Just Friends: A Summer Fling With A Billionaire Heir

by Cynthia Dane

  Zack barely knew who these people were.

  “Your mother had a rather brilliant idea recently,” Isaiah said at the end of his spiel. “One of her friends from college – Ramona Huxley, don’t know if you remember her – has a charming and very pretty daughter who is about to start her junior year at William & Mary…”

  Zack had to restrain the eyeroll threatening his skull. “Alesia Huxley, right?”

  “Yes! So you know her?”

  “I dated her last year, Dad.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. For a whole two weeks before we mutually decided to end it.” Zack took a large bite out of his sandwich. “So if you’re thinking of setting me up with her, I can already tell you that it’s not going to work out.” He swallowed, refusing to choke on the bit of sundried tomato that threatened his windpipe.

  “Zachary,” his father said, moody visage unwavering, “you’re thirty years old and still acting like you’re twenty. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re not getting younger.”

  “Come on, Dad, you’re acting like I’m your aging daughter with the dusty uterus instead of your virile son who doesn’t have the fate of the family hanging over his head, anyway.”

  Isaiah inhaled a breath deep enough to choke on. “Your oldest brother…”

  “Is going to marry one of the prettiest, wealthiest single women in New York, I know, I know. I’ll make sure to be at the wedding and in all the pictures.” Zack wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “And Evan will probably marry the daughter of an up and coming Chinese businessman to solidify those ties.”

  “Zachary.”

  “What do you want from me? I’m not inheriting the company. I’m not your only son.”

  `Isaiah laid a firm hand on the table. Not intimidating, not strong, but firm. The man was not interested in sending the fear of God into his son. What he wanted was to catch Zack’s undivided attention, knocking him off whatever train of thought he had hitched a ride on.

  “You do not have many expectations, no,” he softly said. “But the ones you do bear are still as important as your brothers’.”

  Zack sighed. “I’m not interested in heiresses, Dad. I’m sorry. I’ve dated plenty, both to your knowledge and outside of it. They’re fun, but way, way, way too intense for me.”

  “I don’t mean in making us more business and financial connections, Zachary, although your mother and I certainly wouldn’t turn them away.”

  Something sour went down Zack’s throat. “Then what?”

  “Your mother may be more rigid about this than I am, but ultimately, all I really care about is you maintaining some decorum in your personal life. Our business hinges on us having good standing with the buyers of the world. Buyers who have their own rigid standards for how our family should act. I don’t care who you date in the end.” He drank from his glass. “But I want to make it clear that any and all antics must be reined in. You are not twenty-one anymore. You are thirty. Just because you are the youngest of three sons does not mean that you can have any image that you want. Being a Bohemian is all well and good in certain circles, Zachary, but at some point you must settle down.”

  Zack could barely believe his ears. “I didn’t think I was that crazy…” He knew his parents did not approve of how often he showed up in the tabloids, where every so-called journalist and internet comment speculated who he was dating next and what kind of drugs he did to fuel his libido and creative energy. They did not care that he spent his adult life thus far doing “art,” but the fact he made decent money from it and received some acclaim from the art world’s toughest critics canceled out some of the more embarrassing aspects of saying, “This is Daniel, the good Firstborn who will soon be marrying a princess. This is Evan, the ambitious rugrat now tearing up the business world across the globe. And this is Zack… he… paints pictures of naked people.”

  “Is this coming from Dad the steel magnate, or Dad the concerned father of three?”

  “When you reach my position, Zachary, it’s both. I must always consider the image of our family, but contrary to what you may currently believe, I want my children to be accomplished and satisfied. I remember what it was like to be your age.”

  “You were married by my age.”

  “Only recently married. We didn’t have Daniel until I was in my thirties.” Isaiah waved off the approaching waiter. He didn’t continue until he was sure they had more privacy. “But I was single and in my twenties once. I dated my fair-share of women, including those my own parents would have never approved of… and they were the liberal ones compared to my Grandmother, who insisted I marry a good, formerly Jewish woman.”

  Zack scrunched his nose. “How is that possible?”

  “Conceal it like my grandparents had.”

  I can’t believe I told Rachel about the Feldsteins. It was a hush-hush secret when Zack was growing up, although he couldn’t understand why his grandmother honored the traditional Jewish holidays in her chambers but acted like Christmas was the only winter holiday in public. My generation doesn’t care as much, right? Daniel and Evan had never shown any interest in their Jewish heritage, and neither had Zack. If any of them married a Jewish woman, it would have been complete coincidence. Not like Great-Grandmother Feldstein was still alive to relish it.

  But he also knew that he was not supposed to ever bring it up. Definitely not around the press, because there were families that would treat them differently, whether it was socially acceptable or not. Another thing Zack found deplorable about the class he had been born into. Who cared what anyone’s religion was? How many “recovering Catholics” had he met through the years? There was more than one affluent Muslim family holding their heads up high at the country club and shooting dirty looks back at the people who glared at them first. The Singaporean Wu family who kept their American home near the Feldman estate flaunted their wealth and sophistication every chance they had. The upper class – and the beyond superior class, like the one Zachary and his neighbor Kathryn Alison were technically children of – was slowly becoming more and more diversified whether the old guard approved of it or not. But Isaiah Feldman would grit his teeth to have someone outside of the family bring up his supposed heritage. “My great-grandparents were Slovenian, this is true,” he once curtly told a nosy journalist. “But they had the understanding that this is America, and the past doesn’t matter. My own genetic makeup is remarkably German thanks to my grandmother and mother, thank you.” He left out the Polish woman his own grandmother had married. And his Ashkenazi German mother. Or so the family legends declared. Henrietta Feldman’s family – who had fled Nazi Germany, ahem – was from Berlin, and that was all anyone said about that.

  Zack’s mother was a smattering of German as well. She loved pointing that out.

  The lies people like my family tell. Zack was not raised in the Jewish faith. If he had children, they would not be either. By the next generation of Feldmans, it could very well be completely erased from the family history books.

  Was that okay? Were they treating it as a blemish, or one of those things people grow away from after raising children in America?

  Zack looked away from his father’s glistening blue eyes. “I don’t show up in the papers on purpose,” he finally said. “Regardless of what Mom may insist. I’m living my life. I happen to enjoy the company of women. I admit I’ve made a few blunders in the type of women I date. But like you said, Dad… you know what it’s like to be single in your twenties.”

  His father cocked his lips into a ruthless grin. “Probably even better these days. Back in mine, we had to be a bit more diligent.”

  “Ah, but now we have social media and more technologically advanced paparazzi. So while women are sexually freer than ever, everyone else knows about it too.”

  They toasted their drinks to that.

  “Don’t have any illegitimate siblings out there, do I?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Isaiah lowered his v
oice. “But between you and me, I hear I have a half-sister out there somewhere.”

  “No way. Not Pop spreading his seed like a dandelion.”

  Isaiah shrugged. “I never heard more than a few whispers growing up. If she exists, she’s either dead or so hidden away she may not even know who she is.”

  What a blasé way to say that about his own supposed sister. “Does Uncle Roy know?”

  “Ah, your uncle…”

  ‘He’s in town, you know. Got in about a week ago. Have you seen him yet?”

  “I can’t say he’s stopped by the house.”

  Zack rolled his eyes. While both of his parents had blue eyes, everyone told him that his more resembled his mother’s light sky blue ones instead of his father’s deep cerulean blues. Can’t say I’ve ever stared at them for myself. “He’s not going to, either. You could send a whole parade to grab him off his yacht and he would go down with the biggest fight you’ve ever seen.”

  Isaiah’s lip twitched. “Yes. He is rather stubborn like that.”

  “You should go down to the marina and see him. Besides! You haven’t seen the changes I’ve made to the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.”

  “I’m sure she’s delightful, son.” Isaiah left it at that. Like with art, he didn’t share the same passion for the marina life. He was far more likely to go to the opera with Daniel or an antique car show with Evan. Boating had skipped a generation and fell upon Zack’s shoulders.

  And Isaiah was as stubborn as his big brother Roy. Except where one was too stubborn to give up on the family business, the other was too stubborn to ever go back. Sometimes I swear I will never forgive my uncle for abdicating his rightful inheritance and making my father the supreme ruler of Feldman Steel. What kind of life would Zack have lived if he truly grew up the youngest son of the youngest son in a world where only the oldest truly mattered?

  “Whatever happened to the young woman you were dating in undergrad?”

  Zack, who had almost finished his sandwich, suddenly lost his appetite. “Why are you bringing her up?”

  “Because she’s the last woman I remember you being serious about.”

  “You’re sounding more like Mom right now.” Who was this man? Since when did Zack’s father consider himself that invested in his youngest son’s love life?

  “I’m guessing by that tone that it didn’t end well.”

  “She cheated on me, Dad.”

  Isaiah sighed. “I seem to recall now.”

  “Yeah, bit of a sore spot, huh?”

  “Son,” Zack’s father continued to shake his head. “Enjoy your youth, but don’t let your past hold you back from embracing your future.” He stood up, coat slung over his arm. “I need to go.”

  Zack was left to stare at the wall after his father showed himself out. A lunch discussing his past, his future, and all the shit in between? Sounded like the kind of thing he needed a friend to help recover from.

  Usually, he would have called Seth and demanded they go out drinking. That day, however, he had other ideas.

  Chapter 13

  “Three… two… one… go!”

  Rachel’s voice was lost to the gathering crowd in the bar, but Zack heard her well enough to know when to knock back their second drink of the evening.

  He had texted her Sunday night to suggest they go out. Too bad I conveniently had an excuse to avoid him. Rachel went out of town to visit her mother and only got back Tuesday night. She told him that the reason she couldn’t get back to him was because she had shit reception at her mother’s place. In reality, she had been avoiding the awkwardness speared between them.

  They could hardly call themselves just friends anymore. Did platonic friends sleep in the same bed together? Wake up in each other’s arms like it was the most normal thing in the world? How many women can say that they’ve slept with him without having sex with him?

  Not many, probably.

  She couldn’t put off responding to him by Tuesday night, though. So she responded with a cheery Hey! and agreed to go out for food and drinks with him Wednesday night, assuming she was caught up with her work.

  She wasn’t. Caught up with her work, that was. There were two pages that still needed translating. But for some damned reason Rachel rushed through a shower and bolted out the door five minutes late because she spent more time picking out a blouse than she did brushing her long hair.

  Zack had insisted that they chase their Mexican dinner with drinks at a local pub, his treat (like dinner had been.) He had shown up in a red flannel shirt and the same pair of khaki-colored cargo shorts he always wore. The sandals hadn’t changed, either.

  But he hadn’t shaved since the last time Rachel saw him. Trimmed the quickly-growing facial hair, but not shaved.

  Rachel was not a facial hair woman. Or at least she didn’t think she was. Flannel and facial hair screamed lumberjack, and she wasn’t into it on men or women. She liked her partners clean shaven. Not that Zack was a partner, of course. They had proven that they could be platonic (really, had they?) and now every topic was fair game once a few drinks were in them.

  Naturally, they talked about their love lives. The more absurd the story, the better.

  “So he said he would call me back if he hadn’t regretted the night we spent together.” Pretzels fell out of Rachel’s mouth as she recalled the last time she bothered to sleep with a man. “Suffice to say, I have not heard back from him, and I don’t give a shit.”

  “You dodged a bullet, honey.” Zack shoved a handful of pretzels into his mouth and continued to talk while debris fell from his lips. “Bet he had a tiny dick too. Those smug fuckers always do.”

  You would know, huh? Rachel propped her elbow up on the table and signaled a catastrophically small size with her forefinger and thumb. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Atrocious. If a man is gonna run around fucking women with little peckers, the least they could do is be otherwise excellent.”

  “Right? That’s what I’ve been saying.” In her head, anyway. “All right. Your turn. Tell me about the last woman you fucked.”

  That was not something she ever thought she would say to a man she was alone with, friend or not. We’re doing this, though, right? Friends who spilled their guts. Friends who interpreted intimacy as sharing their feelings and experiences as opposed to rubbing their genitals together. The more Rachel thought of her relationship with Zack that way, the easier it was to listen to him talk about a woman who held no qualms over spreading her legs for Zachary Feldman. Let alone from his point of view.

  “I think her name was Cathy. Or maybe it was Crissie. I honestly don’t remember anymore. Jesus, I’m getting drunk.” A man who blinked that hard was either going to give himself an aneurysm or crack up laughing. Zack chose the latter. “Met her at someone else’s party. I go to a lot of parties. I probably should stop.”

  Rachel signaled for the passing waitress to bring them another round of drinks. After that, she was capping herself off. “Go on. You do her good, right?”

  “Honestly?” Zack leaned in, voice lowered and breath stinking of the liquor he and Rachel were pumping into their systems. “I don’t remember that well. Maybe I’m too drunk right now. Maybe I was too drunk back then? Woof.” His eyes lowered, sleepiness claiming him. Come on, third drink, wake him back up! How could he get sleepy now? Was this why it wasn’t that good with Crissie, or whatever her name was? Did he fall asleep on her halfway through? “All I remember is that she had breasts carved by God.”

  The third round of drinks appeared before them. Rachel snatched hers up, relieved that Zack wasn’t giving himself glowing reviews about how he was in bed. Even if he were playing himself up as the biggest Casanova in the world, Rachel didn’t need to hear that level of self-fellation. Because it would make me too jealous. The drinks weren’t helping that much.

  “To us being the coolest people in town.” Zack held up his drink. “Getting laid and getting paid.”

  “Uh, sur
e.” Rachel couldn’t help but laugh as they clinked their glasses together. What was that even supposed to mean? She wasn’t getting laid much. Nor was she getting paid much. Zack held the cornerstone on that. “So, um…” Drinking made her a little bold. Bold enough to ask more personal questions she may not have otherwise asked. “How many people do you sleep with on average?”

  “On average? Come on. What does that mean? Every month?”

  “Uh, sure.” She was thinking yearly, maybe, but hey, if he wanted to out himself as one of the biggest philanderers in New England, he could be Rachel’s guest. “Every month.”

  “Eh. Two to three. One if I happen to see the same girl more than once.” Zack shrugged, as if that were a perfectly acceptable number. Not that I have a problem with it… but Jesus… I can’t even imagine getting laid with that many different people that often. It wasn’t merely a gender difference, either. Rachel knew that she wasn’t as conventionally attractive for her gender as Zack was. Women probably flocked to him. God knew Rachel’s eye had been instantly drawn to him the moment he walked into Opal’s. He could get almost any woman he wants. Except her, apparently. Was that why he kept hanging around her? Playing the long game in the hopes of winning her over? But why?

  “Two a month since…?”

  “Lost my virginity at sixteen. Look at me, an average statistic at one thing.”

  “That’s… way over a hundred women.”

  “It’s gotta be lower than that… I said average… wait… sorry, can’t math when I’m intoxicated.”

  Rachel couldn’t math intoxicated or sober. Even so, she was able to figure that out pretty quickly. Two a month in a year was twenty-four. Twenty-four in a decade was… way over a hundred. Two hundred? Was it two hundred?

  She had heard of those who slept with so many people in their lifetimes, but this was ridiculous. The only thing she judged him for was acting so nonchalant about it. How many of those women could he not remember? Compared to how many couldn’t forget him? I know I would never be able to forget him. Even if they had met up and hooked up once, Zack was the kind of unforgettable guy who burned himself into a woman’s long-term memory. Meanwhile, he could barely remember the last woman he slept with.