Keeping Her Safe: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance

by Summer Brooks

  I backed up quickly, and instinctively held my hand to cover my nose and mouth. From her perspective, it probably looked like some kind of awful force-field had stopped me from getting any closer to her.

  “Ugh! What is that smell?!” I demanded.

  “It’s the garbage can,” she answered. “I didn’t realize how badly it stunk until I ducked behind it.” She stepped away from the garbage can quickly, and moved to the side. But I wasn’t about to let the most important part of her explanation go unnoticed.

  “Why were you ducking behind the garbage can?”

  She paused for a long moment, as if trying to find some answer to that question that would make sense. But I was pretty sure that there was none. From the look on her face, she was too.

  “I hid when I realized that you were in the restaurant,” she answered finally. I could tell that she was embarrassed to say the words aloud, but had resigned herself to the fact that there was no better explanation that wouldn’t make her look even more insane. The question on my mind, however, was obvious. Why was she hiding from me? Had I been so awful all those years ago that she didn’t even want me to see her? The thought that I might’ve offended her that badly made me feel sick to my stomach. Even after all these years, I knew that if I’d caused her any pain, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said earnestly, but all it earned me was a bemused look that stretched across her delicate face.

  “Sorry for what?” she asked. “Eating?”

  She laughed at me then, and her eyes narrowed, examining me quizzically, leaving me speechless. I had no idea how to even begin explaining all of the things that I was sorry for, and I was sure in that moment that even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. Whatever her opinion of me, it had been formed a long time ago.

  “I don’t know,” I said, offering a weak chuckle to feel like I was in on her joke. “I guess I’m sorry for making you feel like you needed to hide from me.”

  I watched as the humor drained from her face. There were thoughts going through her mind that I couldn’t quite read, but desperately wanted to.

  The truth was, little Grace Silver had grown up to be a gorgeous woman. No—that’s not entirely fair. She was always gorgeous. When she was seventeen, I couldn’t do anything about it…but now…

  Now, even downwind from the offensive garbage can, just watching the gears turning in her brain, I was fantasizing about all of the things I would do to her if given the chance.

  I was an awful person.

  I asked the next sentence before I even realized the words were coming out of my mouth.

  “Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

  It was lame, I realized, but in that moment I wanted more than anything to spend a few more minutes with her, and I preferred these minutes to be away from the foul stench that permeated the air around the garbage can.

  She looked at the car, and then back at me, and then back to the car, and then at the restaurant across the street, and back at me again, presumably sizing up her situation to determine the best way to answer my question.

  “Are you headed anywhere near Canal Street?” she asked finally. I really wasn’t headed in that direction, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. It wouldn’t be more than 15 minutes out of my way, and having a few minutes with her would be well worth the detour.

  “Sure,” I answered, opening the door for her to climb inside. Once she was safely inside, and I was walking behind the car to get in the other side, I exhaled a breath of relief that I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding. For some reason, the universe has decided to send me a second chance with this angel, and I wasn’t about to screw it up again.

  6

  Grace

  I can’t explain what made me accept Eric’s offer of a ride. All I knew was that Francine Fields had already left the restaurant and gone on her way while I was stupidly hiding behind a garbage can from a man I hadn’t seen in almost a decade. So, my best chance of catching up to her was at her office on Canal Street. But, the moment I got into his car—or rather, the moment that he got into the car with me a few seconds later—I began regretting my decision.

  He was sitting so close to me in the seat that my hand unintentionally brushed against the side of his leg, sending jolts of electricity through the rest of my body at the contact. If there were any question about whether I still harbored some attraction to him, it was gone now. From where I sat, I could breathe him in, allowing the scent of his musky cologne to fill my lungs. I had to remind myself that I couldn’t have him; it was a bad idea for a number of reasons—not the least of which was the fact that he might already be having an affair with Mrs. Fields.

  But all of this, I could handle. I was a professional, after all. What really made me regret taking the ride was the question that Eric asked once the car began moving.

  “So what are you doing down here, anyway?”

  He wasn’t prying; he was just trying to make small talk. There was no way that he could know that answering that question honestly was impossible for me. Still, I needed to think of an answer that would make sense, quickly. I couldn’t very well tell him that I was following his girlfriend around. It would just be a little lie, I told myself—and I’d probably never see him again, so it’s not like he could ever call me on my bullshit.

  “I’m a real estate photographer,” I said confidently. “I had a job in the neighborhood.” I was truly impressed and terrified with how smoothly the lies poured out of my mouth. But that didn’t stop me from adding on another. “I have another at an office on Canal Street,” I explained, “which is why I asked you to take me there.”

  Eric nodded, and I searched his face for some evidence that he could see through my thin façade, but I found none. He believed me. I couldn’t remember the last time I lied to someone while I wasn’t on the job, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. I tried to tell myself that it was all part of the work, but the nagging voice inside my head was unconvinced.

  I watched as the gears in his head turned, trying to believe what I just told him. I prayed that whatever conclusion he came to in his mind, it wasn’t that I was some kind of crazy stalker that had been following him around ever since he threw me out of his party all those years ago. It would probably be an easy conclusion to come to, especially for someone as well-known as Eric Sorenson.

  The next words out of his mouth, however, didn’t suggest that he had me pegged for a stalker. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted me to come to his house. Sort of.

  “I’m selling a condo near the office,” he said. “Would you be willing to do my photos?”

  Fuck.

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t take a good photograph. I could. It was just that I had absolutely no experience taking pictures to sell homes, obviously. I wondered silently whether YouTube could teach me how to do it.

  Eric must have sensed my hesitation, because he added, “I’ll pay you, of course,” which only made my heart sink further.

  “You don’t even know if I’m any good,” I said plainly. I didn’t even know if I was any good. So much for simple lies not coming back to bite me in the ass.

  “I have a feeling.” He waved his hand through the air as if to physically push away my concerns, and I knew that I wasn’t going to get anywhere with excuses. So I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to take the job.

  “Ok,” I said finally, “when are you available to let me in?

  “Tomorrow afternoon?” He looked so hopeful; I prayed that my photos of his space wouldn’t suck badly enough to kill that hope. There was a part of me, however small, that still wanted this man to kiss me. And if he found out that I was lying, I was sure that would never happen.

  By the time he gave me the address and described the place I would be seeing the next day, we had arrived on Canal Street, about a block from the Vance National Holdings office where Francine Fields’ office was located. But, I barely noticed. Listening to him
talk was like listening to the ocean, and I felt like I could just sit there for hours taking in the sight, smell, and sound of him.

  “Is this your stop?” he asked me, gesturing to the street outside the tinted windows of the Town Car. I looked; it was. And I forced myself not to be disappointed that our conversation was coming to an end. After all, Eric Sorenson was now a client. And I couldn’t be attracted to a client, could I?

  7

  Eric

  I had been at the condo for nearly an hour. Grace wasn’t late; I was just incredibly early. I wanted to make sure that everything was in top shape for her arrival. I couldn’t care less about the photos of the place. I hadn’t even been planning on really selling the place for another couple of weeks; I just couldn’t wait that long before I saw her again.

  When I talked to her in the car while my driver navigated the streets of Chicago to take her to her destination, it was as if I was 26 again, sitting by the pool at my parents’ ridiculous house, trying to get the beautiful girl to like me. I wondered secretly if our conversation brought up any of those feelings for her. I doubted they did, and I tried to tell myself that our meeting today was only business, but I wanted it to be the start of so much more.

  The fact is, I’ve never had a problem getting women to like me. I had always found it so easy to get sex that it was almost boring. I knew that I was lucky to have been blessed with my father’s good looks, which helped immensely in that department. The Sorenson name probably didn’t hurt too much either. But, what I was feeling for Grace went beyond the physical. We had an undeniable connection, and I was determined to make sure that she felt it too.

  A nagging thought had entered my brain, and it told me that it was stupid to base all of this on one conversation that I’d had with her a whole lifetime ago, but when I saw her again, all those feelings came rushing back to me, and it felt like nothing had changed in the ensuing years.

  So, if it meant that I had to sell a condominium that I wasn’t really planning to sell in order to spend some time with the woman that I’d let escape from my grasp so long ago, then so be it. I even baked cookies in the oven to make the place smell like a home. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to do that, but I didn’t really know how to bake cookies, so I sent my assistant out for pre-made cookie dough that I cut up into pieces that looked vaguely like cookies and popped them in the oven. I had to admit, the smell made my mouth water, and I hadn’t even eaten anything with that much sugar in it in months.

  The condo had an incredible view of the city, with windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling to show it off. I hadn’t actually lived there since well before my trip to Zurich, but admiring the view, I started to wonder why I had traded it for a large penthouse in one of my father’s developments. Sure, living in a building that actually bore my name (the new place was in Sorenson Tower) had its perks, but the penthouse was far too large for a person who traveled as much as I did. If I was honest, this place was a much better fit for my needs.

  These were the thoughts in my head when the doorman rang through to tell me that Grace had arrived.

  “Send her up,” I told him.

  “Right away, Mr. Sorenson.”

  This place had its perks, too.

  I walked towards the elevator, distractedly wiping my hands on my pants. They had become hot at the mention of Grace’s name, and for some reason, I couldn’t make them stop sweating. I couldn’t do much of anything, honestly, other than stand there silently, listening to the white noise of the elevator’s motor, waiting for it to bring Grace to me.

  I didn’t have to wait long; the elevator traveled its fourteen floors quickly, making my stomach jump into my chest with the little ding that signaled its arrival. I watched as the door opened, and practically had to pick my jaw up off of the floor when I saw her.

  The previous day, she had been dressed casually, and the smell of the garbage on the street had served to distract me from her clothing entirely, but today was a whole different story.

  She was dressed professionally, with her auburn hair pulled back to show off her high cheekbones. Her suit was a grey jacket and a skirt that hit just below her knees—neither of which had any right to look as good as they did on her. By themselves they were nothing special, but they hugged her curves so well that it was dangerous. The skirt outlined the curve of her hip tightly, forcing my brain to imagine what might happen if I traced all of her perfect lines with the tips of my fingers.

  “Wow,” I said, before realizing that I was verbally expressing my thoughts. I quickly corrected. “I mean, hello.”

  She smiled, giving me a bit of relief. “Hi,” she said in return. “You have an elevator in your apartment?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Pretty cool, right?”

  Her eyes had already begun wandering around the space, taking everything in. “It’s something,” she replied, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “Remind me never to show you where I sleep.”

  My pulse raced at the very thought of seeing where Grace slept, but there was no way I could tell her that. Instead, all I could offer was a little good-natured laugh.

  “I promise, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I said. I wasn’t usually a self-deprecating person. I liked showing off all of the beautiful things I owned. But seeing them through Grace’s eyes made it feel different somehow. I wanted to show it off, but I wanted her to like it more. I wanted her to like me more.

  “Well, I certainly don’t have a view like that,” she retorted, walking to the large windows while pulling her camera to her eye to snap a picture.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I loved that view. It looked over the Chicago river, and women had always seemed to love the thrill of having sex while looking out over the whole city. I couldn’t count how many times my housekeepers had to clean smeared handprints from the thick glass.

  Not knowing what to do while she walked around the apartment to capture every corner of the space, I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, and watch her while pretending to be doing something very important on my phone. She was a consummate professional, moving through the space as efficiently as possible, and I was the lucky guy who got to sit back and watch her ass move in that incredible skirt while she walked.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked her. “I don’t have much here, but I can get you a glass of water, or something.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, then added, “I’m almost done.”

  Almost done? It felt as though she had just arrived. I looked at my watch. She had been here for about 15 minutes, and she already had one foot out the door. I was going to need to step up my game if I was going to catch her attention.

  8

  Grace

  As it turns out, you actually can learn how to do real estate photography on YouTube. There was literally an entire series of videos on the best camera settings for the job alone. I had spent the better half of my night watching each of these and taking meticulous notes so that I didn’t look like an idiot or a liar in front of Eric. After the camera settings, I moved onto lighting, angles, and even Googled what the heck a real estate photographer charges in the city. In short, I had taken the crash course. I had never worked so hard in my life to prevent someone from thinking that I was a liar.

  And then, this morning, I spent almost as long getting ready to see Eric. Most of the clothes in my closet are jeans and tee shirts and sneakers, because that’s what’s really necessary when you do the work that I do. But there was a voice in the back of my head that told me that as long as I was wearing torn jeans and old band tee shirts, Eric Sorenson would always see me as that 17-year-old by the pool. I had a number of very sexy outfits that I considered—they were the sort of thing I wore when a wife called me up asking me to try to seduce her husband, but they hardly seemed appropriate for the situation. So, I put on the one suit I owned. It was smart and gray and hugged my body in all the right places. I know this, because I made Lana tell
me so over a Skype call.

  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “Who’s the guy?” she demanded.

  “No one.” The lies were piling up for me, but I was sure Lana would forgive this one later. “Just tell me what you think.”

  I watched as Lana rolled her eyes and let out a resigned sigh. But even if I annoyed her, we still loved each other like sisters, and she made a little twirl motion with her finger in the air to tell me to turn around.

  Once I’d obeyed, she made it clear that I’d chosen the right outfit. “Holy shit,” she said. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “There’s no guy,” I lied again.

  The difference between lying to Lana and lying to Eric was that Lana can always tell when I’m lying, and simply ignored it. “It better be soon,” she said jokingly, “ because as soon as he sees you in that, he’s going to want to impregnate you. And I swear, if you have his baby before I’ve met him, I’m gonna be pissed.”

  Lana was laughing hysterically, but I didn’t join in. Instead, I rolled my eyes and nodded. “Thanks, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “See you soon. Love you. Bye!”

  When Lana lived in the city, we met up and had lunch together at least once every weekend, but now that she lived in the suburbs with a husband and a cat, and all the other trappings of adult life, it seemed like I spent more time looking at her through a screen than in the flesh. We probably talked more now than ever; we just didn’t do it in person anymore.

  So, when I stepped off of the elevator into Eric Sorenson’s gorgeous condo, and heard him utter a low, guttural “wow” under his breath, I made a mental note to thank Lana for her opinion. And to tell her the truth. I already knew what she’d say about me spending time with her cousin, and I didn’t particularly want to hear it, but I was always a lot happier when I was honest with her.

  I had made it my mission for the afternoon to not give Eric any indication that I was attracted to him. I read the tabloids like everybody else, and I knew that he was with a different girl every week, sometimes two different ones on weekends. He was like some kind of hormone-sniffing dog, and if I let him see even a glimmer of the lurid fantasies I was having about him again, I was sure he would take advantage of it, screw me on the kitchen island, and never speak to me again.