The Glamorous One: A Billionaire Bride Pact Romance

by Jeanette Lewis

  Sebastian had ordered breakfast—a spread of fruit, pastries, and a dish of scrambled eggs covered the granite-topped counter in the kitchen. Kynley helped herself to the fruit and found a spot on the couch by the window. Mick and Trevor were already there, but Corey and Dalton hadn’t arrived yet.

  Her nerves seemed to hum at the thought of Dalton, and she couldn’t stop a smile from springing to her lips. She’d replayed their kisses in her head all morning, and each time, the butterflies stirred anew.

  “What’s your deal?” Trevor said around a huge mouthful of apple Danish.

  “What?” Kynley widened her eyes, going for innocence.

  Trevor swallowed his bite. “Your smile’s about three feet wide.”

  “I’ll bet I know.” Mick pumped his eyebrows. “Got a little hot and heavy with Dalton last night, huh?”

  From across the room, Sebastian looked up.

  “Stop it,” Kynley said, throwing a grape at Mick. “It’s not like that.”

  Mick shrugged. “Hey, I’m not judging.”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes and seemed about to say something when a knock sounded on the door. Throwing Kynley a suspicious glance, he went to open it. It was Corey. Sebastian waited for him to get a plate of food, then stood in front of them with a businesslike air.

  “Great show last night,” Sebastian said, though it sounded more like an obligatory phrase than a compliment. “I have a few individual notes for you, but overall, good work.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Dalton?” Corey broke in.

  Sebastian’s lips tightened. “He’s not invited to this meeting.”

  “Why not?” Mick demanded.

  “Because he’s not part of the band,” Sebastian said, as though explaining something to a child. He consulted his tablet. “We’re leaving for LA at three-thirty, and tomorrow we’ll start fine-tuning the industry show for the twenty-fourth.”

  Kynley swallowed a bite of watermelon. “What about Dalton?”

  “What about him?” Sebastian gave her a challenging stare.

  “Is he playing the industry show?”

  “No.”

  “This is bull!” Mick said heatedly. “We’re not going to have a new rhythm player for every show.”

  “No, we’re not,” Sebastian agreed. “Which is why I’ve scheduled auditions to begin tomorrow.”

  Trevor gave a frustrated growl. “Why audition anyone? We’ve already got Dalton.”

  “Because he’s not a real musician,” Sebastian snapped, his irritation starting to show.

  “Uh, he played last night and did a great job. I’d say that makes him a real musician,” Mick shot back.

  “Have you asked him?” Kynley said.

  “He was only contracted for last night’s show,” Sebastian retorted.

  “So make a new contract,” Corey said. He jumped to his feet. “This is pointless unless we have a complete band. I’m going back to bed.” Leaving his plate on the coffee table, he stomped out.

  The door banged shut behind him and there was silence. Mick and Trevor looked uneasily at one another.

  “At least we could ask him,” Trevor finally said.

  “He’s not a real musician,” Sebastian growled, rolling his eyes.

  “He is. He’s just never had the chance,” Mick replied. “I think he earned a shot last night.”

  “Me too,” Kynley said firmly, taking out her phone to text Dalton.

  “You said you were taking a couple of weeks. Now you want more?” Dalton’s father’s voice was harsh over the phone.

  Dalton sighed. “Things have changed,” he said. “There’s one more gig in LA next week and they’ve asked—”

  “And you expect me to hold your job indefinitely?” his father interrupted. No “hey son, nice to hear from you,” and especially not “did the show go well?”

  “I’m not asking you to hold my job,” Dalton said. When Kynley and Mick had shown up at his room with their offer, it had been a no-brainer. Go to Los Angeles with Jilted Storm and Kynley, or go back to his desk and his closet full of ties.

  “Stephen has been handling things,” his father said, his tone a little threatening.

  “Good,” Dalton said. “That means I trained him well.” His eyes shot to Kynley, who perched on the edge of his bed watching him nervously. Mick slumped in a chair, twirling his drumsticks and seemed to be paying no attention at all.

  There was a grudging silence on the other end of the line. “What should I tell your mother? Are you ever coming back?”

  Dalton paused, imagining his life as he’d left it. His work was covered, his rent was paid, he didn’t have a pet to care for, he didn’t even have plants that would need watering. How thinly he’d sown the seeds of his life in North Carolina, as if afraid to let them get too deep because that would mean he really was just an ad salesman after all.

  Or was it because somewhere in his soul, he’d known there would be a moment like this? A moment when he’d have his chance if only he were brave enough to take it?

  “The gig is on the twenty-fourth,” Dalton said. “I’ll get through that, then let you know. And please give Mom my love.”

  His father huffed in exasperation, and Dalton could imagine today would be a rough day at the office.

  Sorry, guys.

  They hung up and he stood still for a minute, letting it sink it. This was real. He was changing his life. He’d ticked off his father too, but that would pass. They’d never been very close and Dalton wasn’t expecting that to change, but hopefully he’d still be invited for Thanksgiving. Maybe even with Kynley at his side.

  “So, it’s okay?” Kynley asked, her beautiful eyes wide with concern.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “He won’t hold my job, but I’m sure there’s always something I can do if …” He trailed off, not wanting to think about it.

  “If this doesn’t work out?” Mick finished, looking up from the drumsticks. “Why wouldn’t this work out? You’re solid, man.”

  Dalton took a deep breath, relishing the new feeling of possibility and freedom that raced through him. “So, what’s the show on the twenty-fourth? I thought Denver was the last night of the tour.”

  “We’re playing our new song and launching the video at an exclusive party for industry executives,” Kynley said. “Sebastian’s planning to start a bidding war.”

  Mick snorted. “Sebastian’s always planning something.” His hazel eyes grew serious. “That’s one thing you’re going to have to handle.”

  “Sebastian?”

  “Yeah. He won’t like … this.” Mick’s drumsticks moved between Kynley and Dalton.

  Neither of them made an effort to deny it and after a minute, Mick grinned and stood up. “All I can say is good luck. I’ll see you later.”

  The door closed behind him and Dalton turned to Kynley. “Is it really going to be that bad?”

  Her shoulders hunched. “He likes being in control,” she said in a small voice.

  But it was more than that. Dalton had seen the look in Sebastian’s eyes on the road trip to Denver. It was fear. Fear he was losing his grip on Kynley.

  Did he know how much closer they’d become since the concert? He would soon enough.

  Needing her to be closer now, he reached out and brushed his thumb over the ridge of her collarbone visible at the neck of her sweater. She sighed and closed her eyes, relaxing under his touch. Dalton dropped his hand to hers and pulled her to her feet, then bracketed her hips to draw her closer.

  Kynley ran her hands up his arms to loop around his shoulders. Her fingertips dancing on his skin sent waves of desire pulsing through his veins.

  “It doesn’t matter what Sebastian wants,” he whispered. “We’ll deal with it. Okay?”

  She nodded, but he could still see a sliver of doubt in her eyes the second before her eyelids slid shut as she raised her lips to his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dalton had hoped to spend some alone time with Kynley onc
e they reached LA, but Sebastian obviously had no intention of making this easy. Several cars waited on the tarmac when they disembarked from the private plane at LAX.

  “Dalton, you take the first one,” Sebastian ordered. “I’ve booked rooms for you at the Mondrian until you can find an apartment.”

  He hesitated, wanting to argue, but once glance at Kynley told him it wasn’t the time. She looked weary and dark circles bruised the delicate skin under her eyes. He pulled her into a hug and pressed his lips to her forehead, ignoring Sebastian’s huff of impatience.

  “Call you later?” Dalton whispered.

  Kynley nodded as her arms tightened around his waist. “See you soon.”

  He helped the chauffeur load his luggage and guitar case in the trunk, and by the time he turned back, Sebastian had already hustled Kynley away to another car.

  He ground his teeth. Was Sebastian just an uptight manager type, or was something else going on?

  “Sir?” His chauffeur prodded. With a sigh, he climbed into the car and the chauffeur slammed the door, then hurried to the driver’s side. They pulled away from the tarmac moments later, and Dalton had to resist the urge to turn and look out the back window for a last glimpse at Kynley. He’d see her tomorrow.

  “How’s your room?” she asked when he called that evening.

  “Uh … trendy,” he replied, glancing at the fussy, oversized furniture and the weird orange and purple mirrors. Had Sebastian booked this place to make him uncomfortable on purpose?

  Kynley’s laugh coming over the phone made his heart swell and his arms ache to hold her. “You can always move hotels. Unless you want to get into an apartment right away,” she suggested.

  “I might have to,” he admitted. Apartment hunting was a priority, but he wanted a little better feel for the city first. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked her.

  “Costume fitting in the morning. Why? Wanna go look for an apartment … or a new hotel?”

  “No. I’d rather go sightseeing.”

  She gave a little gasp of excitement. “That’d be fun! So what will it be? Disney? Grauman’s Chinese Theater? The beach”

  He was silent for a moment, mulling his options. “What about the Southside Flea Market? I looked it up and it’s supposed to be the biggest flea market on the West Coast.”

  “Seriously? All of Los Angeles at your feet and you want to visit a flea market?”

  “Why not?” Dalton asked. “We’ve got other days for the touristy stuff. Let’s do something else. Plus, we might even spot some celebrities. I hear the guys from the Junk It TV show are regulars.”

  She laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Slight change of plans,” Kynley announced when Dalton came out of the hotel the next day to find her leaning against a shiny black Suburban. “Sebastian said we had to take Marco.”

  The disappointment on his face matched her own feelings.

  “Well, you’re probably better known in LA than in North Carolina, huh?” Dalton said reasonably. “If it’s for your safety, I won’t argue.” He held the door to the Suburban for her and gave Marco a friendly nod. “Thanks for coming with us today.”

  “No problem.” Marco replied. “Where to first?”

  Okay, maybe having Marco along wasn’t that bad. Kynley’s heart gave happy little leap as she snuggled into Dalton’s arms in the back seat. They couldn’t have done this if she’d been driving.

  But they probably would have tried.

  The flea market was in an old drive-in movie complex long since out of business. Eight giant screens with peeling white canvas hovered over the crowds and vendor booths, sprawled in endless rows on the cracked asphalt.

  They joined the flow of customers, holding hands as they wandered along the aisles and Kynley couldn’t help smiling. It felt surreal to have the whole afternoon to spend with Dalton with no schedule and no timetable. She’d chosen plain, unremarkable clothes—jeans and short boots with a long cranberry cardigan over a gray and white striped shirt. Her hair was pulled up in a twist so the distinctive silver ends were hidden, and she kept her sunglasses on. Marco hung a few steps behind them and after a while, she forgot he was even there.

  “What about those?” Dalton pointed to a booth full of vintage dolls. “Creepy or cool?”

  Kynley glanced at the dolls with their vacant, staring eyes, and shuddered. “Definitely creepy.”

  He grinned down at her. “Oh, right. You’re a farm girl. You probably played with calves or something instead of dolls.”

  “Chickens, actually,” she said with dignity. “My sisters and I used to push them around in baby strollers.”

  Dalton came to a stop in the middle of the aisle and stared at her skeptically. “No way.”

  “Way,” she insisted. “Chickens can be very friendly if they trust you.”

  Dalton shook his head. “I’m going to require proof.”

  “You don’t believe me?” They were blocking traffic. She tugged on his hand to get him moving again.

  “Sorry, no. It sounds like a wild story you made up on the spot to impress me.”

  Kynley bit back a smile. How long had it been since she’d flirted like this with someone? She couldn’t remember. “That depends. Are you impressed?”

  “Definitely. It’s like you’re the chicken whisperer. Besides …” he drew his hand out of hers so he could wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. “I’m always impressed with you,” he said huskily as his lips grazed her temple.

  The tepid sun seemed to grow warmer and the romance butterflies did a couple of laps in her stomach. She wrapped her arm around his waist, loving the way he smelled, loving the way his hip nudged against hers as they walked, loving everything about this day.

  “Wow, check that out!” Dalton said a few minutes later, stopping in front of a red tent. Several vintage guitars sat in stands on a long table. “They have a Gibson L-5.”

  She followed his gaze to the gleaming brown and gold acoustic guitar and let him pull her into the booth, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “How’s it going?” A short, plump woman with a long blonde ponytail came toward them, obviously the booth owner. Her eyes followed Dalton’s to the L-5. “Great, huh? It’s a 1931, 16 inch. Some minor wear, but the sound is perfect.” She plucked the guitar off the stand and offered it to him.

  Taking the instrument almost reverently, Dalton struck a chord and his grin became wider at the clear twang of the strings.

  “Comes with the case too,” the woman said.

  Dalton’s fingers danced over the strings as he played a quick riff. His eyes sparkled at the clean, sharp tone of the guitar.

  Kynley loved her baby grand, but there was something special about the bond a guitarist developed with his instrument. She’d seen the same thing with Corey, Trevor, and even Leeson at times. It was as if the guitar became an extension of their arms, part of them in a way a piano couldn’t.

  “They don’t make ’em like that anymore,” the woman said.

  “It’s fantastic,” Dalton replied. He ran his palms along the smooth, sunburst pattern in the wood, and Kynley couldn’t help giggling. If he was going to try and barter with her on the price, he was showing his hand in a big way.

  Dalton strummed quickly through several more chords, and Kynley’s heart jolted when she recognized the intro to “Light Me Up.” He’d only played it once, in the car going across Tennessee. How had he memorized it so quickly?

  “What do you think?” Dalton raised his eyebrows at her. “Sounds pretty good, huh?”

  She nodded. It sounded different on the acoustic than it had on the electric guitar, even softer and somehow more personal.

  Dalton spun the guitar in his hands. “How much?”

  “Normally they sell for eight-fifty,” the woman said. “But I can tell you’d appreciate it, so I’ll let it go for eight thousand.”

  “We’ll take it,” Kynley said at once. She dug in her purse for her cre
dit card.

  “No, it’s too much,” Dalton said quickly. He set the guitar carefully back on its stand.

  “It’s a gift,” Kynley insisted. “A thank-you for taking all this on, and doing a fantastic job.” She handed her credit card to the woman, who bustled away quickly to ring up the purchase.

  “Thank you,” Dalton said softly, pulling her into a hug. “But I’m the one in your debt; I definitely wouldn’t have this chance without you.”

  She raised her face and pressed her lips to his. “Let’s call it even,” she whispered.

  From the flea market, they stopped at Pink’s for hot dogs, then Marco drove them to Santa Monica beach.

  “Okay, we can do a few touristy things,” Dalton admitted as they found a bench. The salt-tinged breeze ruffled his hair and sent the loose strands that had escaped Kynley’s twist dancing around her face.

  Plenty of people were taking advantage of the pale March sun—swimmers, joggers, bikers, couples holding hands, and people pushing baby strollers. At the water line, a man threw a stick into the surf for his dog to retrieve while a group of teenagers played Frisbee. In the distance to their right, the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier turned slowly.

  They watched the waves breaking on the shore, and as they ate, a crowd of hopeful seagulls soon formed close by, keeping sharp eyes on the food.

  “I feel like we should invite Marco join us,” Dalton said after a few minutes.

  “He won’t. He never does,” Kynley said. She plucked a grilled banana pepper from her hot dog with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. “I know it feels weird: they’re there, but not really part of what’s going on. I had a hard time getting used to it.”

  “He joined us for paintball,” Dalton pointed out. He cast a look over his shoulder, where the big man stood a discreet distance away, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  “Yeah, but that was in a controlled environment,” Kynley said, doing her best impression of Sebastian’s voice.