Lily and the Billionaire

by Beth Michele

  “This isn’t just any woman.”

  He pulls out a chair and drops down onto it. “Ah, I knew there was a reason you took ten minutes in the shower. You’re usually out in four and a half, which is honestly a crying shame since you have five showerheads and a marble bench.”

  “The fact that you know—”

  “Which brings me to another point,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Why are you reading a book? You have everything you need to attract a woman.” He throws his arms out to the sides. “I mean, look at this place. Plus, you’ve got a driver, billions of dollars, a freaking ninety-two inch television.” He grins. “And you’re halfway decent looking.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I respond matter-of-factly.

  “Seriously, though.” He taps on the book. “What the hell do you need this for?”

  A minute goes by, my mind forming an answer that’ll make sense. “She doesn’t care about any of those things, and I don’t know how to do this. I want her to see beyond all that, because that’s not who I am.”

  “Okay, so show her something different,” he says, like it’s that simple. He takes in the worry stiffening my expression. “Damn, you actually care about this woman.”

  “I do.”

  “Then just do you, man, because really, you’re enough.” He slaps his knee and chuckles. “Damn, I would’ve made a great motivational speaker, don’t you think?”

  “Superb,” I answer dryly.

  “Real nice. So much for having faith in your older brother.”

  “I have lots of faith in you.” I get to my feet, shoving a hand through my still-damp hair. “I have faith that you won’t have a party here while I’m out, and no porn on the TV. Also, stay out of my shower.”

  He takes himself over to the leather sectional and collapses with a loud exhale. “I understand about the party, and maybe the shower, but come on, this is the perfect TV for porn.” My glare is enough to set him straight. “Fine, but you’re no fun.”

  “I’m fun.” But I sound like a fourth grader when I say it, like I’ve got something to prove. Maybe I do—to myself, and now to Lily.

  I gave Scottie the night off.

  Per information I gleaned from the book, I’m trying things the old-fashioned way, but my chest is itchy and discomfort pricks at my skin. It feels as if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, like I’m wandering around in the dark trying to find my way.

  Perhaps I am.

  My feet eat up the pavement as I take in the energy of the city, attempting to relish the spark of life that brought me here in the first place. It’s strange to have lived in this city a good portion of my existence but never appreciate it, never enjoy it. Tonight I’m going to try. I’m peeling back the layers, no longer the man with the weight of a billion-dollar company on his shoulders. Tonight, I’m just an ordinary guy who wants to impress an extraordinary girl.

  A sense of irony overtakes me. Everything is at my disposal, and yet I’m choosing not to use it, a bit like a superhero who has willingly given up his power. A test, perhaps, to see if I can make it on my own. Tonight, I’m an average guy in jeans and a t-shirt, blending in with the crowd. Just another dude in a pair of black loafers, and it feels…different.

  A familiar scent floats into the air around me. As I reach the corner, the source of the smell lures me in. I’m helpless to it, more so because of the memories it stirs. I retrieve my wallet, handing the street vendor a few dollars for another taste of the roasted peanuts. Lily’s smile pops into my head—something else I’m helpless to—and now I’m smiling.

  One bag of peanuts and two subways later, I’m standing in front of her walk-up. Nerves roll around in my stomach like marbles, but they’re the good kind, reminiscent of my days in high school and asking Sofia Carlucci to the ninth grade dance. Jesus, I crushed on her hard. In the end, she said yes, but it was painstaking working up the nerve to ask her.

  I may be a man now, but the feeling is the same. Because fear doesn’t age.

  I glance up the stairwell leading to the girl of…the girl in my dreams. Lily has overtaken me, cast a spell I can’t escape—and I don’t want to escape. I like who I am when I’m with her.

  On a shaky exhale, I climb the stairs two at a time. Five days have gone by since I’ve seen her. We exchanged a couple of texts here and there, but Canada was too hectic for me to dedicate the time she deserves.

  Tonight is all about her.

  When I reach the door, I take a moment. I need more than one, though. My palms are so damp with sweat I have to wipe them on my jeans. Christ, what is the matter with me? Get it together, Jace. A long breath whooshes out of me and then I rap on the door.

  And wait.

  Then wait some more.

  She finally reveals herself and every thought in my head stalls, a blank slate with no words. She is…otherworldly. A green off-the-shoulder dress molds to her curves and settles above her knees. Her hair is in a long, loose braid falling over her bare shoulder, her eyes a field of green I want to get lost in.

  “My God, Lily. You look—”

  “Overdressed,” she finishes, glancing down at herself before drinking me in with an appreciative gaze.

  “I was going to say stunning.”

  She wrings delicate hands in front of her. “You didn’t say what we were doing when you texted, and I just thought…well, I wasn’t sure, so I…” A splash of red paints her cheeks. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s nervous. It’s downright adorable. “Okay, I’ll just stop talking now.”

  Our eyes lock and I take a step closer, fingering her silky braid. “God, I missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” she says, though her words are quieter than mine.

  My lips inch toward hers until I cover them completely. I don’t push my tongue inside. Rather, I linger there, slow brushes, breath mingling. I feel her mouth curve against mine.

  “You smell peanutty.”

  “Mmm…”

  She keeps talking when all I want to do is enjoy the sweetness of her breath, the closeness of her. “Why is that?”

  I move back until we’re eye to eye. “I don’t think you’ll find the word peanutty in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary.”

  A challenging raise of her brow, her nerves all but disappeared. “Maybe not, however you will find it in the Scrabble Dictionary. The answer to my question, Mr. Harlow.”

  I rest my hand on her hip, enjoying the feel of the luscious fabric beneath my fingertips, the shape of the woman underneath. “I might’ve stopped at a street vendor, Miss Conrad.”

  “I thought you didn’t do peanuts,” she says, recalling my words verbatim. That simple fact pleases me immensely.

  “There are a lot of things I didn’t do before that I’m suddenly discovering a penchant for.”

  Our stare holds until her lips twitch into a satisfied smile. “Fair enough.” Then she turns out of my grasp.

  “Wait—where are you going?”

  “To change.”

  “Why?” I question, following her inside. “You look fantastic.”

  Lily ignores my comment, holding up one finger as she disappears down a short hallway. Meanwhile, all at once, I’m hit with her essence. Who she is fills every corner of this space. Paintings line stark white walls. Splashes of color as far as the eye can see offset neutral but oversized pillowy furniture. On a hand-painted table, stacks of art magazines are strewn haphazardly, and, as I look to my left, an entire wall is covered with framed photographs. My feet and my gaze are instantly pulled in that direction.

  Lily. Beautiful Lily. She is everywhere, and easily recognizable. The pictures range from childhood to adult and capture various moments in her life. I glance around again, shaking my head at no one but myself. My penthouse—it’s lifeless in comparison, custom furniture and bare walls. I wonder what she’d think if she saw it.

  Probably something like This is someone who doesn’t live.

  And she’d be right.

  My
gaze is drawn back to the photographs. Staring at them makes me want to know more—every detail, in fact. I want to learn about the Lily Conrad who’s riding a tricycle, who has ice cream dripping down her chin, who won Most Creative and Best Smile.

  “Oh God.” Lily laughs lightly beside me. She holds up a hand to cover her face, but not before I catch the sweet blush layering her cheeks.

  I bump her shoulder and she lets her hand fall. “Tell me everything.”

  “Must I?”

  “Please.” For once, my response is a request, not a demand.

  An exhalation floats up into the space between us. In that one breath, I can feel her nostalgia, her joy. It’s almost tangible enough for me to taste, and fuck, do I want to taste it. I want to feel it.

  “So…” She points to a photo at eye level. “This is me with my mom and dad. I think I was about seven. That’s the porch of the house I grew up in.”

  I examine the photo more closely. “You look just like your mom. Same dark hair and beautiful green eyes.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And that one?” I gesture to a picture of her and an elderly woman standing in front of an easel.

  “That’s from one of my painting sessions at the nursing home.” She laughs. “That’s Mona. She’s eighty-two going on twelve and sharp as a tack. Nothing gets past her.”

  “And who’s that?” I ask, my finger tapping on framed glass.

  “That’s Georgia. I think we were thirteen there. I’m certain we were about to get into some sort of trouble.” From the side, I see her mouth lift. “It’s inevitable whenever we’re together.”

  “You were adorable.”

  “Thanks.” She keeps going, allowing me tiny glimpses into her life. “That’s me and Georgia in Vegas two years ago.”

  “Who’s the guy over your shoulder?” The question comes out light, but there’s fire in my veins. As if I had any right to her then. I barely have any right to her now.

  “Just some guy who was trying to pick me up. He photobombed.”

  Moving right along.

  “What about that one? Next to the car?”

  “That’s right after Georgia got her license.” Her voice carries fondness. “She had saved up forever to buy that beat-up Honda and was so happy. We drove to school in it every day.” She claps her hands together. “Ready to go?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to continue to stare at the wall of Lily.”

  She snorts. “I think you’ve seen enough, haven’t you?”

  I turn my gaze on her, taking in the snug jeans and t-shirt she changed into moments ago. “I think there’s a lot more to see.” She flings me a teasing smile in response, not realizing how serious I am. She’s right about one thing, though: I’ve seen her body, licked it, kissed it, mapped it until the memory of it is permanently etched onto my brain—but what’s beneath all that smooth skin? What makes her heart kick up into a furious beat, makes her smile beam? That’s a whole other story.

  One I intend to learn by heart.

  “So…what are we doing?”

  “Well, I didn’t really make a plan. I thought we could just wing it.”

  “Wing it,” she repeats, and then I realize what a stupid idea that was. When you take a woman out on a date, you’re supposed to take charge and plan ahead. “You want to wing it.”

  “Never mind. I just thought—”

  “That sounds perfect.” She cuts in, slaying all my negative thoughts. With just a few words, she makes me feel like a king. I want more of that feeling. I want more of her. She stands back and sizes me up. “First you show up in a t-shirt and jeans—which, might I say, you’re seriously rockin’—and now you want to wing it? What is happening, Jace Harlow?”

  That’s the billion-dollar question, and it’s a rhetorical one, because she doesn’t wait for an answer. She crosses to the sofa to grab her purse, my eyes following the perfection of her ass in those jeans. Yeah, I want more of that, too.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  “Your ass is perfection,” I tell her, reaching down to lace our fingers together.

  She exhales a boisterous laugh. “Whatever you say.”

  “Speaking of asses—how’s your boss?” My words coax out another laugh as we venture down the stairs and into the night.

  “He’s fine. Same old, same old.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that.” I steer us away from a couple taking a photograph. “He hasn’t changed since we went to business school together.”

  She glances over at me. “So this is an old rivalry then?”

  “Oh yes. We were extremely competitive at Columbia, and it was well known among our peers.”

  A whistle leaves those glorious lips. “Columbia, huh? That’s a hard school to get into. I’m impressed.”

  “Speaking of impressed, did you paint that table in your living room?”

  “Nice redirection.” Her mouth twists. “And don’t you mean the one I finger-painted?”

  I clutch a hand to my chest. “You wound me deeply.”

  “Ha ha, and yes, I did. I found the table at a consignment shop and stripped it down. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw the before and after pictures.”

  “Oh, but I would.” I bring her hand up to my lips for a kiss. “I’m a little in awe of your talents.”

  “I am pretty impressive.” She belts out a hearty laugh. “But seriously, there are a lot of more talented people in the world.”

  I pause my steps to address her. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Downplay how talented you are.”

  A shrug. “Habit. Conditioning. I don’t know.”

  “Take it from someone who excels in drawing stick figures,” I say as we resume our stroll, “you could garner a hefty sum if you sold it.”

  “Georgia has been threatening to steal it since she first saw it. I’ve actually been looking for a desk I can hand-paint so I can surprise her for her birthday.” We pass by a small pizza joint and Lily sucks in a breath. “I smell pepperoni and sauce. God, I love Italian food.”

  “You do?”

  An eager nod. “Yes. I could eat it every night of the week.”

  “I have an idea.” One that will keep the light in her eyes. I like seeing it there, and it feeds this growing hunger inside so I selfishly pursue it.

  I am so out of my league here. In other words, as my charming brother Chaz would say…

  I’m fucked.

  This is so romantic.

  It’s the kind of romantic that makes you want to sigh, and I’m not a sigher.

  Small white lights and leafy green plants dangle from the ceiling, paintings of Italy’s landscape gracing the walls of Paesanos on Mulberry Street. The air is peppered with basil and tomatoes, fresh garlic and the scent of warm bread. Paired with the intimacy of the white-clothed corner table and Jace’s hand—which hasn’t left mine all evening—this feels like one of those romance novels I never have time to read. It definitely feels like someone else’s life.

  I’m alternating between finishing a generous portion of homemade ravioli and stealing glances at Jace, marveling at how easy this is between us. I feel as if I’ve known him my whole life, not a couple of weeks. Our conversation is rich and honest, with no topics off limits and nothing held back.

  “What do you mean, two someones?” I ask on the verge of a laugh.

  A scowl lines Jace’s mouth. “Meaning…I left him alone and came back to find him with not one, but two women.”

  I cover my mouth for fear I might snort. “In your bed?”

  “Hell no.” The corners of his lips smooth into an amused smile. “If that were the case, I would’ve burned it. He was in my shower, actually.”

  Now I can’t hold back. “Oh my God.”

  “Laugh it up,” he says, but now he’s laughing too. “I had to use heavy-duty sterilization products for weeks.”

  “Stop! I’m gonna snort ravioli from my nose.�
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  He clears the humor from his expression. “Now that would be funny.”

  “Chaz sounds adventurous,” I add once I get myself under control.

  “He’s adventurous all right. He drove my mother insane with all his adventures.” Jace idly twirls pasta around his fork. “He’s three years older, but you wouldn’t know it.”

  “You haven’t mentioned your mom much—are you close?”

  “Relatively,” he answers, but he sounds uncertain. “We talk often, but I don’t see her as much because she lives in California.” There’s a far-off look in his eyes. “She always wanted to live by the ocean, so when I had enough money, I bought her a house in Malibu.”

  “That’s very generous,” I supply, and he shakes his head as if he disagrees.

  “After raising nine children, I’d say she earned it. Especially since my father worked nights. They’ve been divorced for a while and he lives in Minnesota now, but she’s really happy. They’re both happier.” He gives my hand a little squeeze. “What about your parents?”

  “They still live in New Jersey, in Englewood where I grew up. I try to get out there for dinner once a month, but they’re very busy. My dad is an attorney and my mom is a doctor, so their schedules are pretty hectic.” My words are nonchalant, though I’m keenly aware of their absence in areas that matter most.

  “You said you got your creativity from your mother, right?” he asks, a genuine curiosity lighting his eyes.

  “Yes, and from my grandfather—my father’s father,” I explain. “He was a painter. He used to love to paint horses and landscapes. He also did very elaborate pencil sketches, which always blew me away. I have several at home. I could…show them to you. I mean, if you want.”

  “I’d love to see them.”

  It’s crazy how much I want him to see the sketches, to see inside my life, the bits and pieces that make up who I am. When did this happen? And the more important question—why am I letting it happen? I should put a stop to it, but the train has left the station now, and I’m not sure that I could…or that I even want to.