LOVING ED: A Billionaire Romance (NIGHT OF THE KINGS SERIES Book 11)

by Shayne Ford

  This has become our daily routine. One, I look forward to.

  My eyes move from the bite-sized desert to my dresses.

  “I may not fit in any of them if I keep eating sweets,” I say jokingly.

  “You shouldn't worry about that,” she says, giving me a quick once over.

  She sinks into a chair and pops a sweet bite into her mouth, pointing to the dresses.

  “What are you dressing for?”

  “Date night.”

  She shifts her gaze to me, chewing slowly.

  “Mmmm.... The rich man in Monaco?”

  I let out a chuckle.

  “Yeah... The rich man in Monaco.”

  “Well, then...” she mutters, taking another dessert from the plate. “You need to have that thing about you... How do French call it? Je ne sais quoi.”

  I steeple my hands on my hips.

  “The rich man is American.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is Europe, babe.”

  The word comes stilted from her mouth, making me smile from ear to ear.

  She grins as well.

  “No, seriously, darling. You’ve never been to Monaco. It’s nothing like America,” she says.

  “How do you know? You’ve never been there either.”

  She waves me off, smiling amused.

  “I don’t need to. I read stuff and use my wild imagination.”

  “You’ve seen too many movies.”

  “Yeah. Probably... But that’s beyond the point.”

  She sighs, giving me another quick once over.

  “At any rate, you should choose something that makes you look like a femme fatale...”

  Pursing my lips, I stare at my fashion choices.

  “Femme fatale, you say...” I mutter, pondering.

  “Mmm-hmm... How long it’s been since you’ve seen each other?”

  “A month.”

  “Definitely, femme fatale. The sex will be hot.”

  I whip my gaze at her, grinning.

  “How can you possibly know? I haven’t heard you once talk about a boyfriend of yours,” I say, picking one of the dresses and looking at it.

  “That doesn’t mean that I don’t have one.”

  I toss her a side glance.

  She curls her lips amused.

  “For now, he’s imaginary.”

  “Oh... That explains a lot.”

  “But I had one,” she says as she rises to her feet, nears the bed and studies the dresses I have on display.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Ditched him.”

  “What did he do?”

  She gestures and creases her lips again.

  “Too much work. I had to teach him a lot of things, but he didn’t learn fast enough. I don’t think he understood what being with someone really meant, so we couldn’t make it work.”

  I look at her intrigued.

  “Was he distant?”

  “No. Quite the opposite. He was clingy at times, and then he’d throw a fit to show me that he didn’t need me. He was changing gears faster than I could care for. I’m not that kind of person. I’m stable. I like things steady. I don’t question anything and don't feel like I need to prove anything. He was permanently tormented by some stupid thing. Sex was good but not enough to keep us together.”

  “Didn’t you look for someone else?”

  “Nah.”

  She shakes her head while nearing the bed and touching the fabric of the dress I’m looking at before she glances at me.

  “The ones I’ve seen so far are like my ex–– too clueless to understand how relationships work.”

  “Oh...”

  “Yeah... How’s your man?” she asks, lifting the dress and holding it against my frame.

  “He’s not my man yet.”

  She searches my eyes for a moment before she tosses the dress on the bed and takes the next one.

  “Would you like him to be your man?”

  “I think so. Yeah... Of course, I would.”

  She studies the second dress but scrunches up her nose displeased.

  “What’s holding you back?” she asks as she drops it on the bed and picks the next one.

  “It’s not me. It’s him. It’s more like... What’s holding him back?”

  “You don’t know?”

  She abandons the last dress on the bed and looks at me while I search for my words.

  “I think I do, but it doesn’t have to do with me, rather his family history. It’s not something that you can change.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. And he’s got better, but he still has some history.”

  She links her hands to her hips as I pick up the dresses and pull different ones from the closet.

  “He, um... Well, he had a hard time to commit to someone,” I say as I shift back to her, one dress in each hand.

  “Player?”

  “Yeah. A bit of that.”

  “But you said that he’s changed somewhat.”

  “Yes, he has. Things are much better now... It’s just that sometimes I fear.”

  “Fear is stupid,” she declares emphatically, prompting me to smile again.

  “I couldn’t agree more, yet it’s still there. For now, things are good, but I’m not so sure if that’s enough for a long-term thing... if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah... I do. You’d like him to propose.”

  My cheeks burn with a blush.

  “I, um... I don’t think I’ve ever thought about that,” I say sincerely.

  She smiles playfully.

  “We all do, babe. When they’re not clingy or stupid, we all have it in the back of our mind. Imagining them being the fathers of our babies...”

  “No, no... It’s nothing like that,” I say, gesturing with both hands. “Never thought about babies either,” I add, chuckling. “No way. I’ve never thought about them when I was married, let alone now.”

  She freezes, an expression of surprise creeping up her face.

  “Married?”

  She looks at me dumbfounded.

  “When did you get married?”

  “Nineteen. I got divorced last year.”

  “Why?”

  “Stuff.”

  I look down to avert my eyes, but she’s not the kind of person to get a hint and drop it.

  “What stuff?”

  I finally look at her as I hand her one of the dresses.

  “He cheated on me and found someone who wanted him for good, so we got a divorce.”

  She flips her hand annoyed.

  “Didn’t I say? Clingy or stupid. Yours was stupid. Mine was clingy. Better with the rich man.”

  I laugh again.

  “The rich man has a lot of power, and he might get bored of me one day.”

  She flashes a bright grin.

  “That’s why you need to be his little femme fatale,” she says with a French accent that is so adorable. “Never let the fire die. That’s the key to keep it going. With the right man,” she says flicking her finger in the air. “My grandma taught me this. She was quite the heartbreaker at her time. She knows stuff.”

  She winks at me while I smile absently, pondering over her words. She swings her gaze back and forth, looking at the two dresses.

  “I’d say something with color,” she mutters, analyzing the dress in my hand. “Not black. It’s too mournful. You need something more alive, sophisticated.”

  She leaves the dress on the bed and starts to pivot away.

  “I have something for you. I never had the chance to wear it because well... I never met the right man or had the occasion,” she says heading to the door.

  A few minutes later she comes back holding a hanger.

  “Try this one on.”

  She hands me a beautiful satin dress. I put it on and spin in front of the mirror.

  It’s a simple cut pencil dress with generous, scooped out cleavage, slim fit sleeves, and long back zipper. There are small cut-ou
t areas on each shoulder highlighted by delicate pieces of jewelry, and little bows. The fabric, a deep fuchsia looks amazing, complementing my hair and eyes perfectly.

  The cut highlights my silhouette, the fabric molding on my waist and hips, having a push-up effect on my bust.

  The look is alluring and sophisticated, reminding me of the Old Hollywood stars.

  “What do you think?” I ask as she takes me in.

  Her eyes light up.

  “Oh, yes... That’s what I’m talking about,” she says running her eyes down on me again. “What say you?”

  “It’s beautiful, but I can’t have it. It’s yours. You never got the chance to wear it,” I say, checking the labels.

  She dismisses me with a flick of her hand.

  “Don’t worry about me. It’s yours. Grandma bought it for me in Paris. She said the dress would bring the occasion. But the occasion never came. I just didn’t have the heart to wear it without an occasion, so I stashed it away. I took it with me, hoping that I’d find my Prince and give it a go. The Prince may never come for me, but he’s already in your life.”

  The warmth of another blush breathes over my cheeks.

  “Okay...” I say with a soft voice just as my phone vibrates with a message.

  I tap the screen and read the text, a small grin curving my lips.

  “Who was that?” she asks, smiling as well.

  I clear my throat.

  “My Prince...” I say quietly.

  “Mmmm... What does he want?”

  I flick my eyes to her, unable to keep my face straight.

  “He wants me to get ready... He sent his private jet to pick me up.”

  Her eyes widen, her hands flying to her mouth as cheers vibrate in the air for a few long minutes.

  15

  THEA

  Hotel de Paris Monte Carlo beams with light.

  The limousine pulls in the front, the doorman rushing to open the door.

  I climb out, straighten my back and take a few steps toward the entrance, strutting on my heels, the short white cloak draped on my shoulders swinging in the evening breeze.

  “Miss Porter?”

  A man different than the doorman and the driver, followed by a bellboy, greets me with a smile.

  “Mr. Preston is held up for a few more minutes, but he’ll be with you shortly in the Diamond Suite,” the man says, smiling at me while the bellboy picks up my suitcase.

  Following Samira’s advice, I dressed up for the trip, fashioning the beautiful satin dress, the soft wool cloak that makes me feel like a princess, and delicate heels.

  According to her, there was no point in showing up in sweatpants. She convinced me that no one would toss me strange glances if I stepped out of the private jet, dressed for dinner.

  Not here, anyway.

  Within moments, I walk into an opulent lobby with crystal chandeliers, marble floor and colonnades, sculptures and luxurious plants.

  The light tumbles through the walls of glass, glowing the warm colors of the interior–– muted orange-red, and cream with golden accents.

  Courteously, the man shows me the way as we slide past the concierge.

  A few minutes later, he opens the door and invites me into a beautiful suite, the windows letting in the nocturnal view of the sea.

  Subtle lights illuminate the mesmerizing decor, the tasteful mix of modern furnishings oozing elegance and comfort.

  Quietly, the man retreats.

  I set my purse on a chair, shed my coat and walk to the terrace. Yachts adorned with glowing lights are moored nearby, or sail quietly in the distance.

  A soft breeze sweeps the balcony, breathing into my hair.

  I spin around and walk back into the suite.

  From a multi-tiered tray that sits on the coffee table, I pick fruit and pop it into my mouth when the door opens. I swallow the piece of fruit, my eyes glued to the door.

  I spot his shoulders first, and then the back of his hair before his profile enters my view.

  Slowly he lifts his gaze, and our eyes meet, my heart already beating in my throat.

  A soft smile lines his gaze as he takes me in, glowing over his clean-shaven face.

  The sensation sweeping through me is phenomenal, filling me with warm anticipation as I imagine the feel of his arms locked around me.

  It’s been so long...

  “Hey, baby,” he says, a few strides bringing him to me.

  A gunmetal gray suit graces his athletic frame, the slight sheen of the fabric suggesting his favorite blend of wool and silk.

  Complementing the color of his suit, an azure tie highlights the impeccable cut of his dress shirt.

  He flashes a grin that makes me weak in my knees, slides his hand to my shoulder, leans to me and gives me a feather-like kiss before he opens his arms and buries me at his chest.

  My arms loop around him.

  “How was the trip?” he asks as we break our embrace.

  “It was good.”

  His eyes slide down, roving over me.

  “You look beautiful,” he says as he lifts his gaze. “Hungry?” he asks when he locks my eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  He takes my hand while I grab my purse before he leads me to the exit and we make the trip back to the lobby.

  Minutes later, we get seated at a table in the three Michelin star restaurant of the hotel.

  For a few moments, we are busy ordering food and tasting wine. Discreet glances come our way as we begin to talk.

  Silently, he registers them before he shifts his focus entirely on me, grinning.

  “How do you like it?” he asks me, lifting his glass of wine to his lips.

  I look around. Quiet conversations echo in the air, punctuated by a woman’s silent laugh once in a while.

  “It’s different,” I say before I set my drink down. “A different world, I mean.”

  “How’s school?” he asks as I raise my eyes.

  There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, a nuance that I catch right away.

  My lips curve into a grin.

  “I’m not a schoolgirl if that’s what you’re implying,” I say, scarlet to my hairline. “Mr. CEO...” I add, humorously as well. “How was your week?”

  “Good. I’m happy with the progress that I’ve made so far.”

  For a moment, we study each other, my eyes roaming over his face and collar, the smooth tie, and the diamond cufflinks sparkling at his sleeves.

  I get lost in the image for a moment, my mind sifting through images of the past, distant and recent. It’s not the first time we find each other in this kind of situation.

  Sitting across from each other or next to each other at a table, surrounded by beautiful decor, in a place that’s mesmerizing and always different than the last.

  For a second, I revisit those memorable moments when it was either the winter reigning outside, and the snow slowly falling, or the Californian sun kissing our cheeks. The Casino Hotel, the log cabin, Red’s, The Crown. The penthouse suite in LA.

  And now this.

  With every place, something happened to us.

  With every place, we move closer to each other.

  With every place, we morphed into something different. Perhaps better.

  He’s as handsome as he’s always been, but I no longer sense an edge in him or the restlessness that he used to harbor.

  The games are gone as well.

  He no longer plays them with me, and I no longer fear that a word or an awkward moment could make me see a different man in him.

  In time, he lost the facade of the man who claimed that he was ‘always happy.’ With it went the carelessness and the permanent thrill-seeking that characterized him for so long.

  He shows me a different side of him now. Sometimes, he’s sad while other times he’s happy. Sometimes, he wants to talk while other times he stays silent.

  Sometimes, he looks at me and simply grins, because
he doesn't need the words to express how he feels.

  I, on the other hand, reached the point where I began to live, cherishing every moment, enjoying every second, diving deep into the reality of every day, embracing it without questioning it–– as Aiden used to say.

  And Ed said it to me as well.

  My fears and impulses no longer shape my actions, and my thoughts no longer get scrambled, fueled by my anxiety.

  I like to listen to him and learn from him, and I taught myself not to look around the corner and always pretend that I know every little thing that is about to happen.

  A change is visible in the way I look as well if nothing else for the fact that he brought up a different woman in me.

  If in the past, he used to look at me, curious and intrigued, perhaps ready to set a trap for me and watch me stumble, now he gives me the silent stare of a man fascinated with a woman.

  The food arrives within moments shattering my inner thoughts.

  Our focus shifts to the delicious food while we begin talking about his business and then my adventures in Istanbul.

  I show him pictures as well and introduce my new friends, Samira, and a few colleagues.

  I show him the photos I took around the city–– snapshots reflecting the life, the people and the culture.

  Several of them captured the spectacular sunsets glowing against the city skyline.

  His eyes linger on a photograph of the Maiden’s Tower, a small building rising on a small islet in the middle of the water at the southern entrance of Bosphorus Strait.

  “This is Kiz Kulesi,” I say as his eyes glint with a soft smile. “The Maiden’s Tower...” I mutter, my lips creasing into a melancholic grin as well. “The view at the top is amazing...” I continue as he gets a glimpse of the next picture. “Several legends are circulating in connection with the Tower, but one story in particular breaks my heart.”

  He tips his gaze at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “The place is also called Tower of Leandros after another popular legend. Although wrongly attributed to this tower, this old tale relays the tragic love story between Hero, an Aphrodite priestess, and the man she fell in love with, Leandros, the young man who swam to the tower every night so that he could be with her. She held a torch out for him to guide him every evening, yet one stormy night the wind blew out the light, and he lost his way, drowning in the surrounding waters. Stricken with grief, Hero threw herself from the tower and found her end as well...” I mutter, my eyes sliding to the next picture. “The view is breathtaking,” I say as he sifts through several snapshots we took on the islet–– Samira and me in the restaurant eating and drinking coffee, and then both of us at the top of the tower on the terrace, watching the sunset, Bosphorus straight and both sides of the city that sits on two continents.