Queen: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 3)

by Meg Watson

  The space was set up with a labyrinth of portable walls that could be repositioned to create and recombine new spaces out of this one large space. They acted as interconnecting galleries, ultimately suitable for almost anything I could put in here.

  The movable walls came up to ten feet in height, leaving the other eight feet or so wide open above them and hung with flexible banks of daylight-adjusted, power-efficient LED bulbs. Eventually, I could use the whole space for perhaps a larger or more magnificent installation, but for now everything would end up with the galleries in the configuration that workmen had positioned them.

  The sound of hammering and sawing and the occasional motorized screech of a drill filled the air like orchestral music, with Julie next to me as the perky piccolo.

  "The inspectors will be here by the end of day today and since everything passed on the pre-inspection last week I really don't expect any problems,” she was chattering. I nodded and pulled my suitcases behind me as we worked our way to the warehouse.

  “Just about everything is here,” she continued, “and the hanging system will be installed in the rest of the galleries by the end of the day…”

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “Well then just start hanging, I guess,” I said, shrugging, wondering why she was saying it like that.

  She blanched.

  “But no I can't? Remember?”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “My vacation? I'm leaving this afternoon and I could… Oh, you know what, just never mind, I'm sure we can reschedule it…”

  “Oh no!” I responded. “Oh no, of course not. You go! I'm sorry that I didn't remember. I've been so busy trying to keep everything straight in my head…”

  She fluttered her eyelids as though she was on the verge of passing out.

  “Really, Julie, everything is just about done! I'm sure that I can requisition some overtime and have the entire thing hung before Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”

  I beamed at her proudly. I had gotten really good at doing things like requisitioning overtime and booking massive billboard campaigns. Every other cab that passed by us on Michigan Avenue had a placard on top promoting our show for next week. I got a thrill every time I saw one.

  It was sort of risky, I had to admit, since we hadn't gotten the official go-ahead to open the doors yet, but it sure was fun to put the Jacks’ massive spending power to work.

  “Only if you're sure,” she insisted.

  “I am totally sure. Beyond sure. Have a great time! So, if you're out this afternoon, who is my contact after the inspector leaves? In case there are any issues?”

  Her coral colored lips parted and I heard the words but somehow they didn't make any sense to me.

  “Ms. Avery has agreed to be on site. I'm sure she can handle any issues the inspector comes up with, but I really don't expect —”

  “Ms. Avery.”

  “That's right,” she stammered, her nose twitching like a bunny. “She’ll be here all weekend.”

  “Great,” I croaked convincingly. “That's just great.”

  As if on cue, Whitney came galloping around the corner with a sheaf of papers in her hand. She held them out toward Julie and then stumbled as soon as she saw me, her eyes rounding into frightened discs in the middle of her face.

  Just stand here. Do not run away from this woman.

  I let my gaze go unfocused which seemed like a reasonable compromise between looking away in disgust and having to look right at her. Instead I pitched my eyesight somewhere about 20 feet behind her head and then kept it there.

  I could sort of see her moving her face as though not really sure I was looking at her or not. And I have to admit I kind of enjoyed that. It's amazing, the subtle ways that you can fuck with people.

  “Ah, Julie,” Whitney said, her voice falling to a hoarse whisper, “I have the permit application here… It was, uh, with my other paperwork.”

  Julie held out her hand for the papers as they were offered, her eyes flickering furtively between Whitney and me. She clutched them to her chest like a life preserver.

  “I have to leave these with the foreman!” she squeaked. I cursed her name as she scurried out of the warehouse and back to the front of the gallery.

  Whitney's mouth opened several times before she actually made a sound.

  “Bree,” she started. Then she waited, presumably to see if I cut her off and walked away like I had every other time. Instead I said nothing.

  “You’re not answering my calls,” she muttered, then waited.

  I breathed in and out like a Buddhist frikkin monk.

  “Bree, I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I just want to say… Well, I never meant for you get hurt. But looking back I realize that was the only thing that was going to happen for sure. And that was extremely selfish of us. I know that."

  I ground my molars together to keep myself quiet.

  “I just… I just wanted to tell you how much we appreciate how mature you've been through all this. I mean, you could've gone totally batshit crazy girlfriend on me and that would've been fine… But you just have too much class for that, which is what I told him the whole time. I mean, I told him that we should tell you. But there was never a right time. You were always so busy…”

  I was always so busy keeping his mangy business afloat so he could fuck you. That's where I was busy.

  “You know, honestly, I don't think Carl ever really give you enough credit. I mean, you basically built Carl's business —”

  That's what I'm saying!

  “— and yeah, sometimes people fall out of love. But he had so much respect for you, he was really always in awe of you. You must know that… I think he was just too scared to admit how weak we had been.”

  I blinked, finally drawing her into focus. The way she was talking to me, it was like she didn't even know me. But really, that wasn't such a bad thing because the person she was describing was a hell of a lot cooler than I ever felt.

  I tried to see what she was seeing; to see myself as a stranger. I was an elitely educated woman who had rolled up her sleeves to save her boyfriend’s business without complaint or giving the attitude that I was better than that job. Did that make me tough? Is that how she saw me? I didn't really know.

  Frankly, as the days went by I was finding it harder and harder to continue giving a fuck, either.

  She twisted her fingers together nervously. I stared at her like she was specimen in a zoo. Her rusty upper lip twitched as she shifted from foot to foot, apparently waiting for me to say something.

  We hadn't really been good friends, I had to admit, though somehow I felt like I had ownership over all the female friendships in the relationship that Carl and I had cultivated together. She sort of came with the condo, along with Mike and Chad (our preppy gay neighbors) and Mrs. Lucek (the Polish busybody downstairs). We’d only hung out a few times over cocktails in the tiny walled patio.

  I wracked my brain: was there ever a sign? Did he favor her margarita over mine when we sat on the concrete patio in metal mesh chairs? Why didn’t I pay attention? After the other times I had uncovered his cheating, why wasn’t I more vigilant?

  Melita would know. I wished I could ask her.

  Hey Melita, why didn’t I keep a closer eye on Carl? Why didn’t I notice he had a new girlfriend right under my nose? Was I really that checked out of the relationship? Is Whitney… right? If he fell out of love, did I fall out of love too?

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  Why did I feel so safe? I knew Carl was vain and self-centered. I knew he was obsessed with his appearance and constantly checked the eyes of women we passed to see if they were checking him out. Knowing that, why didn’t I watch him like a hawk?

  Mostly, I think it was too damn tiring. I gave up. And I wanted to feel safe in my circle. Whitney was in that circle and I expected all the women to be sort of on my side. So, yeah, we weren't that close… We weren't Bree-and-Melita close. But she was in my c
ircle, dammit. I still felt that she had betrayed me almost as much as he had.

  Then again, obviously these twits deserved each other.

  So what do I deserve?

  I nodded slowly with my lips pressed together as though I was really considering what she had said. I tried to play the words over in my mind but frankly they just slipped like sand through my fingers. I had other things to think about, and now she was getting in my way. I wanted to salute her, almost.

  My hand rose to the side of my face and sort of hung there for a moment. I wasn’t sure if it was making a palm-out Stop gesture, a nervous hair-push, or trying to flip her the bird. After a few seconds it fell back to my hip and I nodded once, then turned around and walked away without saying anything. I had no time for detours, and I didn’t really know what to say anyway.

  Thanks for the springboard, Whitney Fucking Avery. Thanks for the jetpack into orbit.

  I realized as I walked back through the gallery that I was sort of happy to have her gone from my world. And I was definitely happy to not have to share my cool new future with a man who would treat me like this. He didn’t deserve me. He really didn’t.

  So what did I deserve? That's what I was going to find out.

  CHAPTER 4

  The blast of cool air that hit me as soon as I walked into the lobby of the Jacks’ building chilled my thin t-shirt all the way through to my skin. I shoved my thumbs in the front pockets of my dark-washed jeans and stood near the door for a few seconds, wondering how I was going to get up there to see them.

  Before I could formulate a plan, the security guard came out from behind his desk and walked toward me.

  “Ms. Colson,” he said politely, his voice reasonably hushed so that it carried distinctively across the marble space without booming, “are you here to see Mr. Jack? I can show you to the private elevator.”

  I nodded uncertainly, glad that he had offered the answer before I had formulated how to ask the question. He bowed his head and began striding diagonally across the space. I followed behind, grateful for the cool breeze on my t-shirt. It's so hard to stay fresh in Chicago in the middle of summertime.

  As he rounded the corner into a small, dead-end hallway, I couldn't help but notice that my mouth had suddenly gone dry and my pulse was thudding against the pit of my throat.

  I can't tell if I am turned on or terrified.

  The guard placed his palm against a charcoal black panel and then took a half step back. He smiled politely for me with his hands clasped in front of his hips. I nodded once, trying to appear as though this is exactly the procedure I expected.

  After a few moments, the elevators doors slid silently open and he took another step back with his hand out, indicating that I should go in.

  “Thank you," I mumbled as the doors slid closed again, but he was already gone.

  There were only two buttons on the panel next to the door, up and down. I felt the elevator shooting upward and had to fight to breathe. Dimly I knew that there was music playing in the car, but all I could hear was the sound of the blood in my ears.

  When the door slid open again, I had to force my legs to move. The room was enormous and lit on two sides by tall, floor to ceiling windows that met at the corner. The whole space was flooded with sunlight and almost as big as their penthouse apartment. I stared into it for a few seconds, not really processing what I was looking at. But when I commanded my legs to walk me forward and heard the elevator closing behind me, I realized that I was not alone.

  Behind a large, carved desk the size of a formal dining table, Owen stood with his back to the windows. One hand was steepled against some papers in the middle of the desk, and the light behind him reddened the outline of his unmoving form.

  I had to stop for a few seconds and just drink it all in.

  “Brienne,” I heard his voice from across the room, low and cautious.

  How have I waited this long to see him? It feels like… a lifetime.

  I swallowed hard and managed an inelegant smile, then walked a few paces toward him. When I open my mouth to say something, I found my tongue seemed to be paralyzed against the back of my teeth.

  He pushed his hand through his hair and it fell smartly back into place. I watched the outlines of his torso underneath the bright borders of his shirt. My fingers twitched and burned with longing.

  “I got your emails,” I started hoarsely, opening my hands and walking cautiously toward the desk. The closer I got the louder my heartbeat sounded, and I was gripped with fear that he could hear it too.

  He nodded and glanced toward the floor.

  "Oh, you didn't have to come in,” he said with a mild scowl. “You could've just called.”

  “But I wanted to,” I said in a quavering voice.

  I reached the other side of the desk and laid my fingers against it, happy to have something to hold me up. I could barely make out his face because the sunlight behind him cast him in shadow but I saw his eyes flicker toward me.

  “That's… nice to hear, actually,” he said in a low voice.

  I blinked and took several deep breaths, trying to understand what was happening. Every part of me wanted me to jump on top of the table and crawl toward him.

  “You asked me for status,” I said, falling nervously into what I hoped sounded like professional patter. “Everything has been successfully prepared, with the exception of a few changes that I needed to make to the floor plan. But everything is on schedule, and the adjustments were rather minor.”

  He nodded silently, his eyes downcast.

  I chewed the inside of my lip. “Did you… Would you like this in writing, or something?”

  His aquamarine eyes flickered up to me, startling me with their intensity.

  “That won't be necessary.”

  “I've drafted an invitation,” I continued, hearing the confidence in my voice crumbling slightly. “I was hoping that you would be able to distribute the invitation for the opening next Friday. To your contacts, I mean.”

  The muscles at the back of his jaw knotted and unknotted a few quick times. I took two deep breaths, one right after the other, trying to crush rising feeling of panic in my gut.

  “Owen?"

  His nostrils flared and he nodded as if to himself then stood up straight.

  “Did I — is something wrong?”

  He finally met my eyes and I almost wanted to flinch backward. The connection was so intense I could practically hear it in the air.

  “That's what I wanted to ask you,” he replied.

  “I don't know what you mean,” I said in a low voice, practically a whisper.

  His arms folded in front of his chest, and I felt as though an invisible wall slid down between us.

  “I haven't — we haven't heard from you in days. I don't even know if you like the space. I don't even really know what you're doing at the space… I just thought we would have more to talk about.”

  “Oh my god, Owen, I love the space,” I babbled in a rush. The panic that rose in my belly swiftly transformed into remorse and guilt. I stumbled around the end of the desk trying to reach him as he looked at me from under his knitted eyebrows.

  “You didn't say anything,”

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  What did I do? Why didn't I say anything?

  “You're right…” I admitted freely, wishing I could go back and redo everything. How could I explain? “I've just been in a mad rush. I wanted to get everything together for you, so it would be perfect when you saw it.”

  Now I was standing only a foot away from him, suddenly sweating and panting like I had run up all the stairs to get here. “Owen, I just wanted time to prepare. I want you to be… I don't know, impressed?”

  Oh my God, why am I so terrible at this?

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded avidly. “I'm absolutely sure. I'm sorry, I just wanted the chance to gather myself, you know, professionally. This whole thing has caught me at a bit of a disadvantage —
”

  “— are you sure this doesn't have anything to do with Carl?” he interrupted.

  I blinked into the silence between us. His arms folded across his chest again. I swallowed hard.

  “Oh. Yes… I guess you know about Carl.”

  “It's my job to know things.”

  Your job. It’s your job.

  I stood up taller, embarrassed as though I had fallen into some kind of professional trap. It sounded for a moment there like he was disappointed. Like he was emotionally invested. But of course not, it was just silly of me to think that.

  It's just a job, Brienne. Get yourself together.

  “All right. Um. I was a little surprised the Carl and Whitney have the space next door on Michigan Avenue,” I said in a coolly professional voice, waving one hand in the air as if to brush away any sense of impropriety. “But I can assure you this is not a problem going forward. I really appreciate everything that you have done for me. This opportunity couldn't have come at a better time in my life. I really think that you're going to enjoy the gallery opening. I've always want to pull together something of this sort, and with your resources suddenly everything is possible —”

  I faltered, the words catching in my throat. His lips pressed together into a hard line and suddenly I felt like I wanted to cry, like I was breaking up with him by mistake. I tried to catch his eye but he had gone icy and I just stood there for long seconds, breathing in and out through my nose, trying to find a way backward in the conversation to some point where I could start over.

  “Owen?”

  His eyes seemed to be darting everywhere but at me.

  “Remember the conversation that you didn't want to have?” I asked.

  He cocked his head at me, the question plain on his face.

  “I would like to have that conversation now, please,” I said, trying with all my might to keep my voice even.

  “It doesn't sound like you do.”

  Be brave, Brienne. Just ask him.

  “When you said that I had never met men with your particular tastes,” I began in earnest, “what did that mean?”