Keeping Her Safe: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance

by Summer Brooks

  Grace

  Men are so fucking irritating. Eric couldn’t even bring himself to call me and tell me that he couldn’t pick me up for the party. He just sent his driver alone.

  That driver, I learned, was the same man who had brought me my dress that morning. I was starting to wonder who I was going to the gala with—the old man who sounded like he chain-smoked one hundred cigarettes a day, or Eric—who talked smooth, and looked so excellent without his clothes on, but never seemed to actually be there when he was supposed to. The driver, whose name I learned was Harold, was taking me to meet Eric. And when I saw him, I was determined to give him a piece of my mind. If he wanted to be with me, he couldn’t just keep pawning me off on his assistants.

  The Town Car smelled like chemicals when I climbed inside, and I realized that Harold must have had it cleaned after I climbed in smelling like a rancid garbage can just a couple of days earlier. The thought made me feel embarrassed. I hated thinking that I had caused someone extra work. I was the type of person who picked up other people’s litter in parking lots—not the kind who dropped it there for some underpaid worker to clean up. At the same time though, I was grateful. The green dress that Eric had given me was gorgeous and perfect, and there was no way I wanted to sully it with the kind of stink that garbage can had emanated.

  As we drove, another thought crossed my mind. It had just been a couple of short days since Eric had discovered me hiding behind that garbage can, and I already felt so close to him. It was possible that we were moving too quickly, and I knew it. Tonight, he would be introducing me to the people that inhabited his word—important people who went to things like fundraisers and donated large sums of money to causes that I had likely never even heard of. I was sure that I was getting in over my head.

  But at the same time, this wasn’t exactly a typical fling—the connection we had that night by the pool all those years ago was unmistakable, and I had known even then that we both felt it. Maybe it was ok to move quickly, under the circumstances. It didn’t help the anxiety that I was feeling at that moment, but something inside me told me that everything was going to turn out ok.

  Eric hadn’t sent me any accessories to go with the green dress, so I had done the best I could with what I had, pairing it with some strappy gold sandals that I usually only wore when I was trying to seduce husbands in bars, and a tiny gold clutch that matched. It was too small to fit anything but my cell phone and a lipstick inside, but I carried it anyway, figuring it was important to look the part of the woman who arrives at the gala on the arm of the charming real estate developer, rather than the private investigator with no fashion sense.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered once I saw him standing at the bottom of the steps of the hotel waiting for me. It was as if all of my fears and insecurities washed away in an instant.

  He cut a striking figure in a tailored black tuxedo, looking like he had just walked off the set of a James Bond movie. I was still upset that he hadn’t picked me up himself, but even my righteous indignation was melting away. He was holding an orchid—not a rose, and not a bouquet, but a single lavender orchid with a long stem, which he offered to me after I climbed out of the backseat of the Town Car and made my way to him.

  “Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” I gushed.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he said, brushing my hair to the side so that he could look into my eyes. My heart skipped a beat. I felt like Cinderella, at the ball, with a handsome prince. Only, I wasn’t about to turn into a pumpkin any time soon. When he kissed me there on the steps, there must have been fifty people around who would see, and ten more who would take our picture and sell it to the tabloids tomorrow, but Eric didn’t care, and I found that I didn’t either. We had stepped into a bubble where nothing could touch us or harm us.

  “Sorenson!” a voice behind me called loudly enough to pull us out of our fantasy, and make all of the well-dressed people there on the steps take their attention off of us to turn and look.

  It was that sweaty sack of shit Charles Fields. And he was holding a gun, shaking, in his right hand. It was clear that he was trying to point it at Eric, but he was moving erratically enough to make the people on the steps run inside the building to get out of the way, while Eric and I were frozen to our place on the sidewalk. Even Harold, who had begun walking around the driver’s side to climb back into the car I had just exited, stopped and stared, his eyes assessing the situation.

  “Mr. Fields, calm down,” I found myself saying. But even as the words escaped my mouth, I knew that it was the absolute worst thing you could say to a person who was very obviously not in the mood to be calm.

  “Miss Silver? What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his attention and his gun turning toward me.

  With the barrel of a gun pointed directly at my head from less than ten feet away, I quickly became far less brave and far more flustered. I didn’t know what to say; I had completely lost the ability to speak, my voice frozen in my chest by the intense fear that resided there.

  “I’m, um…I’m on a date,” I said at last, shooting a quick, furtive glance at Eric, who was still standing next to me, and had grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly in his own.

  “A date?” Fields demanded, adding, “With him?”

  Eric spoke up then, somehow sensing that I wasn’t going to be able to, and when he did, he sounded angry. It struck me that using an angry tone with a man holding a firearm is a bad idea, but I couldn’t say so. I couldn’t say anything. “Yes,” he said, almost shouting, “she’s with me. I’m not fucking your wife, man. She was like an aunt to me when I was a kid.”

  I could see Charles’ face shift, though I couldn’t tell if it was softening, or merely confused. In any case, the gun was now pointed at Eric, and not me anymore, which didn’t make me feel any better about the situation we were in.

  I didn’t have time to think about how I felt, though, because before I could even process exactly what was happening, Harold, Eric’s driver, was leaping through the air to tackle Charles. When he made contact, a loud sound rang out that caused my ears more pain than I ever remember experiencing. In the same moment, Eric must have pulled me to the ground, because I flew backwards, flat on my ass on the concrete in that gorgeous green dress. My right arm, the hand of which Eric had been holding, felt a burst of pain so sharp that I was sure I had broken it on the concrete. But the last thing I remember is Eric’s face. He was looking into my eyes and saying my name. Why was he saying my name? I was confused. My brain felt fuzzy and my eyelids became heavy weights as I drifted off to sleep right there on the concrete at the sound of Eric’s beautiful voice.

  19

  Eric

  From the moment I saw the gun, my only thought was for Grace’s safety. When Fields pointed that gun at her, I could have ripped his head off his body with my bare hands, with all of the adrenaline that was pumping through my veins. But I didn’t. I just pissed him off enough to make sure that he would point that barrel in my direction and leave Grace alone. What else could I have done? I had no idea, but riding in the ambulance, watching the EMT’s try desperately to stop the flow of blood from the gunshot wound in Grace’s arm, I was racked with guilt, and sure that I should have done something more.

  I could have blamed Harold. After the police came and questioned us, I demanded that he tell me why he didn’t just shoot the bastard. But he explained that his gun was in the car and he didn’t think he could get to it fast enough, so he did whatever he could to keep us safe. He threw his body at a man who was waving around a 9mm and wanted to kill me. I couldn’t blame him for that. Though, if the bullet had hit Grace anywhere more serious, I probably wouldn’t have been able to forgive him. Or myself, for that matter. After all, I hadn’t told her what she was walking into. I should have given her the chance to back out of the whole thing.

  But the truth was, I didn’t think that Charles Fields was capable of actually hurting anyone. I didn’t believe that Francine, one of t
he kindest, most careful women I had ever known, would have ever thrown in with someone who was truly dangerous.

  But she had. And now Grace was paying for my error in judgment.

  The doctor said that she was going to be fine, but there’s something about a hospital room and all of those machines that makes someone look anything other than fine. She looked pale and weak, her beautiful auburn hair the only part of her that retained any of its usual life and color.

  I hate the smell of hospitals—that too-clean, too-chemically, too-sterile smell that reminds you of nothing else other than sickness and death. My first memory of a hospital was seeing my grandfather in one, with tubes up his nose and IV catheters in his already frail arms not long before he died. I was only a small child then, and my small child brain somehow thought that the hospital had actually caused him to die, rather than trying to fix him. Many years had passed since then, and while I had grown older and wiser, there was still a part of me lingering in the back of my mind that had a strong distrust of hospitals, and the medical profession in general.

  When I looked at Grace now, I knew she was not going to die. Logically, I knew that she was safe from harm. The police had arrested Mr. Fields, the doctors had removed the bullet and stitched her wound, and the beeping heart monitor clearly announced that she was okay. Yet, I had a very strong urge to unhook her from all the machines, throw her over my shoulder, and rescue her from the hospital like a princess from a tower. I couldn’t trust this place with this person I cared for so deeply. This person I lo—

  “Eric? Is that you?”

  I looked at Grace’s face wishfully, hoping that she was saying the words, but she was still asleep. The sound had come from the doorway.

  “Francine, hello.” I stood to greet her. Whatever pain her husband had caused, it certainly wasn’t her fault. I was actually surprised to see her in the hospital. I didn’t think she even knew Grace.

  “Is it a good time?” she asked tentatively. “I can come back.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, accepting the vase of flowers that she offered to me and setting it on the small table across from Grace’s bed, next to the orchid I had given her, which now had a splatter of dried red blood strewn across its petals. “Let’s go to the hall, though. I want to let her rest.”

  Francine nodded and followed me to the hallway. But when I turned to face her, I could see that she’d begun crying. Silent tears were streaming down her face, and I knew that the moment she broke the silence, they’d come pouring out in waves. “Oh, Eric,” she cried, wrapping her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault!”

  I comforted her before pulling back to talk some sense into her puffy, red face.

  “This is not your fault. It’s his. No one blames you. You shouldn’t blame yourself.” The words coming out of my mouth were trite. I knew, even as I said them, that they would offer her no real comfort. They were just what you were supposed to say in this kind of situation. But that didn’t prevent them from being true.

  “You don’t understand,” she cried loudly, making a few of the nurses in the hallway turn their heads to look at us. “It really is. I’ve been staying out, staying at work late. All of that. It’s no wonder he thought I was cheating on him.”

  “Hey. No. That’s on him,” I told her. “If he couldn’t be a man and ask you what was going on, that’s his issue.” I didn’t know where this advice was coming from; I had never really been one to disseminate sage advice before, but here I was, being someone’s shoulder to cry on, comforting her even when I felt like shit myself. I didn’t know what had come over me. Maybe it was Grace. Or maybe it was the fact that she was lying in a hospital bed. Whatever it was, it made me see the world differently. And I liked it.

  “Still, I feel like I should have done something. I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “Grace is ok,” I reassured her. But I wasn’t sure if I was saying it more for her benefit or mine. I definitely needed to hear those words, too.

  “Good. I’m glad.” Francine hugged me before she left, and it struck me that my own mother didn’t even know that I’d had a close call with a loaded gun. I wondered whether Francine would tell her, but I imagined that it wouldn’t come up. I had no idea how often they saw each other anymore, but I couldn’t see how any conversation that started with “so your son almost got shot…” could end with laughing and cocktails, so I was probably in the clear.

  When I went back into Grace’s hospital room, she was being tended to by a male nurse. I had been so engrossed in my conversation with Francine, I hadn’t seen him go in there, but there he was. And there she was. Awake, and laughing at whatever he was saying to her. A jealousy began brewing inside of me that I didn’t think that I was capable of. Was I like Charles Fields? I banished the thought from my mind as soon as it occurred to me. No. Jealousy was a perfectly human reaction. As long as that jealousy didn’t lead you to do crazy shit like Charles Fields, it was a normal and healthy thing. Still, seeing her share that smile with someone else gave me feelings that I didn’t particularly enjoy or want to replicate. I needed to tell her how I felt about her. And I needed to do it right away.

  20

  Grace

  I awoke alone and confused. I could tell that I was obviously in a hospital room. In fact, I could even tell you what hospital I was in. I would recognize that view out the window anywhere. It was the same view I had stared at day in and day out, while my mother was in the hospital dying of cancer. I had been young then. Too young. And yet, that view had burned itself into my memory like food left in a hot skillet. But I had no idea how I had gotten in the hospital. I was sore all over, practically from head to toe, but there was no part of me that was in significantly more pain than all the other parts. Whatever had happened to me, it seemed that the hospital had me on some decent painkillers—strong enough to leave me feeling woozy, strong enough to dull the pain so that I had no idea where it was really coming from.

  I wasn’t alone for long. Shortly after I awakened, the nurse came in to check on me. His name was Brad, and he was probably close to my age, tall, lanky, and very funny. He came in singing show tunes.

  “You like this job a lot,” I pointed out to him.

  “Giiirrrlll,” he said, dragging out the word like it was an announcement, “you know I do. How else could I meet people like you?”

  “Like me?”

  “Awesome badasses who take a bullet for their man,” he explained. I heard the words that he said, but in my brain they didn’t go together. It was almost as if he were speaking in riddles and I was forced to puzzle out what he really meant.

  But there were no riddles. I had taken a bullet in my right arm. I remembered wearing that beautiful green dress to go to the gala with Eric. Oh my God, that dress. I wondered how much blood had gotten on it in the aftermath of Charles Fields’ deranged gunplay on the steps outside the gala. Everything was coming back to me. Eric. Was Eric okay? Had he been shot too? I asked Brad, who looked at me with a mischievous look in his eyes.

  “You mean that hunk of man meat who has been sitting by your bed all day? I think he’s fine. I mean I know he’s fine, but I don’t think anything happened to him or anything.”

  I laughed at Brad’s response. I could definitely get used to having a guy on my arm who inspired that kind of reaction in people. I knew that Eric was hot, obviously. That’s why I wanted to rip his clothes off every time I looked at him. But it was nice to know that people like Brad felt exactly the same.

  I was laughing almost hysterically when Eric appeared in the doorway, as if he sensed that I was thinking about him. It was amazing how he could just pop up at the most perfect moments. I found myself wanting to experience that—and everything else about him—for a very long time.

  “Mmmmm…Speak of the devil,” Brad said when he realized that Eric was in the room. “I’ll give you two some privacy.” He left the room, but I caught him glance longingly at Eric’s ass as he passed him in the doorw
ay, and couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.

  Eric didn’t notice that he’d just been checked out by the nurse. In fact, he didn’t even take his eyes off me. He just stood there, staring longingly at me, as if I were the only glass of water in a long, hot, dry desert. He was still wearing his tuxedo from the gala, and damn, he looked good in it. There was a big part of me that just wanted to see how much damage we could do to the hospital bed. But there was another, deeper part of me that just wanted him to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be okay from here on out. In truth, I couldn’t make up my mind about what I wanted to do with him. But I wouldn’t have to, because the way that he was walking towards me, it was clear that he was going to take the lead on this one.

  “I’m sorry about the dress,” I blurted, stopping him in his tracks. I couldn’t help it. When I’m nervous, I just say whatever comes to my mind without thinking about it. It can be a dangerous trait. To my surprise, however, Eric simply laughed. His laugh started small and light, like a chuckle, but it soon grew to epic proportions and reverberated off the hospital room walls. He laughed like someone who needed to release something—to get rid of a negative energy that had been plaguing him. If nothing else, I was glad I could give that to him.

  “You’re ridiculous,” he said finally. “I don’t care about the fucking dress. I was worried about you.”

  I did not know how to respond to that, so I just stared at him sheepishly, thinking I didn’t deserve his worry.

  “Don’t you realize that I’m falling for you?” he said.

  I’m sure that my mouth was agape. Of course I hadn’t realized that. I had assumed, based on all evidence, that whatever was going on with us was going to end the moment he met someone hotter or cooler, or jetted off to some exotic locale where he would inevitably meet the kind of hotter, cooler women that he was usually seen with in the tabloids. Of course, I wished that we could continue getting to know each other, but I never really thought for more than a second or two that he would ever feel the same.