The Agreement: A Billionaire Romance

by Charlotte Byrd

  “You don’t? Why?”

  “I think you were angry with yourself. And you wanted to, I don’t know, take some of that anger out on yourself.”

  Wyatt’s eyes meet mine. I can tell by the way he sits back in the couch and adjusts his stature that I’ve hit on something.

  “Oh please,” he shrugs and rolls his eyes. He’s lying. Either to just me or to the both of us.

  “No, I do,” I smile. “Really.”

  Then his face grows serious. The casualness that just danced across it all but disappears.

  “Listen, Brielle,” Wyatt says. All I hear is the irritation in his voice. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me, okay? I’ve been through that enough with a ton of real doctors. The last thing I need is some more psycho babble from some novice.”

  His words sting. More than that even. They pierce my heart. I feel tears bubbling up and I’m about to let them all out.

  “Fuck you,” I say and leave before I show even more vulnerability.

  “Brielle, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I hear Wyatt yell after me, but I don’t turn around. At this moment, I hate him. I hate him the way I never hated anyone.

  * * *

  We don’t speak the rest of the day. By the next day, my anger with Wyatt dissipates a bit. He apologizes again and, this time, I accept his apology. By the afternoon, we joke and laugh like before. I’m glad that things between us have improved, but I am still keenly aware of the boundaries that separate us. Now, I’m also more cautious. Certain things can’t be talked about or joked about.

  That afternoon, over a very late lunch or an early dinner, I ask Wyatt about his family. He tells me about his domineering father and the pharmaceutical company that he started when all the kids were little.

  “My father’s got four kids, but that company was his real baby,” he says. “And we all knew that for many years.”

  “What about your mom?” I ask.

  “Mom was there and not there. She had her own commitments, but most of the time she was absent. It’s like she had her own interests that none of us kids ever fit into.”

  “Not even Ophelia?” I ask. I know that mothers can often be closer to their daughters than to their sons.

  “Not even O. We’ve all had nannies, though, so that was supposed to make up for everything, I guess. It felt like they loved me, all of us, I mean, in their own way, but it was somehow never enough. You know?”

  I nod. I try to understand, but Wyatt and I come from two completely different worlds.

  “What about you?” he asks. “What was it like for you growing up?”

  I take a moment to consider the question.

  “It wasn’t really easy,” I say. “My father left when I was little when my little sister was only two.”

  “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

  “I don’t. Well, not anymore. I never know how to answer that question about brothers or sisters.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. He moves closer to me with a steadfast look of concern on his face.

  “Well, I used to have a sister until I was fifteen, but then she died. She was sick almost her whole little life and, after she passed, my mother was never the same after that.”

  “What did she die of?” he asks even though I have the feeling that he already knows.

  “Cancer. What else?” I shrug.

  “Like your mother?” he gasps.

  I nod. “My mom was diagnosed soon after. Right when I graduated from high school. That’s why I never went to college. She was the sole breadwinner and, after her diagnosis, she couldn’t really work. Not with all the chemo and radiation. So I got a job at the diner. And then another one at the bar. And I’ve been sort of stuck there ever since.”

  I look at him. I like the way he looks at me. There’s pity and sorrow on his face, but it isn’t as depressing as the looks other people typically have.

  “But it’s okay now,” I smile. “Thanks largely to you.”

  “I just wish that I’d met you earlier,” he says.

  A big part of me wishes that too. I’ve spent so many years being poor and living paycheck to paycheck, on even less than a paycheck, that having money seemed like an answer to all of my problems. People like to say that money is not the answer to all of your problems, but for many years it would’ve been the answer to all of mine.

  We share more this day than any other day. I feel us growing closer and closer. Even if we don’t fully comprehend or understand or conceptualize each other’s childhood experiences, we are at least aware of them.

  After we finish our salads, Mr. Whitewater brings us soup. I hand Wyatt his bowl and take mine. It’s not very comfortable to eat soup on the couch, but I don’t want to move.

  “What did you want to be when you grew up?” Wyatt asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You mean for work? I thought I’d be lucky if I became a nurse or something like that. It would give me a steady job or profession. The pay is much better than a waitress’s.”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. Not just for work. Didn’t you have dreams of what you wanted to do or to be when you were older? No matter how unrealistic.”

  I smile. I’m about to tell him that only wealthy or privileged kids spend their days thinking about unrealistic dreams and go about pursuing those. But then I really think about it and realize that I, too, had a dream once. And, perhaps, still do.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to keep it a secret.”

  “Keep it a secret? Don’t you know that dreams can’t become a reality unless you verbalize it? Unless you infuse them with the power of speech?”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t know that. But if you want to hear this then you have to promise.”

  He takes a moment. Then agrees.

  “I’ve never told anyone this before, but I want to be a writer,” I say.

  “That’s great! That’s an amazing thing to want to be,” Wyatt smiles with his whole face.

  I feel overwhelmed by his exuberance.

  “But why don’t you want anyone to know? It’s so inspiring and beautiful!”

  Inspiring and beautiful? I’m not so sure.

  “Because it’s embarrassing,” I mumble.

  “What? How?”

  I stare at him. “I just don’t think you understand because you were probably raised to think that you can be anyone you want. Do anything you want. Right? But I wasn’t. I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree, Wyatt. Only a high school diploma. I’m practically illiterate in the writing world.”

  “That’s crap! Don’t say that. Degrees don’t matter. All that matters is whether or not you want to do it. And then you gotta take steps to do it.”

  “That’s your privileged upbringing talking,” I joke.

  “No, it’s not,” he leans closer to me. His face gets really serious. “To be a writer you need heart. And you have that. I think you can be a writer. No, I know you can.”

  His words wash over me like a wave. Overwhelmed by his support and encouragement, I have trouble taking a full breath. A knot forms in the back of my throat. If I don’t inhale slowly, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to take a full breath again.

  No one has ever believed in me so much before.

  We both return to our food. Wyatt takes two last scoops of the soup. I lean across him to put the bowl on his side of the side table.

  I’ve done this hundreds of times over the last six weeks. But today is different. There’s a warmth emanating from Wyatt, the kind that I haven’t felt since our last kiss. I watch him take a breath and inhale the world around us, the way people smell a bouquet of flowers.

  When he opens his eyes, he catches me staring at him and sits back. He’s giving me room to collect myself. He’s respecting my boundaries and the rules that we have both agreed to play by. But this time, I don’t, can’t, respect those boundaries anymore. This time, I don’t pull away. I look at his sweet, beautiful lips and pre
ss mine to them.

  Immediately, his lips respond to mine. He pulls me closer to him and wraps his arms around my shoulders. In a split second, the whole world fades away. His hands move through my hair and my fingers run along his jawline. It’s strong and powerful and touching it makes me want him even more.

  “This is wrong,” I whisper without pulling away.

  “Yes, and yet it’s so right,” he mumbles.

  And then suddenly, he stops and looks at me.

  “Do you want to stop?” he asks. “Is that what you meant?”

  Yes and no. I don’t know.

  He waits for me to answer. But I’ve lost the ability to speak. Instead, I reach up to him again and run my tongue on the inside of his mouth.

  “Oh Brielle,” he moans. He lifts up my head with his hands and then runs his hands down to my hips. With one swift motion, he lifts me up and places me on top of him.

  I laugh and continue kissing him. I feel how hard he is and it makes me feel all tingly all over my body. He pulls away from my lips and starts to kiss down my neck. I tilt my head back and sigh from pleasure. His lips make his way down my collarbone and then toward my breasts. He takes one of my breasts in his hand and kisses the top.

  I close my eyes. I want this moment to last forever.

  “Oh my, I’m so sorry!” a female voice shatters our bliss. I pull away from Wyatt but remain firmly on top of him.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, O?” Wyatt yells out. His deep voice startles me and I fall to the side. I scramble to adjust my clothes. When everything seems in place, I look back up.

  There’s a tall, gorgeous woman in five- inch heels standing before me. Her hair is jet black and cut in an aggressive slant. Her makeup is flawless and her eyeslashes are long and powerful. She has pale skin and her blood red lipstick makes her look like something of a clash between a 50’s pinup and a vampire.

  “I live here, too, remember?” she laughs and tosses her hair. “Besides, I’ve come to see how you were feeling. And from what I can see, you’re doing quite well.”

  Neither Wyatt nor I say a word. I probably look as dumbfounded as he does.

  “Well, since my brother seems to have forgotten his manners, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Ophelia, Wyatt’s older sister.”

  Ophelia extends her hand to me. When I shake it, what strikes me most about it is how cold it is. Her fingers are long and her long gray nails are filed down to a point at the end. In fact, come to think of it, everything about Ophelia is pointy. She has pointy heels, a pointy nose, pointy nails, and even pointy elbows.

  “I’m Brielle. I’m Wyatt’s personal assistant,” I mumble.

  “Yes, I see. You’re definitely assisting him on a very personal level,” she says lifting one of her eyebrows.

  “O, please. Play nice,” Wyatt says. “Brielle’s a friend.”

  Ophelia puts her sunglasses back over her eyes, turns on her heel and waves her hand. “Well, I gotta get my bag.”

  Wyatt and I watch her walk out. Before she reaches the end of the hallway, she turns around briefly and says, “Brielle, can you help me with something here?”

  I look at Wyatt, unsure as to what to do.

  “No, O, take care of it yourself,” he yells back.

  “No, it’s okay,” I get up. “I’ll help her, it’s no problem.”

  Dear Reader

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