Keeping Her Safe: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance

by Summer Brooks

  When she started laughing, I couldn’t help but imagine what she might say if I told her I had been to Eric’s condo as well. I would have to keep that to myself for a while, I decided. But, sometimes, you just don’t get to decide; sometimes the universe decides for you.

  And at that moment, the universe decided to knock on my door.

  11

  Eric

  It was around two o’clock before I arrived at the building. It was an older place, with a few boarded up windows on the lower floors, where kids had clearly broken them out. I wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood, and apparently, neither was my driver, who drove around for something like twenty minutes in an area of town where each street just looked a little seedier and more run-down than the last. I had given him the address, and assumed that it would be easy to find with GPS, but clearly I’d been wrong. By the time we reached the actual building we were looking for, I was sure we were lost.

  All of this was unexpected, to be sure, but none of it more so than what I saw when I reached the second floor, apartment 201 at the top of the stairs. On the frosted glass pane of the door to Grace’s office, the words “Silver Investigating” were printed in thick black lettering. Confused, I made my way to the door.

  Grace had told me that she was a real estate photographer. She had, in fact, taken photos of my apartment earlier that day. But the door looked like that of a private investigator straight out of an old film noir. I was certain that there was an explanation, but when I heard Grace’s voice coming from behind the door, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to hear it. Was I being investigated? Was Grace actually investigating me? That would explain why she suddenly popped up out of nowhere the other day. It might also explain why she’d seemed into me. I should have known that a woman like Grace would never forgive my stupid mistake almost a decade earlier. I steeled myself for the worst and knocked on the door. Whatever the explanation was, I was going to demand that she give me one.

  “Come in! It’s open,” Grace’s voice called out from behind the door. At least I knew I was in the right place. I grabbed the door handle and turned it slowly, pushing the door into the room.

  Only, the first person I saw there wasn’t Grace at all. It was my cousin, Lana. We didn’t see each other often—only a few times a year—but I think that she was just as shocked to see me standing in Grace’s door as I was to see her sitting there next to the large desk in the middle of the room.

  I turned from Lana to Grace and back again. I had no idea what I’d walked into, but for whatever reason, I’d been expecting Grace to be alone. She most certainly was not.

  “Eric?” Lana announced. I suspected, however, that the question was meant more for Grace than for me, and so I said nothing. Instead, I stood there, holding a bottle of expensive champagne in my hand like an idiot who crashes a party where he’s not really wanted.

  Grace’s face fell when Lana turned towards her. Was she ashamed of my presence? I couldn’t read her reaction at all. “I was going to tell you…” Grace said to her friend.

  Lana’s face was aghast. Between the two of them, they made me feel like a complete leper. “Him!?” she accused in a tone that made it clear I had walked in on a conversation that was beyond my understanding. I watched as Lana turned from Grace to me and back again, with that same astonished look plastered on her face. She shook her head and began angrily gathering her things without saying anything further while Grace and I stared, speechless. I wasn’t sure why Lana was angry, but Grace seemed to understand. Lana pushed past me in a huff without looking back and I heard her stomping down the stairs behind me awkwardly.

  I waited for Grace to look up at me before I spoke. She was conveniently preoccupied with something in her lap, however, and it seemed to take an eternity for her to acknowledge my presence. When she finally did, all I could think of to say was, “I’m sorry…for that,” and gestured in the direction of the stairs to indicate that I didn’t mean to make Lana leave.

  “She’ll get over it,” Grace said dismissively, waving away my concerns. Then she added, “I told you that you could mail the check.”

  She looked uncomfortable, and I hated that I had made her feel that way, but even uncomfortable as she was, she was still as beautiful as ever, and I no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t regret coming to see her.

  “I didn’t come to give you the check,” I explained. “I mean…I can, if you want. But I came to celebrate.” I held up the bottle of champagne in my hand, hoping that it would somehow explain why I was here more eloquently than I ever could.

  “I’m afraid I’ve started without you.” Grace shook a plastic solo cup in the air, mimicking the way I had shaken the champagne bottle. I heard liquid slosh around in the cup, and assumed it was from the mostly empty wine bottle that sat on the desk in front of her.

  I took a few steps closer to her, letting the door to the office close gently behind me. “Mind if I join?” I asked. “It has been a very good day.”

  She gestured to the chair that Lana had vacated—a chair that was only a short distance away from her own—in a move that could only be interpreted as an invitation to be seated. I wanted, more than anything else in that moment, to ask her about the sign on the door, but I refrained, sure that I would lose any chance I had with her once I brought it up. Instead, I sat down in the chair, and took a deep, relieved breath, breathing in the smell of her, and exhaling all of the anxiety I had felt while standing at the door.

  12

  Grace

  There are few things in this world that I would rather see in my doorway than a sexy man holding a bottle of champagne. And yet, when the door slowly swung open to reveal Eric Sorenson at the threshold of the space that served both as my apartment and office, I couldn’t have been more shocked or chagrined.

  If he had only arrived a few minutes later, I would have had the chance to tell Lana about running into him. I was sure I could have explained it in a way that would have made her understand everything I was feeling. Instead, he arrived before I’d had the opportunity and courage to broach the subject, and now, she was livid—not because I was hanging out with Eric, but because I’d kept a secret from her, which was something that we never did. I told Eric that she’d get over it, and I was sure that she would, but I honestly had no idea how long that might take.

  So, I decided not to worry about it, and instead focused on Eric.

  My tiny apartment made him seem huge by comparison—far taller than he had looked on the street. He didn’t quite need to duck when he entered through the doorway, but he wasn’t far off from that height. And his broad shoulders and tapered waist served only one purpose: to make me imagine what he looked like when he wasn’t wearing expensive suits. As I sat there, marveling at the beautiful man, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever get the chance to find out.

  “It’s been a very good day,” he said, sitting down in the same chair where Lana had been just moments earlier. He was close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to—close enough that in every breath I took, there was now a hint of his cologne, which I was sure would intoxicate me completely if he stayed there long enough.

  I wanted to fight all of these urges that were pushing themselves to the forefront of my consciousness. I knew that Eric Sorenson was wrong for me, obviously. I knew that we inhabited completely different worlds, and that there were many, many women who shared his with him, and with whom I could not, would not compete. I knew that if I let this—whatever it was—continue, it would end badly for the both of us.

  And yet, despite all of this, there was still a vertiginous pull that kept drawing me nearer to him and that would not let me break away from its grasp. I could move away from him if I wanted to. Or I could throw him out. I could do any of these things, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. Instead, I made up my mind right then to enjoy the moment with him—because, given how many times I’d considered that night we met by the pool at his parents’ house, my whole world woul
d be filled with regret if I let another opportunity with him pass me by.

  “What made it so great?” I asked. “I mean, other than seeing me, of course.” I flirted shamelessly, even throwing my hair over my shoulder in a sweeping gesture for effect. This was not me. Usually, when I was into someone, I shied away, but here, I felt like I had nothing to lose. He was in my apartment, after all; he had to be into me too, right?

  He smiled at my little joke, but didn’t laugh, instead fumbling with the cork to the champagne with a key he had lifted from the top of my desk. It was the key to my gun safe, but I wouldn’t tell him that. For some reason, knowing that I carried a weapon seemed to scare a lot of guys off. And scaring off Eric Sorenson was the last thing that I wanted to do today.

  “Seeing you was nice,” he admitted, struggling with the key. “But seeing my dad punch a guy that I’ve been wanting to punch for years was nice too.”

  I opened my desk drawer to find a pocket knife for Eric, for fear that we’d be waiting all afternoon for the champagne if we were relying on the key to my gun safe to pop the cork. When I handed it to him, his fingers brushed the sensitive skin on the palm of my hand ever so lightly, sending a wave of excitement through my entire core at the contact. Was I imagining it, or did he let his hand linger there a little longer than necessary? It was possible, I supposed, though if he did, the moment was so short and the feeling so subtle that I couldn’t draw any real conclusions from it. Still, his hands were strong, and with the proper tool, he was able to pop the cork and send champagne shooting across the room in a few short moments, making a giggle erupt from my throat uncontrollably.

  I grabbed a couple of coffee mugs for him, and he poured some champagne in each one as if they were fancy flutes. It was a low-rent solution to be sure, but I liked that he didn’t seem to judge me for it, or at the very least, was willing to play along.

  “Wow, your dad punched someone?” I didn’t know Eric’s father—at least not well enough to be as astonished as he clearly was. But I did know my own father, and despite the fact that he had spent years building up a tough persona that he used every day in his work, I had never actually seen him punch anyone. He believed that violence should always be saved as a last resort, and while I had a strong feeling that he had actually punched people in his life, he had never wanted me to see that side of him. So something told me that if Eric’s billionaire father hit someone, the dude probably had it coming.

  “Yes,” he said, his tone changing, “but that is not actually what I want to talk about.” He had become more serious in a way that had me worried. When I spoke, my reply came out small and weak in comparison.

  “What did you want to talk about, then?” I asked.

  “The sign on your door.”

  Fuck.

  I’d been so wrapped up in the idea that Eric Sorenson was actually sitting in my apartment that I had forgotten that the door to my office said Silver Investigating. When he mentioned it, my face fell. I considered possible responses. I’m not proud of the fact that several of them were lies which would take me even deeper into the rabbit hole of deception. But, ultimately, I decided to come clean.

  “I’m not really a real estate photographer,” I said, my voice contrite and quiet. The only thing I had going for me was the fact that he wasn’t looking at me angrily, but with genuine interest, as if I was telling him an engaging story. He had settled comfortably back into his chair, and was holding the coffee mug of champagne as casually as if it were a cup of coffee. I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his relaxed demeanor, but I wasn’t about to question it, for fear that it might go away to be replaced with something angry. I had already pissed off one person today and I wasn’t ready to have to make amends to a second. What’s more, he didn’t even interrupt the way some people might. He just looked at me intently, and waited for me to continue and explain myself. I didn’t really deserve such patience, but I was grateful for it.

  “I am a private investigator,” I continued. I searched his eyes for a reaction, but found none; either he was completely unfazed by this revelation, or he was an excellent poker player. Either way, I found his silence unnerving, and if I was honest with myself, more than a little sexy.

  After a moment of contemplating this, he said, “Did Sebastian hire you?” He punctuated his question with a long swig from the coffee cup.

  “Who?” I was completely confused by the question. Who the fuck was Sebastian?

  “Sebastian,” he repeated. “Sebastian Vance.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, like something I had heard in a dream or read in a book, but I’d certainly never met anyone by that name before, which made his question all the more confusing.

  “Are you talking about when I ran into you the other day?” I asked. “I wasn’t investigating you. I had no idea that you would actually be there. When I realized that you were inside the restaurant, I hid. All of that was honest.”

  “Honest?! If you were trying to be honest, why the hell did you tell me you were a real estate photographer?!” I could see that the word “honest” had bothered Eric. I couldn’t say that I blamed him, under the circumstances. If he had told me a similar lie, I probably wouldn’t even still be sitting here having a conversation with him. I knew that the only way to salvage this was to spell everything out. This wasn’t something I would ordinarily do. I tried to keep my clients confidential, and I prided myself on my discretion, but I couldn’t stand the thought that Eric might think I was some sort of liar. It was a strange feeling, caring what someone thought about me.

  “I was hired by a man named Charles Fields,” I began. “He thought that his wife Francine was having an affair.” At the mention of Francine’s name , I saw some recognition light up in Eric’s face. He was beginning to understand what had happened. And maybe, if I was lucky, he was beginning to believe me. So I continued. “He hired me to follow her for a few days. She leads a super boring life, and her brunch with you was the first interesting thing that actually happened. At the restaurant, you greeted her like you knew her, so I took pictures. Because that’s what I do. Then I looked at the pictures and realized who you were. I kind of assumed that you weren’t having an affair with her, but it was pretty much impossible to get out of there without you seeing me. So I hid. And when you asked me about it, I couldn’t very well tell you that I was following Francine around, because that just makes me sound like a freak. Plus, you would have told her and she would have told her husband, and then I wouldn’t get paid, and then the student loan people wouldn’t get paid, and then I would somehow be having a more uncomfortable conversation than this one.”

  I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath until I finally exhaled at the end of my babbling. It felt so good to blurt out the truth, that I almost wished that I had more secrets to uncover. As for Eric, he just seemed…entertained by the whole thing. By the time I got to the end of my story, he was laughing. I had no idea what that meant. Was I off the hook for lying to him? Or did he just think that I was ridiculous now and want nothing to do with me? I took a relieved gulp of champagne from the coffee mug in front of me. Holy shit, it was good. Nothing like the cheap wine that I usually drank, and it slid down my throat so smoothly that I could imagine getting a buzz on the stuff quickly. I had to stop myself from making inappropriate little satisfied noises as I enjoyed the crisp, bubbly beverage.

  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure what Eric would say when he was done laughing. He could have told me to fuck off and that he never wanted to see me again, and I wouldn’t have been all that surprised. But the words that he did say somehow managed to rattle the doors and windows of everything that I thought to be true about the way people related to one another in the world.

  “So, do I still get the photos of my condo?” he asked. I couldn’t begin to understand why, but he was smiling. I quietly wondered if it was something like the way that clouds always look so quiet and peaceful right before they open up and pour water all o
ver you, ruining your day.

  “Do you still want them?” I asked. I was sure that he’d be angry at me for wasting his morning with a photography session to keep up my charade, as well.

  Eric shook his head no, and I braced for the worst. But the worst never came.

  “I lied too,” he said calmly, taking a drink from his cup and looking at me over the edge of it with a flirtatiously raised eyebrow.

  “Huh?” I had reached the point of confusion where my language began to lapse into monosyllabic grunts and sounds. I was sure that I sounded like an idiot, and silently chided myself for it, but it didn’t do any good.

  “I’m not really selling my condo,” he said. “I mean, I was considering it, maybe, at one point, but I decided against it. I love that place.”

  “It is pretty incredible,” I agreed, and we lapsed into an appreciative silence for a long moment. We both stared off into space, picturing all of the glorious features that his condo had to offer. Or, at least, that’s what I did. I couldn’t really speak for Eric. Then, something dawned on me—a question to which I already had the answer—but, not believing it, I had to ask anyway. Maybe I thought there was a better explanation…or maybe I just wanted to hear him say the words. Whatever the reason, I asked, “So why did you ask me to come take the pictures?” but even if I knew the answer, I also knew that I was entirely unprepared for it.

  Eric looked me in the eyes then, and I reciprocated. It was then that I noticed the flecks of gold around his irises. His eyes were mostly blue, but just like a river that flows from a mine, they contained splashes of gold that you could only notice when the light hit them at just the right angle. It had the singular effect of making his eyes feel mischievous and alive, especially when he smiled, which he did often. I could have easily gotten lost in those eyes—even if his mouth hadn’t found the perfect words to say to me next.

  “If you had said you are an accountant, I would have found bookkeeping for you to do. If you had said that you were a mechanic, I would have suddenly had car trouble,” he admitted. “I just needed a way to see you again.”