Exes (Billionaire Romance #3)

by Aria Hawthorne

  Harvey watched as Enrique tossed caramel corn into his mouth, as if he hadn’t just proselytized like a wise old sage, and wondered if the unexpected loss of his wife was the source of his cool, calm advice.

  “So how did you do it, Enrique?” Harvey asked. “Stay married to the same woman for twenty-five years?”

  Enrique shrugged. “I loved making her happy.”

  “It was that easy, huh?”

  “Yes,” Enrique replied, crunching each kernel. “Women aren’t as complicated as they pretend to be, Harvey. The problem is that men are too simple to understand that they really only need one thing from us...” he paused to take a calculated sip from his blue Slurpee.

  “Chocolate?” Harvey finally guessed.

  “No.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “No.”

  “Casanova biogenetically crossed with the Terminator?”

  Enrique snorted, as if he finally understood why Harvey had so many marital problems. “Dependability,” he stressed, slowly rising from his seat to track the course of a long fly ball. A group of old timers stood up as well until the left fielder casually caught the ball. In unison, they all exhaled a sigh of relief.

  Enrique nodded in approval and returned to his seat. “After we give them dependability, everything else falls into place.”

  Harvey peered down at Enrique’s hand. Even a decade after his wife’s death, he still wore his wedding band. With a wistful sigh, Harvey flipped his baseball cap backwards and slurped down the rest of his wild berry slushy, wishing everything about love and marriage came that easily to him.

  “You know, Enrique…you should start your own talk show and air it on Facebook Live. People could call in and ask you to appraise both their antiques and their relationships.”

  Enrique almost spewed blue Slurpee through his nostrils. “Thank you, but no thank you. I have two daughters and a billionaire ex-son-in-law. That is enough drama for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Alma picked at her steaming chicken pot pie, realizing she no longer had the appetite to eat it.

  “How about this one?” Conchita flashed Alma her phone while stuffing her face with a bite from her Cobb salad. “He looks cute. Nerdy, but cute. He even wears the same kind of glasses as you.”

  Alma barely lifted her eyes to view the image.

  “CosmoScientistGetsHisGrooveOn,” Conchita read aloud. “Oooooo-hhhhhh…he sounds fun. Like somebody who would be the first one to jump out on the dance floor at a wedding.”

  “Dusting off his disco moves,” Alma replied, stabbing the pot pie with her fork.

  “Or maybe,” Conchita cooed, attempting to elicit interest, “his sophisticated ballroom dancing moves.”

  “More likely his awkward Michael Jackson dance impressions.”

  Conchita ignored her. “CosmoScientist,” she repeated, digging deeper into her salad. “So…he probably likes nerdy, but intellectual things like space and stars and planets and—”

  “UFOs,” Alma interjected.

  “Well…a moonwalking UFO scientist really wouldn’t be all that bad, right? I mean, maybe you could make-out with him in a planetarium.”

  “I think I prefer not to make out with anyone anymore.”

  A half-eaten tomato literally dropped out of Conchita’s mouth. “Oh dear Lord, my ears are burning. Please tell me you did not just say that.”

  Alma stabbed her pot pie again and left the fork, upright and immersed, in its center. “I am completely serious. I’m giving up men, sex, and all the dramatic garbage that comes along with it.”

  Conchita calmly inhaled and spread both her hands on the surface of the linoleum table.

  “Look, Alma…I know I screwed up. Big, big, BIG time, okay? And I get that you’re still mad at me for giving your phone number to Harvey, and I know I should have never stuck my big fat foot into your relationship, expecting that you and Harvey would just meet, make-up, and get on with having babies for the sake of my own selfish desire to babysit them. And I know I’ve sworn to make it up to you through a thousand years of servitude—”

  “Two thousand years,” Alma corrected her.

  “But—” Conchita raised her voice. “You cannot give up on men and sex, just because of what happened.”

  “Why?” Alma crossed her arms, challenging her.

  “Because no one intended to hurt you. Least of all…Harvey.”

  “Exactly my point. Look what happens when the man isn’t even trying to be a selfish egotistical bastard. He just naturally is one.”

  Ouch, Conchita mouthed, as if she finally understood just how pissed off Alma was at her ex-husband. “Look, I know Harvey has his flaws, and you two were together a long, long, long time, and a lot of love and trust has been lost, but that does not mean you should just give up on ever finding the right man again.”

  “I don’t need to find the right man, Conchita,” Alma insisted. “He needs to find me. And right now, I’m more interested in hiding out in my boring, sexless bed with my boring antique trade magazines, stuffing my face with ice cream and wearing flannel animal pajamas, than I am in being found by anyone with a big fat dick promising to make me come.”

  Conchita squinted through her fake eyelashes and pursed her pouty pink lips. “Really? Flannel animal pajamas?”

  Alma shrugged. “I haven’t officially bought a pair yet, but I’ve been considering it.”

  “Wow. I really have come too late to your pity party, haven’t I?”

  Alma stared at her sister and nodded. “Sometimes a girl just needs to be left alone to wallow in her own self-pity. Especially when no one intended to hurt her, but still, a whole lot of hurt is the only thing she’s left with.”

  “Ugghhh,” Conchita heaved a nauseated sigh. “That makes me feel soooooooo guilty, but okay…I’ll accept it. But only if you promise me one thing.”

  “Not to pick farm animals over the mythical creatures?”

  Conchita nodded. “Anything, but a pig or a goat. That just seems wrong on so many levels.”

  “I was thinking about the unicorn ones.”

  Her sister exhaled in relief. “Quirky, but acceptable.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll probably just stick with wearing the same thing I’ve worn for the past decade.”

  “That old, ratty, boy band T-shirt from that concert where I lost my virginity?”

  “No,” Alma answered, drawing out her fork and finally taking a bite of her meal. “Harvey’s worn-out pinstripe flannel pajamas. Even though I hate his guts.”

  “Ugh,” Conchita slumped her head forward like she had just suffered a stroke. “That’s the saddest, most messed up thing I’ve heard all year.”

  “Yep,” Alma said, realizing her chicken pot pie had already turned cold. “It’s called a pity party for a reason.”

  * * * *

  True to her word, Alma ordered a pizza that night, put on her worn-out pinstripe flannel pajamas, and flipped on the gas fireplace before cozying up in her bed with a steamy romance novel that she had started long before she became entangled with her sexting affair.

  Who needed the real thing, anyway, she thought, huddling under the covers, when she could have a smarter, sexier version of a billionaire on demand?

  It already felt like the best decision she had made all year. She was moving on. The warm crackling glow of the fireplace mellowed her inhibitions. The fresh gallon of double chocolate ice cream was thawing on the counter. And Beethoven’s grim, dramatic second movement of his Symphony No. 7 filled the isolating silence.

  Composed in honor of soldiers wounded and defeated in a battle against Napoleon. The music selection was a deliberate choice to match her mood. Even in the face of despair and destruction, these men—who had lost so much—still had to find a way to carry on. And so would she…

  Then her doorbell rang.

  She glanced at her clock. The pizza delivery man took less than ten minutes. Clearly even the universe supported her plan of obtaini
ng serenity through junk food tonight.

  After slipping out of bed and scrounging through her purse for a generous tip, she rushed to the door and opened it without even peering through her peephole.

  “That was the fastest pizza service I’ve ever…” her voice trailed off in disappointment when the man in front of her offered her a plain white box instead of a hot zesty pizza.

  “Delivery, ma’am.”

  “From who?”

  “Card is on top of the box. Just need your signature for receipt.”

  He handed over the clipboard and she scribbled out her name before passing off the ten-dollar bill.

  “Wow. Thank you very much, miss.” He pocketed the tip and headed toward the elevators. “Have a great night.”

  Alma gazed down at the plain white box and lifted the lid. Sifting beneath the tissue paper, she retrieved a black velvet pouch. Based on its weight and chucky contour, she immediately guessed what was inside it, but the message on the white calling card confirmed it: I can’t take it back because it’s rightfully yours. ~HZ

  Alma closed her eyes, vowing not to look at it. She had loved the antique choker so much the first time she had received it that it would be unbearable to have to look at it now, reinforcing the fact that it had really been from him all along.

  Instead, she searched for her phone and impulsively sent him a text: gifting me a million-dollar necklace isn’t going to change anything.

  She waited, half-expecting to receive a message that he had changed his phone number again. But if he did receive her text, she knew he would either respond immediately or leave her hanging the whole night without clarification or closure.

  When her phone buzzed in her hand, her heart leapt with fury, as if nothing had changed and he was still the same mysterious man who was courting her.

  I know. It’s the end of us, Alma. I get it.

  Alma re-read his text, hearing an uncharacteristic surrender beneath his succinct reply.

  So why are you sending it back?

  After a long uncomfortable moment of silence, he finally answered, as if he no longer had anything to hide. Because I bought it for you as a gift for our fifth wedding anniversary, right before you ended our marriage.

  Ugh. She bit her lip, hard, and shook her head. So you tried to give it away to another woman you were sexting? Looks like that didn’t work out too well either, did it?

  Her response was beyond snarky and rude, but that’s exactly what he deserved from her—merciless punishment.

  Depends on how you look at it, he replied. Yeah, I tried to give it away. But in the end, it still found its way to you.

  Whatever she texted back was going to make her sound like a bitter, ungrateful bitch, so she simply fell silent, giving him the last word.

  Just consider it my final love letter or swear it off as a miserable curse. Save it, donate it, sell it or even just dump it in your trashcan. It’s yours, not mine, so you’re right…nothing is ever going to change that fact.

  When her phone went dark, she returned to bed with the velvet pouch in her hands and her heart harder and heavier than stone. If he had sent it back to make her cry, break her down, and convince her take him back, it would have been better than what he had accomplished, which was make her realize that he had completely given up on their reconciliation.

  For once in a very long time, he’d finally given her exactly what she wanted—and ironically, it was the one thing that made her cry. It wouldn’t all hurt so much if their relationship had been all bad, she confessed to herself while slipping under the covers, her only safe haven in the world. At least that way, she could look back on the past ten years of her life and know with certainty that it had all been an unfortunate mistake.

  But it hadn’t been all bad; it had simply been too hard. And sometimes, too hard wasn’t obviously a mistake. Untying the satin ribbons and opening the throat of the pouch, Alma dumped the antique choker necklace into her hands. The five-carat emerald pendant flashed like an amulet until its facets clouded from the heat of her palm. On the back of its filigree bezel setting, she spotted an inscription engraved across its smooth platinum: It was fun while it lasted…

  Yes, it was fun, she nodded, finally allowing herself to dissolve into tears. But it was also heartbreaking.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Alma sat in the elevated train and peered out the window as it snaked along the “L” tracks, encircling the skyscrapers in Chicago’s downtown loop.

  It was her favorite part of her morning commute.

  The sunlight reflected off the glass windows of the high-rises and the urgency of spring turned the sky into a stunning shade of cobalt blue. The train stalled and lurched, making its usual stops along the Brown Line, before picking up speed and screeching its wheels along the century-old steel as its third rail flashed like festive sparklers. She enjoyed looking at the exteriors of all the historical building, studying the flourishes of design and architecture from a nose-length perspective. Every glazed terra-cotta ornamentation, every brick of load-bearing masonry, every decorative stone corbel, every copper molding crowning a windowsill offered a story to tell from its era—a story overshadowed by the glamorous height and might of the adjacent, modern-day skyscrapers unless someone bothered to pay attention to it.

  Alma loved leaning her forehead against the windowpane, attempting to imagine all those stories until she inevitably passed by a series of cookie-cutter commercial buildings that disrupted her romantic daydreaming.

  “Like that one,” she uttered, pulling away from the window as the train slithered to a stop beside the steel structure, void of any architectural significance other than size. How many rentable square feet could be crammed into forty stories of vertical air space? Alma answered her own cynical thought. Enough to be worth millions upon millions of dollars every year.

  She suddenly felt nauseous.

  The train shuddered again before rocking back into a slow start. Maybe it was the uneven sway of the train cars or her decision to skip breakfast that caused the queasiness to inch up the surface of her throat before retreating down it like an intolerable burn. Maybe it was the realization that she was likely viewing one of his buildings, shifting her ride from a relaxing journey into a somber reminder of things that could have been. She had successfully avoided thinking about him all week—until now, when she cradled her stomach and rose from her seat, seeking to exit the train the moment the doors opened, despite the fact it wasn’t even her stop.

  Her escape was accidentally blocked by a young mother attempting to pull the rear wheels of a stroller over the landing gap and into the train. Bending forward, Alma lifted the front plastic wheel and nudged the stroller forward to safety. The mother smiled in appreciation, but only the image of the baby’s sleeping face lingered with Alma as she darted into the corner of the station, wafting with the stench of urine and garbage, and unleashed her own putrid addition to the mix.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Alma, your expertise is requested.”

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could just be left alone for one more minute.

  She had made it to her father’s shop—after vomiting up her entire stomach—and successfully settled herself onto her workbench stool without the uncontrollable urge to repeat the performance.

  And most mornings, her father was too busy with his own work to give her more than a simple greeting when she arrived. But this morning was different. This morning, she had barely removed her coat when the shopkeeper’s bell rang and an older gentleman passed through the front door.

  A client appointment, she remembered, knowing her father relied on her opinion for most appraisals. Rising to her feet, she steadied herself and made her way over to the front counter. Her father peered at her over his spectacles, sensing she was struggling to compose herself. Three, four, five…she counted every step until the waves of nausea subsided, allowing her to note the curious glass box in front of
the elderly man whose grey trench coat looked a size too big over his curved posture and drooping shoulders.

  “Alma…Mr. Harrington is here to receive our opinion on an heirloom. I met him at the Fields Museum gala. He’s a friend of Madame van der Meer.”

  “It’s a René Lalique original glass jewelry box,” she said in disbelief, knowing exactly what she was staring at without having to search out the signature of its maker. “Where did you find this one, Mr. Harrington?”

  “It belonged to my wife,” the gentleman said, running his hand over the rectangular top of the turquoise opalescent glass, as if it contained her ashes. “She received it from her mother who bought it with one of her first checks as a salesclerk at—”

  “Marshall Field’s,” Alma said, finishing his sentence.

  “Then you know?” Impressed, the man raised an eyebrow on his distinguished face.

  “Marshall Field was known to purchase luxury goods from Europe as a way to distinguish his department store from all the others. I’m familiar with his relationship with American glassmakers like Tiffany, so it makes sense that he would have been interested in European glassmakers as well.”

  “Field was a very progressive businessman. He was one of the first men to realize you would sell more to women if you hired women as salesclerks. And my wife’s mother was one of the first ones to be hired by Field’s.”

  “Well, it’s a wonderful piece,” Alma replied, touching the frosted glass bas relief of charming nymphs molded onto the lid. “Lalique was one of the great art nouveau artists whose glass and jewelry flourished in popularity around the beginning of the twentieth century. He worked in Paris, but only with glass until his death in 1945. Then his son took over his studio and converted everything to crystal. During Lalique’s lifetime, he was more known for his opalescent glass perfume bottles and even his light fixtures and chandeliers. He made less than a hundred glass jewelry boxes. They’re extremely rare and only a few have ever come up for auction.”