My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  What wouldn’t People Magazine give to know that?

  “Mum,” I say. “Jacques has been looking everywhere for you.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Veronique, too. They are worried about you.”

  She cuts through a fish violently.

  “I am worried, too.”

  “You, worried? Didn’t your detective do a good enough job for you? What is there for you to worry about? Now you are smarter than the rest of us.”

  Her words sting, but I accept them. She’s right. I did think I was smarter than everybody else.

  “I am so sorry that my mistake has hurt you so much. Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you or Jacques. Or Veronique. At first I was trying to protect you. I really thought I was doing the right thing. And then I just forgot to really listen, to really see how happy you were. I can see now that I was wrong. I hope you can believe me that I didn’t mean for you to get that envelope. It was for me.”

  At last she drops the fish and glares at me.

  “Son,” she says, “I am not mad at you for trying to protect me. Or even for being suspicious of Jacques. Or even of second-guessing my choices. I am angry that neither of the most important men in my life trust me to be able to handle the truth. You, with your subterfuge and detectives. Jacques, with his lies of omission. It’s frustrating when the people you love won’t let you in. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection. I need love!” Her eyes flash, cutting me to the bone. “Love includes respect and trust, son. Without trust and respect, love dies.”

  She is so right. I look at her, amazed by her wisdom, realizing something new.

  “I’m afraid of trusting anyone,” I say.

  My mother nods. “I know. You have been overly pampered, overly protected. But you have to let go. You can’t control everything. You can’t live without love. And love always trusts.”

  Love always trusts.

  That’s the thing I’ve been missing, the thing I’ve been holding back from Veronique: trust. I’ve even held it back from my own mother, and from myself.

  Trust. It’s hard to learn to trust when people start selling your secrets to the press when you’re nine years old, when your best friends turn out to be spies, when everyone only wants to be seen with you to make themselves look and feel better.

  Trust. It’s a foreign concept for me.

  I’ve built so many walls, I didn’t even realize until now that I’d completely isolated myself from my own family.

  Tears start to stream down my face.

  “I’m sorry Mum,” I say. “I do trust you. I don’t want to be so scared anymore. I trust you, and you know? I trust Jacques too. Because I trust Veronique, his daughter, and I know that only a good man could raise a woman like her. He will do right by you. If you give him a chance, I am sure he will prove that he trusts you too. Please, let’s go back together. Let me help make it right. Let’s start over.”

  My mother’s eyes change from their hard anger to nurturing care.

  “Remington, I will give you another chance – one more chance – to loosen the reigns and learn to open your heart. I’ll go back with you, but only if you promise – promise! – to trust me to make my own decisions about my marriage, and butt out.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Did you just tell me to butt out?”

  She frowns, not quite understanding why I am laughing.

  “Yes! Butt out, butthead!”

  I laugh so hard I snort – not just because it’s ridiculous to hear my mom using such a silly word, but also because it is true. I have been an enormous butthead!

  I’m a butthead!

  “I can’t believe you called me a butthead!”

  Now my mom is laughing too: first a tentative giggle, then a full-on belly laugh.

  “Well, you are a butthead!”

  “Mum, you sound so American. It must be from spending time with that Jacques.”

  She shrugs, laughing. “I guess so. He is having a good influence on me, no?”

  It feels so good to see her laugh. It hits me for the first time just how good it is to see her so happy.

  “Yes, he is. He really is. I’m happy for you, Mum. I never said that. But I can see that you’ve come alive, in a way. And I’m sorry for not thinking of your feelings before my own. I’m sorry I’ve been such a…butthead.”

  This makes us both laugh even harder.

  “You deserve to be happy,” I realize. “You deserve to have someone take care of you, other than just me.”

  She ruffles my hair, smiling affectionately.

  “God, you’re right,” she jokes. “Who wants their butthead son to be their only caretaker in their golden years? Not me!”

  She laughs then sighs as she looks around the ramshackle room as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Ok, I’m done with Helene’s,” she announces. “Enough of this. Back to my real world. Let’s get the hell out of here, Remington. I love Helene but it stinks like fish and I need to go and reconcile with my husband. And what about you? Seems you might have some more apologies to make, no?”

  Chuckling, I help pull her off the floor.

  “Come on, I’ll take you to Jacques. He’s waiting at home. North Island. I’ll sail with you. I need to see Veronique.”

  My mom looks at me sharply.

  “Yes,” she says. “You do. I don’t know what is going on between you, Remington, but you better take care. That girl is special to me. She is a sincere, talented person, like her Dad. Don’t be a –”

  “Butthead,” I finish for her, rolling my eyes. “I know. I won’t be a butthead.”

  Not anymore.

  “Veronique is very important in our family now, Remington. You must trust her, but you must also give her reason to trust you. It is a two-way street, love.”

  Love?

  Now it’s my turn to look at my mom sharply, but she just raises her eyebrows pointedly, shakes her head at me, and then heads downstairs.

  Love?

  I hear her saying goodbye to Helene and I follow her out, wishing that the boat ride to North Island wouldn’t take so long. I need to get there now. I need to figure this out now.

  If I can get over myself and just trust – trust my mom, trust Jacques, trust myself, trust Veronique – who knows what is possible?

  I used to think Veronique was dangerous. Now I realize that she is probably the only way for me to be safe – the only person I can try to open up with, the only person I can truly trust, the only person who I can see myself learning to be vulnerable with.

  I want to trust her. I want to open up to her. I want to tell her how much I care about her, how important she is to me. How I think about her when I am falling asleep, and when I wake up.

  Will she listen?

  I’ll have to try.

  Veronique is on my mind as we walk down to the docks, as we board one of our ships to sail back home. I wish I had brought my phone, so that I could call Veronique now. As my mother and I sail over to North Island, I keep trying to think of the right words to say to her when I see her: Forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m a butthead.

  It just doesn’t seem to cut it. Something is missing.

  But what?

  What can I say to my hot, pregnant, wounded, sexy, strong, powerful, intelligent, sassy, creative, unpredictable stepsister? How can I make up for everything I’ve done wrong, for being a privileged jackass butthead dick?

  There must be something I can say, some truth that can help me.

  Staring up at the North Star, suddenly my mind clears. New words form in my mind, a new way to try to make Veronique understand, to make her forgive me: I love you.

  Yikes. I’ve never said that to anyone in my entire life. I’ve never even thought it before. I love you…such a big fucking deal. So scary.

  Is that really how I feel?

  Do
I really love Veronique?

  Doesn’t that sound completely fucking insane?

  My mind flashes back over memories of Veronique, starting with the first moment I saw her at our parents’ wedding a month ago. Standing there in that dress, looking like heaven. So fucking hot. So fucking beautiful. So elegant. She was also so passionate, so quick to defend her father’s honor, so opinionated and right. She stood up to me. She got my attention. She made me think, and made me mad, and made me horny and made me laugh all at the same time. Then, later, when I kicked her out of my favorite bungalow like a perfect alpha male douchebag, she kept her chin up. Stuck to her guns. She was so strong.

  And when we finally made love the first time, the way she felt! So right. So generous. So sexy. So perfect.

  How could I not love her?

  How can I have been so slow to figure it out?

  Now that I know, I can’t get off the boat fast enough. The night passes agonizingly slowly. And after what seems like forever, the sun is finally starting to rise – a new dawn. By the time we anchor at the dock on North Island, it’s morning.

  I’m straining to run off, but I stop to hug my mom first.

  “Jacques is waiting for you in your rooms,” I say. “I’d take you, but I need to talk to Veronique.”

  My mom nods.

  “You do what you have to do to make things right,” she says.

  I don’t even wait for the knots to be tied; I’m leaping off the boat and jogging down the dock.

  It seems to take forever to get to Veronique’s bungalow, and by the time I get there I am sweaty and out-of-breath.

  I’ve never been more nervous in my life.

  I knock on the door. It’s early, but most people on the island wake up with the sun. Sure enough, in a few moments I hear footsteps coming. The door opens and I groan.

  “Not you!”

  It’s that woman who hates me again. It occurs to me belatedly that I never learned her name.

  “Wait!” I shout as she starts to slam the door.

  But she slams it all the same, stubbing me in the nose.

  “Ow! Dammit! That hurt!”

  “Good!”

  I pound at the door with both my fists.

  “Come on, please open up! I need to talk to Veronique.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I have to!”

  “Too bad.”

  “Please!”

  The door jerks open again, the woman staring at me through the crack.

  “You can’t talk to Veronique, Monsieur Wilde. She isn’t here. Go away.”

  “What do you mean she isn’t here?”

  Pushing with all my strength, I manage to force the door open enough for me to squeeze inside. Now the woman and I are both out of breath, staring at each other angrily.

  “Where is Veronique?” I demand, hands on my hips.

  “Gone.”

  “She can’t be gone. She texted me last night.”

  “She’s taking the jet back to Philadelphia. You gave her no reason to stay, did you? So she’s gone.”

  I’ve lived a pretty cushy, sheltered existence. I’ve never had to cook my own meals or face any real fears. When I was a little boy afraid of the dark, my mother or my nanny would sit up with me until I fell asleep, and then leave a servant with a night light in the room the whole time just so that I would never be scared. So, I’ve never been truly scared. Not much.

  But I’m scared as hell now.

  “Veronique can’t leave,” I gasp.

  My chest aches at the thought.

  The woman stares at me incredulously. “What do you care? You pushed her away. Did you really think she’d stay? She left so that you could all go about your lives. She didn’t want to get in the way of everyone having a chance to be happy. She got the message you’ve been trying to tell her from the beginning: that she doesn’t belong here.”

  “No!” I groan, kicking the door. “No, that’s not true! She does belong here! I was wrong. I am a butthead.”

  The woman raises her eyebrows. “A…butthead?”

  “I need her. I need her here. I love her.”

  “Oh right. Since when?”

  I grab her shoulders, desperate. “Please help me. Please, please, please help me. What time does Veronique’s plane leave?”

  Her eyes search my face, reassessing me. “In thirty minutes. From the airstrip, south side.”

  Relief floods me. That’s just enough time.

  “Thank you!”

  I turn to run out the door, but the woman’s hand on my shoulder stops me. She looks at me with firm, warning eyes.

  “Don’t waste her time Monsieur Wilde,” she says. “Don’t break her heart again.”

  I nod. “I won’t.”

  Thirty minutes.

  That’s just enough time for me to make it.

  I just have to make one stop on the way, one quick stop, so as to not waste Veronique’s time.

  I should make it just in time to stop her. I hope.

  So, I run.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Veronique LaRoux

  Leaving on a Jet Plane

  Chance Walker, the handsome pilot, helps me through the hatch of the same gilded jet that brought me to The Seychelles island paradise a month ago.

  “Welcome back, Miss LaRoux,” he says, escorting me to a plush leather seat.

  “Thanks, Chance.”

  “I hear we’re heading back to Philadelphia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry to see you go so soon. The island will be a great deal less pretty once you’re gone.”

  When he smiles, he has dimples.

  “That’s sweet,” I manage.

  “I’ll get the engines ready. We’ll take off in about ten minutes.”

  Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with Chance instead of Remington? I bet he’s a nice guy. I bet he’s not a complicated, confusing billionaire who doesn’t know what he wants. I bet he wouldn’t have knocked me up and turned my world upside down. I bet…

  Ugh…

  Oh well. C’est la vie.

  A pretty flight attendant brings me champagne. I reach for it, and then remember that I am pregnant.

  “No thanks,” I stammer.

  “Can I get you something else instead?”

  “Um…” what are pregnant women allowed to drink? “Just plain apple juice, please.”

  She disappears to fulfill my command, and I let my head sink back against the plush backrest.

  Cocooned in luxury, my problems don’t seem so terrible. So I had my heart broken. So I’ll be a single mom. At least I’ll have a private jet to fly me home, and a career waiting for me. Even if things get worse, at least I know that I am capable of pulling myself together. At least I know that, even if Diana and Dad have problems, I’ll be able to be there for him.

  But who is there for me?

  Who will ever be able to take Remington’s place?

  I know that answer: no one.

  No, Veronique, don’t do that. Don’t think like that. It won’t do any good feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get a grip and be strong.

  Sighing, I turn my head to take one long last look at the island paradise that has been my oasis and home for the last month.

  Here I saw sea turtles for the first time.

  I was on a tropical, romantic island for the first time.

  I saw my Dad happy for the first time since my Mom died.

  I fell in love here for the first time, had sex for the first time, and got pregnant for the first time.

  So many firsts.

  My eyes fill with tears at the thought of leaving, but I know it’s the right thing to do.

  The flight attendant brings me my juice and shuts the cabin door. I hear the air lock seal. The plane starts to roll.

  We’re taxiing.

  Here I go…off into the future.

  What firsts wait for me in the future?

  Gosh, it’s fun to dayd
ream. I hope my future is as bright as I hope. I hope there are lots of new and exciting firsts on the horizon. But nothing can take the place of my first love.

  Nothing ever will.

  Staring out the window, part of me hopes that I’ll see him again. And part of me is scared to. How would I feel if I saw Remington again? Would it hurt? Would it feel good, just to see that handsome face one more time?

  And then…poof!

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Just like that, there he is outside the window, waving and calling after me: Remington Wilde running alongside the plane.

  I shake my head, blinking.

  Wow, this daydreaming is getting out of hand. I actually thought I saw him.

  Maybe my blood sugar is low. I reach for my juice and take a sip, then look back out the window.

  And see Remington.

  I’m not imagining things.

  Am I?

  No! It’s really him.

  Remington is outside the window, running on the runway, waving desperately, when suddenly reaches down and rips his shirt off, hoisting it in the air like a beacon of surrender, flapping it in the air to get the pilot’s attention.

  I sit up, staring.

  “Um,” I say.

  Yup, it’s him – he’s actually sprinting alongside the plane like a maniac.

  My heart starts to beat wildly, in tune with the pounding of Remington’s feet on the ground. Did he really come for me? Did he really come to stop me from leaving?

  Hope bursts through my heart, making it ache like the devil.

  “Um, Chip?”

  But the plane keeps rolling along the ground.

  I drop my juice, spilling it all over myself, and stumble across the cabin. There are a few bumps that make me almost lose my balance, but I finally careen to the cabin door and knock as loudly as I can.

  “Chip! Chip! Stop the plane! Stop the plane! Don’t take off! Chip!”

  But I don’t think he hears me: I feel the angle of the plane change, the wheels leave the ground.

  “Nooooo!”

  No, I don’t want to leave – not if Remington wants me to stay.

  Clutching the cabin door, I yank until it opens.

  We are airborne. Gravity is sucking me backward but I hang on and yell over the roar of the engines.