living in Italy with my stepfather. My parents split up when I was a teen. I haven’t seen my father for years.” None of what I said was a lie. I had learned over the years to use syntax to my advantage.

  His eyes darkened with sympathy and I felt my throat tighten. He reached out to take one of my hands. “I’m sorry, Elle. That must have been tough.”

  “It is what it is.” My fingers tingled from his touch. The calluses at the top of his palm abraded my skin and I wondered how he had acquired them.

  “Have you ever considered looking him up?

  “No, not really.” Discomfited by the conversation, I pulled out of his grasp on the pretense of picking up my glass. I took a big chug and placed the glass on the table.

  “Have you ever visited Italy?”

  I let out a breath at the change of topic. “Yes, I spent a couple of summers with Graziella when I was sixteen and seventeen.”

  “Graziella?”

  Shit. I slipped.

  Deciding it was not a big deal to tell him, I shrugged. “My mother.”

  “You call your mother by her first name?” He puckered his brow, as if he couldn’t fathom it.

  I supposed the concept must be very strange to someone with his Leave It To Beaver upbringing. “Yeah.” I tightened my lips. I didn’t like to talk about my far-from-normal family life.

  Of course he didn’t leave it alone. “Why didn’t you call her ‘mom?’”

  Maybe it was because my little half-lies were starting to sting like bees. Maybe I wanted to shock him, but I told the truth. “When I hit my growth-spurt...” I paused and in case he misunderstood, I made an hourglass shape with my hands in the air. “My mother decided it was inconvenient to introduce me as her daughter. I supposed it made her feel old.” I shrugged, trying not to sound resentful. “Whatever her reasons, she wanted me to call her by her first name. So I did.”

  Troy’s face grew taut for a second and then he muttered something terse under his breath.

  I thought it was a curse, but I couldn’t be sure. I braced myself for words of pity. God, I hated being pitied which was why I never told anyone about my screwed up past.

  He huffed out a breath and relaxed his posture. “Well, that’s all kinds of fucked up,” he drawled.

  The matter-of-fact statement surprised a snort of laughter out of me and I felt a rush of gratitude he didn’t try to make a big deal out of it. “Yeah, it really is, isn’t it?” I said, feeling strangely liberated that I didn’t have to defend my mom’s actions.

  He leaned over the table and whispered, “You know what would really make her crazy?”

  “What?” I leaned closer to him, staring in fascination at the spark in his eyes.

  “If you run out, have a baby, and then have your kid call her grandma. That would probably make her run for the hills.”

  Imagining Graziella’s horrified face, I chuckled. “I think that’s a bit extreme, but I thank you kindly for the suggestion.”

  “Does she ever visit you?”

  “No.” I hated to see the pity stealing into his eyes. “It’s alright. I’d much rather visit her in Italy.”

  Sensing my discomfiture, Troy deftly changed the subject and recounted amusing stories about his parents’ European trip.

  I reached for my drink and blinked in surprise when I saw it was empty.

  “Do you want anot
her?” Troy asked.

  I hesitated and looked at his empty glass.

  “I’m driving so this is it,” he said.

  Remember, one drink only.

  “No, I’m good.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and was shocked to see that two hours had passed. “It’s almost eleven. We should go.”

  “Alright.” Smiling, he leaned forward and touched the back of my hand. “See, this wasn’t so bad. Admit it.”

  In a monotonic voice, I said, “This wasn’t so bad.”

  “Wise ass.” His face softened. “I’m glad you agreed to come out.”

  I tilted my head. “Thanks. You’re not so bad after all.”

  “Thanks. That’s high praise coming from you,” he said.

  I chuckled at his dry tone. This whole evening had not been what I had expected. I had been suspicious of his motives, but he had been a complete gentleman. The attraction was still there, rippling beneath the surface, but he had not exploited it. And if I concentrated hard enough, I could ignore it long enough to enjoy our bantering conversation. Troy had a self-deprecating sense of humor that put me at ease. For a billionaire, he was surprisingly down-to-earth and easy to talk to.

  We pulled on our jackets and waved to Duncan on the way out. Neither of us felt the need to fill in the silence on the ride back.

  As he drew up to the front of my apartment building, he turned off the engine and faced me. “Listen, do you like contemporary painting?”

  I frowned, wondering what he was up to. “Why do you ask?” I asked, my wariness returning. As much as I had enjoyed his company tonight, I still found the idea of us being friends ludicrous.

  He rolled his eyes and said, “You’re a very suspicious person, aren’t you?”

  “Troy,” I ground out.

  “So…do you like modern art or not?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I loved most art forms, but I wanted to figure out his angle.

  “Why can’t you answer a simple question?”

  “Why can’t you?”

  He pressed his lips together and I sensed he was fighting to hold back his laughter. “A friend of mine owns a gallery and he has a show opening next Thursday. I wanted to see if you’d like to go…as a friend, of course.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why aren’t you bringing a date?”

  He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and shook his head. “Unlike other people, I go to art openings to enjoy the art. I’d rather attend with someone who’s not going to distract me and is going to appreciate the artist’s work.”

  Wait. What was he implying? That he wasn’t attracted to me and therefore wouldn’t be distracted by me? Or that he wasn’t interested in going to the show with a date who would demand his attention? And why did the former scenario send irritation rushing through me? I should be glad he was no longer trying to seduce me.

  Confusion swirled in my head and I pressed several fingers to my temple. I hated my yo-yoing emotions. And when I was in the presence of this man, my emotions were on a roller coaster ride.

  “So, are you interested in contemporary painting?”

  “What if I said no?”

  He looked at the roof of the car, as if praying for patience. Then he sighed gustily. “Is that a no?”

  Danger ahead, Elle.

  “What if I said yes?”

  He groaned loudly and pinched his nose, the very picture of exasperated male. “Is that a yes?”

  Amusement tugged at me. Before I could think better of it, I said, “Yes, I like modern painting.”

  He rubbed his mouth and I thought I saw a grin on his lips. “Okay, did you want to attend the show with me?”

  I hesitated and then said, “Yes. I’d like to go.”

  He looked astonished and then pleased. “Good. I’ll text you the details later in the week. The show is at eight. Do you want to grab dinner beforehand?”

  I finally listened to the alarms in my head and wagged my head. Having a meal with him would make it too much like a date. “Sorry, I already have plans, but I can meet you at the gallery.”

  His gaze felt too sharp. Too knowing. “Alright. I’ll text you the address.”

  Chapter 8

  Comparing scotch to bourbon is like comparing ambrosia to piss.

  I choked on my cookie as I read the byline for the link Troy texted me. Quickly grabbing my glass of water, I washed the crumbs down my throat.

  “Snob,” I muttered under my breath before I searched for one of my favorite whiskey reviewers. Finding the post I wanted, I shot it off to him. Troy and I had been exchanging little texts over the last week. It started with arguments about whiskey, but we had covered a wide range of other topics as well.

  His reply was immediate.

  The man must taste his liquor after he gets a shot of Novocain.

  A laugh burst out of my mouth.

  “What is so funny?” Ethan reached from behind and plucked my phone out my hands.

  “Hey!” I turned around and tried to snatch it back.

  Eyes glued on the screen, he stepped out of reach and started to scroll through my texts.

  “Ethan, give that back.” I scrambled off the sofa and lunged for him.

  He danced out of range and continued to read my texts. He glanced at me with a sly grin. “Who is Troy?”

  Face red, I grasped his arm and wrestled my phone away from him. “Nobody.”

  “Honey, that is not nobody. Spill!”

  I resettled on the sofa and placed the phone next to me. “Remember the night I got fired from Portofino’s? When I ruined that guy’s suit?”

  “Yeah.”

  I cocked one brow and waited.

  Ethan’s eyes grew huge as he made the connection and he plopped down next to me. “You’re shitting me. This is the same guy?”

  “Yes.” I went on to describe Troy’s relationship to Cora. I left out the more salacious details, but essentially told him everything. At the end, Ethan’s jaw was agape.

  “So this Troy guy says he wants to be friends with you now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “After he tried to seduce you…twice?” He gave me a disbelieving look.

  “Yes,” I said somewhat defiantly.

  “And you believe him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I picked up my phone and pulled up his picture to show Ethan.

  “Ooh la la.” His blue eyes widened and he whistled under his breath.

  I threw my phone on the table and wrapped my arms around my folded legs. “The guy can have any woman with a crook of his finger. He’s probably already getting ready to pick up his date for the night—a model slash actress slash socialite. He doesn’t need to chase after a woman who has blown him off twice.”

  Which did not bother me one whit, I told myself.

  He darted a glance at my phone and smirked. “Honey, you’re so blind.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He tapped a finger on the screen. “These texts are not in the friend zone.”

  “You’re crazy. All we talk about is whiskey and nonsense.”

  “I’m just calling them as I see them. To me, it looks like extended foreplay.” He fanned his face with his hands and fluttered his lashes. “I could practically hear the heavy breathing as you guys talk about how rich and silky smooth the whiskey tastes.” Ethan let out a porn-worthy moan. “And that long, creamy finish.”

  “You freak!” I laughed and whacked him in the head with the throw pillow. Inside I squirmed, remembering the way Troy had described his GlenDronach. It had been hot. “It is not foreplay. Get your mind out of the gutter. Blake must not be putting out, causing your brain to obsess about sex.”

  Grinning, Ethan brushed his hair back into place with his fingers. “I’ll have you know he took my co—”

  I threw the pillow at him, cutting off his X-rated recount of his sex life. “I don’t want to know. Otherwise I’d have to clean my ears with bleach.”

  “Fine, but yo
u could learn some techniques for your new boyfriend. You’re pretty rusty.”

  I heaved a sigh of exasperation. “He is not my boyfriend. We share a few interests and are hanging out. You’re the one who’s always pushing me to meet new people.”

  “I’m pushing you to use your vajayjay.”

  “My vagina has no place in this conversation,” I said sternly.

  Ethan shot a dubious look at my phone. “If you say so.”

  ***

  I leaned closer to the steel beam and tilted my head to look underneath. Reading the words etched on the metal, I smiled. The sculptor had a subversive sense of humor.

  “What do you think?” Troy asked, handing me a glass of wine.

  “I like it. It’s subtly sly,” I said.

  This was the second art show we had been to in the last few weeks. Troy appeared to know a lot of people in the art community. The abstract painting exhibition had been highly successful and Troy had even purchased a beautiful monotype with bold, primary colors for his home office.

  I had been nervous about going with him to that first show, especially after Ethan had planted the seeds of doubt, but Troy had barely paid any attention to me except to solicit my opinion on several paintings. After a while, I relaxed enough to enjoy the rest of the evening. I loved hearing people discuss the work. A few of them mouthed off like pompous idiots, but many attendees were genuine art connoisseurs.

  At the end of the night, we went out for a late bite and talked about the exhibit. I was amazed by his knowledge of the contemporary art world.

  But I was coming to realize I had misjudged Troy in many ways. He was far from the frivolous, spoiled playboy I had thought him to be. He might have gotten the job as CFO because of his family name, but his success was due to his own hard work and intelligence. I saw that first-hand through the projects he worked on with Cora. And I had caved and done an Internet search on him. Based on the business magazine write-ups on him, the journalists seemed to be duly impressed with his financial acumen.

  I was beginning to really enjoy his company. His breadth of knowledge and interests made him an engaging conversationalist. And his texts made me snort with laughter on the train, drawing wary glances from the other riders.