by Katie Cross
“I see.”
He launched into an explanation of what he did for a living. Something with foreign trade, international business. Big dollars, I was sure. The details blurred together. One thing was abundantly clear: the man was ridiculously rich.
Basically, I was living a billionaire alpha romance novel meet-cute.
Something I’d read countless times and had always swooned over. Here was a strapping alpha-male character come to life right from the pages of my favorite contemporary romance novel, His Burning Kiss. Tyler was attentive to my needs, maybe overly so. He was confident, wealthy, firm, and decisive. He took control of the situation. I’d read this before and loved it.
Except now . . . I hated it.
Or maybe I just didn’t like Tyler.
By the time he finished speaking, I’d mostly recovered from the shock of—yet again— a romantic experience not feeling the way it should.
“Well,” I said, “there certainly is plenty of upscale local flavor here, as you said. We’ll sample some tonight at this restaurant.”
We spoke back and forth for several minutes. The arrival of the food interrupted my response to one of his questions—What kinds of social events do you find most prominent here?—and I grabbed my knife to dig into the elk chop.
Soft, but not my flavor.
“Sounds like a charming place overall,” he declared. “I’m considering buying the house.”
“For your parents?”
“Yes.”
“How kind.”
He shrugged. I helped myself to another bite of mashed potatoes so silky I could have worn them. My silence must have gone on a touch too long, because his eyebrows came together like a slinky. “Lizbeth? Did I say something wrong? You can absolutely trust me.”
I cleared my throat as Mark’s voice screamed in my mind, Serial killer. Just in case, I pulled my phone out of my purse and rested it on my lap.
“Just enjoying this delicious food,” I said.
His gaze tapered. “You’re lying.”
I almost choked. “What?”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
We held a long, hard stare for a moment before I said, “Yes. I am uncomfortable.”
He took that in without a change of expression. “I see.”
“I just . . . this is a bit much for me. It’s all so . . . perfect. On the nose. Like you walked out of a romance novel,” I finished quietly.
Shiny coconuts, but what was I going to tell JJ about this? How would I possibly detail this for the love binder?
Tyler’s gaze widened, though he didn’t seem put out. Just startled. I’d taken him by surprise again. Shouldn’t that feel more satisfying? When I read it, this sort of romance felt powerful. Instead, I just wanted to go.
“Really?” he asked.
“Well . . . yes.”
“You’re not a lover of romance?”
“It’s not that. I’m actually very fond of romance.”
The red roses filled the seat next to me with their delicate leaves and intricate veins. Alone, they would have been fine. A first date with a true romantic. But together with all of . . . this? This wasn’t romance. This was . . . something else.
He grinned anyway, but it seemed tight. He was covering something with his easy amusement. Disappointment, perhaps.
“What a surprise,” he murmured, his fork poised over his plate. “This usually wins over most women.”
“You do this often?”
“Yes.”
He replied with such confidence it took me a moment to respond. “That’s not very promising for us, then,” I said wryly.
He laughed. Nothing seemed to faze him, which disconcerted me more. How was he this smooth? How could I ever be my bookish self in front of someone so unruffled? Would he be upset if I wanted to curl up with a book instead of dress up for dinner?
“I’m picky,” he admitted. “I know a good woman when I meet her. This sort of circumstance is my life. My everyday sort of life when I’m home and not traveling for work, anyway.”
“And are you happy?”
He smiled. “Very. It suits me. It seems like it doesn’t suit you?”
I shook my head, hair swaying.
“That’s disappointing, because you’re lovely, Lizbeth. To be honest, doing anything different for a date seems . . . dishonest. It doesn’t seem fair to pretend otherwise. This may be overwhelming, but when I bring a woman into a situation like this, I want to see what happens. Romance and presentation and displays are important to me. I’m wealthy and plan to always climb that ladder. Any partner of mine will need to keep up with that.”
“So, what if I wasn’t well suited to that? Then what?”
He shrugged. “I decide at the end of the date whether we would be compatible or not. If I decide we are, I move things forward at my own pace.”
There was so much wrong there that I almost reached for the taser. His pace? He would decide?
But wasn’t that the alpha male?
“What if you decided we were compatible?” I asked, reaching for the wine to give my hand something to do.
“Then I’d arrange our next date, pick you up, and sweep you off your feet again.”
My mind spun with thoughts I couldn’t fully articulate, but at least one was perfectly clear: Why do you get to control everything?
“When would I get to decide something?”
He smiled, but this time it failed to impress me. “Whenever you like, of course. But why make decisions when it feels so good to be taken care of?”
I decided not to answer that, too unnerved by how smoothly the words came out. The pad of my thumb ran over the edge of my phone. I thought of JJ, but kept my voice light when I asked, “And am I failing?”
“Of course not.”
He said it so quickly that I doubted him. It would be easy to play the game I thought he wanted. Let him think he was in control. Or that I didn’t care about these small touches, the aggressive gifts, just to make him want it more. Or antagonize him just to throw him off. In the books, that always impressed the hell out of men. It was delicious when I read about it.
But this just felt . . . like a game.
Beneath his easy elegance, I sensed there wasn’t much I’d connect with. How did he feel about children? How would he feel about me running a coffee shop that he’d have no say in? I’d had my fill of controlling men when Dad grabbed me by the hair and threw me against the wall, thank you very much.
The flash of memory caught me by surprise.
The crumble of drywall beneath my head. Falling onto my shoulder, dazed. Utter disbelief had a way of stopping you in your tracks. The throb in my ears that gave way to his screams.
Everything had whirled around for a while after that, until it all just faded to black.
Then, in the morning light, Mama leaned over me. Stroked my cheek. Whispered softly while a tear dribbled from her black eye. In the background, red roses lay scattered on the table.
A solemn apology, years too late.
With difficulty, I extracted myself from the memory. My voice was hoarse when I asked, “What does your perfect day look like, Tyler?”
If he was startled by the turn in the conversation, he gave no hint of it.
“I’d be up early to make you breakfast in bed. We’d lounge for hours making love. Maybe pop into a hot tub with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Enjoy a few movies at home, naked. Perhaps an elegant night out with you in an evening gown and me in a tux, finished off with dancing under the stars. Something along those lines. And yours?”
Confirmation.
“Books.” I spread my hands out. “Piles of them. And myself, tucked into a chair, with food and drink at hand. At the end of the day, and after about four books so satisfying I couldn’t stop reading long enough to eat lunch, I’d stop. I might get dinner with someone. Maybe they could even spend the day with me, but they’d have to be pretty special.”
Tyler straighte
ned, gaze tapered. He threaded his hands together and leaned his elbows on the table. “You’re telling me something.”
“I am.”
He became solemn. “You’re telling me this isn’t a good fit?”
On some level, I wanted it to be. He was handsome and confident and wealthy. But I wouldn’t let him into my perfect day.
“Not in the slightest,” I whispered back.
He hesitated only a breath. “After all this? That’s . . . frustrating.”
His nostrils flared. A new sense of tension appeared in his shoulders, and all my internal alarms began to peal. Though I couldn’t identify why, a sense of panic pulsed through me. With it came the smell of alcohol. The distant sound of shouting, as if from a memory.
I stood unexpectedly. “I think it’s best if I go.”
Startled, he opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Thank you for this dinner, Tyler, and for meeting. Hopefully it was helpful.”
Before he could respond, I strode away, breath held. Once in the foyer, I whirled around. He hadn’t followed. Relieved, I sent JJ a text.
Lizbeth: Ready for you to come get me. Sooner than later would be preferable.
JJ: Almost there.
18
JJ
Lizbeth was quiet the whole ride home.
She didn’t say a word except a warm, “Thank you for picking me up,” and “It was okay.” Once back at Adventura, I helped her carry her packages to her cabin, then she thanked me again and closed the door before I could offer to build up her fire.
I hovered there for a second, torn.
Had something happened?
Was she really okay?
The urge to knock on her door and ask again almost overwhelmed me, but I pushed it down. Finally, I reluctantly retreated. The sound of paws on snow joined me as I looped around the office to enter from the front. Justin and Atticus were there. Atty greeted me with a quick lick on the hand.
“Everything all right?” Justin asked, studying me.
“Fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. I was worried and pissed and annoyed that I was worried and pissed. Justin hesitated, then nodded. He and Atticus headed back toward his cabin while I trekked to the kitchen. If I couldn’t climb, I could make and knead some dough for breakfast tomorrow. That would release some of this . . . tension.
The next day, Lizbeth started work before Mark and I woke up. When I made it down the ladder, she was sitting in Mark’s desk chair, her hair in a single ponytail over her right shoulder. A coffee mug sat on the desk next to her. She wore no makeup today. The flicker of light on her pale lashes fascinated me.
“Morning, Lizbeth.”
She waved distractedly but didn’t take her gaze off the laptop. “Good morning.”
A pile of papers sat next to her computer. Probably waiting to be scanned. How long had she been awake? The coffee was already lukewarm.
Once in the kitchenette, I paused. Something looked different. Before I could figure it out, Mark slipped down the ladder.
“I think we’ll be able to close on the pizza shop today,” he said as he yanked a jacket on and stepped into a pair of boots at the same time. “I’m late, see ya!”
He dashed out the door. Lizbeth glanced up, then back down. I turned back to the kitchen, completely confused. What was different? Wait, were our curtains a different color? At one point they’d been Mark’s old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pillowcases, but we’d swapped them out for the far classier old beige.
As I poured my coffee, stumped, Lizbeth broke the strained silence. Words flew out of her like they’d been stuffed inside waiting to get out.
“It totally sucked.”
My head popped up.
She stood behind Mark’s desk, hands planted on the papers in front of her, glaring at me.
“What?”
“The date.”
She straightened, arms folded across her middle. Her eyebrows knitted together as she swallowed hard.
“He . . . Tyler . . . might as well have walked out of a romance novel. Everything was perfect. His hair. His voice. He even smelled the way I’d imagined an alpha billionaire—or maybe just a millionaire—would smell.”
To give myself something to do, I had a sip of hot coffee. An alpha billionaire? What was she talking about? The scalding feeling in the back of my throat felt better than the one inside my chest. Lizbeth, on a roll, kept going. Except now she was pacing behind the desk and making almost no sense at all.
“He gave me roses. There were candles on the table. Curtains. Can you believe that? Curtains, JJ. And rose petals. The violinist?”
My brow lifted.
“Oh yeah,” she said before I could utter a sound. “Rose. Petals.”
Another hot sip that burned, burned, burned.
“Then he was so intense and . . . he ordered for me in French . . . and he insisted I was safe. I mean, elk chop? C’mon! I’m clearly a pasta girl! But, of course, I probably wasn’t safe. Or maybe I was and we just weren’t suited? I don’t know, he was angry at the end.”
“He what?”
She waved a hand. “He didn’t touch me. But . . . that freaking walking violin was distracting me and . . . it was . . . so weird. I’ve read that date a hundred times. I used to love alpha-billionaire novels—”
What was she talking about?
“But now?”
She threw her hands in the air.
I paused, my mug halfway to my lips. The silence told me she wanted me to say something, but I could barely keep up with her fragmented thoughts.
“Can I get this straight?” I asked.
She gestured with a wave of her hand again.
“So he was handsome?”
Emphatic nod.
“He gave you flowers.”
Another nod.
“He picked a romantic setting. There was a violin playing in the background?”
Another nod, this one more tentative. She chewed on her bottom lip.
“And you hated it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
This didn’t add up. If a guy like that couldn’t pull off romance, the rest of us lowly suckers were clearly doomed.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
She said it with such desperation, such soulful despair, that I couldn’t stop myself from setting aside my coffee and closing the distance between us. She stood there, bottom lip between her teeth, and watched me approach.
I stopped a foot away. “Why are you so sad?” I whispered.
“Because that should have been the most romantic date of my life. It was classic, storybook romance. Straight out of one of my favorite novels.”
“And you didn’t like it.”
She nodded, then ran a hand over her eyes and collapsed into the chair behind her. “It’s . . . frustrating. I’ve had two very romantic experiences recently, and neither of them felt the way they were supposed to.” She faltered for a moment before adding quietly, “They were just too real to be romantic at the time. It’s disorienting.”
“Please tell me that one of them wasn’t seeing your cabin free of mice for the first time?”
Her lips twitched. “That wasn’t it.”
“Good.”
A hint of her usual lightness reassured me. Somehow, I suppressed the urge to ask what her other romantic experience was. Instead, I crouched in front of her. The feeling of her skin on mine when I put a hand under her chin sent a little shiver through me.
“It was just one date, Lizbeth. You don’t have to give up on romance because of one date.”
“Says you?”
“Says me.”
A half smile teased her lips. “I’m not giving up on romance. I’m just frustrated that it hasn’t felt the way I wanted it to. But maybe that’s just reality.”
“That’s fair.”
“When I lived with my dad, romance books were the only things that felt safe. He’d be drunk. I’d hear him breakin
g things. Threatening to hurt Ellie. Screaming Mama’s name. Sometimes he’d come after us. Sometimes he’d go after Ellie, but I’d get in his way. The only thing that really took me away from him was my books.”
“Where you felt safe,” I whispered.
She nodded.
Well, that totally sucked. Love wasn’t just some breezy distraction for her. Romance had actually saved her life. The revelation of life with her father was new to me. It explained so much.
When I imagined a bruise coloring her porcelain cheeks, I forced myself to take a deep breath. I needed to climb. Rise above this rage and get it out in a safe way so she didn’t see it in me.
This was about her.
A hint of color pinked her cheeks, and she chuckled self-consciously. “Sorry. This is . . . I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it and . . . had to let you know that maybe you’re right.” She drew in a deep breath and met my gaze. “I fully concede a point to you in our debate, JJ.”
With that, she withdrew. Her warmth and smell drifted past me before the back door closed. I balled my hands into fists and let out a long, steady breath.
That was one point I’d give back all day long.
19
Lizbeth
A very pale version of myself peered back at me from my compact mirror. Did it mean something that I didn’t try to hide my pale eyelashes in front of JJ? Normally, I stressed about wearing makeup. With the Bailey boys, it didn’t seem to matter.
With a long breath, I shut the compact and slumped against my bed. Sleep had been elusive last night as I’d tangled with the idea that perhaps JJ was right. Maybe romance was a false protective wall. I didn’t entertain the thought for long, but it lingered in the back of my mind.
Instead, I’d turned to two of my favorite romance books, slipped into their familiar words, and felt better for it after.
Now, I replayed the startled way he’d watched me. His gentle touch. There was no burn of his skin on mine when he’d taken my chin in his hands. Nothing but the burn of ugly reality. It was comforting, though. Just his olive eyes settled my prickling heart. He’d listened. Watched me with compassion and surprise.