I scooched my chair right up against his so I could give him a solid kick in the shins, he just grinned and looked at me with his wicked bedroom eyes, right in front of Mom – and somehow, I never moved my chair away again. I stuck my tongue out at him for being exasperating, I reached over to help myself to this and that off his plate, and I ended up nestling against his side like some goofy lovestruck teenager.
I felt goofy. I also felt great, and Mom, being all understanding and class, pretended not to notice my severe silliness. Meanwhile, Devon just sat there being all tall and regal and overdressed, letting me lean into him while he smiled a quiet, secret little smile.
I didn’t trust that smile, no way – and I would have called him on it, but just then Mom decided it would make swell dinner conversation to start peppering Devon with nosy, lurid questions about, I swear to God, the sexual habits of all those actresses and models and whatever he’d been with in his pre-Ashley days.
Yes, really – she popped those elbows of hers up onto the table, propped her chin on her hands, and she just couldn’t get enough of hearing all the naughty little details, even though I threw a biscuit at her.
I also punched Devon in the arm, repeatedly, because he was more than happy to tell her which actresses liked to be tied up, who screamed and who wanted it six times a day, which models insisted on getting some in their dressing rooms, and which deviant positions and perverted toys were most popular with the rich and shameless.
He was like her own personal issue of the National Enquirer, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kill the adorable bastard or just laugh until I collapsed onto the floor in a heaving puddle of giggles.
Somewhere in there, we polished off the major part of the food. I was stuffed to the gills, Mom looked a bit sleepy and managed a discreet burp, and despite being as huge and calorie-intensive as he was, even Devon reached his limit. But there’s no excuse for ditching on dessert, and so we waddled into the living room to talk some more – hopefully not about insatiable Hollywood sex kittens – while dinner settled enough to make room for Mom’s world-class cinnamon apple pie.
Devon turned from gleefully nasty to charming, as he sat on Mom’s threadbare couch and I half-dozed against his arm. He told us the few stories from his childhood that were funny and sweet instead of ghastly and terrifying, while Mom curled up in her favorite recliner and gobbled the information down like candy, even though it was G-rated. She laughed, asked questions, and drank in his every word.
I listened too, I laughed and asked my own questions, and I was so damn happy. I was safe and warm with the two people I loved most in the world, and how could life get any better?
I found out when Devon announced that apple pie time had arrived.
“Ashley, I rather think that before your lovely mother reciprocates with stories of all your most embarrassing childhood moments – ”
“Mom, NO. Do not get into any of that stuff, please, I’m –”
“ – we should first enjoy some of her delicious fresh-baked cinnamon apple pie, which I believe should be ready just about now, correct?”
“Yeah, great, pie – but Mom, don’t. Just don’t, particularly not that one about how I threw up on the clown at my fourth birthday party, you always tell everybody that –”
“Ooh, honey, that is a good one – thanks for reminding me. Mr. Killane, did you know that Ashley has this weird fear reaction around clowns? I couldn’t believe it at the time, but right in the middle of everybody singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ she just up and –”
“What a magnificent story this promises to be – I’m sure I’ll want to repeat it to everyone I know, and I know quite a lot of people. But before you begin, perhaps Ashley might consent to retrieve that pie and bring it to us here, so we can all enjoy a bracing jolt of sugar as you tell the tale?”
I lurched to my feet with a sigh. How can you love somebody and want to shoot them in the same moment? “Fine, I’ll get the pie – but Mom, I’m begging you, not THAT story.”
I heard her giggle as I headed down the hall and turned the corner into the kitchen. Man, I was so doomed …
The pie sat cooling on the counter, sending seductive sugary sweetness steaming into the air – believe me, you can gain five pounds just smelling one of Mom’s pies. I popped it onto a tray, added three plates and some forks, and then set the whole thing down again while I looked for a knife.
Devon’s voice echoed from the living room. “Ashley?”
“Hang on, you big lug, I’m looking for a knife – be there in a second.”
I found the right knife, but didn’t this situation also demand whipped cream?
Devon spoke up again. “Ashley, there’s something I want to ask you.”
What was that strangled yelping noise? Mom?
“Devon, I swear, if you’re ravishing my mom right in the middle of her own living room – ”
“Ashley, honey, could you get back in here?”
“Geez, Mom, two seconds.” Why was her voice so high all of a sudden, and where the hell did she keep the whipped cream?
Now her voice shot up into a mousy squeak. “Baby, you need to come back in here right now.”
I found the can of whipped cream hiding behind the Crisco.
“Coming, you’re only seconds away from embarrassing me with that damn story, I swear.”
I picked up the tray with the pie and cutlery, and balanced it against my side with my right arm. In my left hand, I held high the can of whipped cream. As I marched back down the hall, I decided I was not above spraying both of them with it if it would keep the infamous Ashley-pukes-on-the-clown story from being told.
I stopped in the doorway of the living room.
I stared.
My right arm fell to my side, nerveless and shaking. Mom’s best cinnamon apple pie crashed to the floor, tray and silverware and all. Spiced apple filling and a perfect, feather-light browned crust splattered all over the carpet.
I stared some more.
After due consideration, I decided that my left arm didn’t work anymore either. The can of whipped cream thumped to the hallway floor and rolled away. I listened to it clink to a stop against the wall.
Devon was down on one knee.
In the middle of Mom’s living room, right next to her scarred old coffee table, Devon was down on one knee, holding a small black box opened to display a big diamond ring.
He stared deep inside me with those blue-violet eyes, eyes full of devotion, courage, and love beyond all measure.
“Ashley, you led me into a whole new world. You did not just save my life, but you showed me my life was worth saving. In every moment you give me all that I could ever want to live for, and I love you with all that I am. Ashley, will you marry me?”
I don’t remember walking or running or flying across the living room. I just remember falling into his arms for the second time in three weeks, and saying one word.
“Yes.”
And that’s how I ended up here.
That’s how I went from being five minutes late for work to standing alone in this small room at Saint Mary of the Angels, looking into a full-length mirror at the improbable sight of me, Ashley Daniels, in a wedding gown.
I don’t know that I recognize myself. The genius who designed this dress somehow managed to make my curves look flowing and elegant, draping me in folds of silk and satin that hug my body like a lover’s arms … like Devon’s arms.
He’s out there, waiting.
Out the door behind me, down a short side hallway, around a turn, through the doors of the main chapel and at the end of the aisle in front of the altar, Devon is waiting for me. He’s waiting for me, and he’s waiting to begin a life he could never have imagined having.
Me either.
Everyone’s waiting.
Mom’s waiting, front row and center, and I’m sure she’s crying her eyes out. I don’t think she’s stopped crying since that day in her living room, when I ruined a great pie and
said ‘yes’ to the man I love more than life. I got Mrs. Hadfield to sit next to her, so Mom will have a strong shoulder to hang onto – although when I last saw Devon’s tough-as-nails housekeeper, she looked more than a little sniffly herself. The rest of his household staff is filling out the front pews, of course, since they’re more of a family to him than the Killanes ever were or could be.
Speaking of those assholes, I hope they’re watching all this, on bolted-to-the-wall TVs somewhere deep in the bowels of a federal prison, watching and wondering just where they went wrong. Aunt Emily the Evil One was right, guys – he was way too smart for all of you.
Too smart, too strong, too loving and brave to end up anywhere but here.
It’s almost time.
Lots of people are waiting and watching, and they’re keeping the security guys hopping. Jimmy has been stuck to me like glue all day – he’s outside the door behind me right now, and I just know that giant Samoan is staring his heart out at anybody who dares to enter the hallway. And a couple of hours ago, when Oprah herself thought she’d just stroll up to me with a microphone for an unscheduled interview? Well, I wouldn’t have minded talking to her, but nope – one withering stare and an actual raised eyebrow from Jimmy, and that woman jumped back with a muttered apology about an extremely urgent appointment she had somewhere else.
And now it is time.
The church’s bronze bells are ringing out twelve noon, and when that twelfth and last note sounds, I need to be standing outside the main chapel’s towering oak doors, waiting for them to swing open. Then it’s a long walk down the aisle, and after one gold ring and two “I do’s”, I’ll be Ashley Killane.
I don’t know what will happen after that, but I can’t wait to find out.
Sorry, but I have to get going, and right now – I refuse to be even five seconds late for this.
Thank you for reading Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance!
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Sonora Seldon writes under an assumed name and a borrowed face in an imaginary location. She is the sole support of three dogs, a cat, and hundreds of books; she also holds a dozen jade plants prisoner in her kitchen, but some of them are still alive. When she is not reading, writing, or being distracted by something shiny, she creates abstract paintings, sleeps late, and eats enough pizza to sink a battleship.
Table of Contents
1. Five Minutes
2. Trial By Doughnuts
3. Spitfire
4. Sink or Swim
5. Round and Real
6. What a Towel
7. Promises
8. Rocking the Evening
9. Questions
10. Desire and Time
11. Believe
12. The Special Project
13. Sushi
14. A Regular Guy
15. Warmth
16. Our Summer
17. The Apocalypse
18. Destruction
19. Never Forgive
20. Waiting
21. Freak
22. Feature Presentation
23. Mama
24. Ice Cream and Safety
25. Need
26. Ask Me Anything
27. Angel
28. Taken
29. Broken
30. Whatever May Come
31. Together and Apart
32. Wilderness
33. Hiding in the Light
34. Walking to the Stars
35. Confession
36. The Tree of Death
37. The World Ends
38. The Falling Boy
39. The Truth in Hiding
40. No Matter Where You Go
41. No Hiding Place
42. Monster
43. Four Words
44. No Time
45. Fate
46. Time to Fly
47. Five Seconds
*Nightmare*
Table of Contents
1. Five Minutes
2. Trial By Doughnuts
3. Spitfire
4. Sink or Swim
5. Round and Real
6. What a Towel
7. Promises
8. Rocking the Evening
9. Questions
10. Desire and Time
11. Believe
12. The Special Project
13. Sushi
14. A Regular Guy
15. Warmth
16. Our Summer
17. The Apocalypse
18. Destruction
19. Never Forgive
20. Waiting
21. Freak
22. Feature Presentation
23. Mama
24. Ice Cream and Safety
25. Need
26. Ask Me Anything
27. Angel
28. Taken
29. Broken
30. Whatever May Come
31. Together and Apart
32. Wilderness
33. Hiding in the Light
34. Walking to the Stars
35. Confession
36. The Tree of Death
37. The World Ends
38. The Falling Boy
39. The Truth in Hiding
40. No Matter Where You Go
41. No Hiding Place
42. Monster
43. Four Words
44. No Time
45. Fate
46. Time to Fly
47. Five Seconds
Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance Page 57
