by Tara Wylde
Lara’s chin juts out and a defiant glint lights her eyes. “I can take care of myself.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t sometimes need someone in your corner,” I tell her, keeping my tone mild. Something tells me that if I push too hard, Lara’s stubborn streak will kick in – and that once that happens, she’ll refuse to ask for help no matter how badly she may need it.
Looking irritated, she rattles off her number and I shoot her a quick, impersonal number. It doesn’t feel like enough.
“So.” She looks at the Philistine’s ornate doors. “I suppose this is it.”
Before I have a chance to respond, she grabs the front of my shirt, yanking me close and taking my mouth in a kiss that is pure fire. It rocks me back to my heels, melting all rational thought.
She pulls back, leaving me stunned and gaping. Tears sparkle in her eyes, but she keeps her voice light as she backs up, tugging on Atticus’s leash as she goes. “If you’re ever in town again, make sure you swing by and see me. I think we have the start of a great friendship.”
Before I can think of anything to say, she disappears around the corner of the building. Walking out of my life.
Twenty Minutes Later
I step out of the lobby just as a sleek black town car pulls to a halt at the curb. The trunk pops open a moment before an elegant, uniformed driver lets himself out. His eyes meet mine.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
I nod and tell the porter to load my suitcase into the car. “I have an appointment I need to keep before you deliver me to the airport.”
The driver nods. “Very well, sir. Where am I taking you?”
“Loving Embrace Fertility Clinic.”
11
Paul
Eight Weeks Later
Five-thirty is early for anyone but the most obnoxious morning people to be ordering coffee, which is just fine with me.
I love being one of the few people in the local coffee shop. It gives me a chance to chat with whichever teen is acting as the barista and the few customers who, like me, are dependent on an early morning blast of coffee to get them through the day. It’s a golden opportunity to strengthen my connection with the small community I grew up in.
Once I finish my coffee, I’ll head into the office, where I’ll be able to get about three hours of quiet time to work before the rest of my staff shows up.
The faint sounds of Silver Bells wafts through a pair of hidden speakers as I place my order.
Once she’s taken my order, I ignore the barista, focusing instead on my phone, slowly reading through the most recent dossier the fertility agency has sent me on a possible surrogate.
I’m surprised they are still attempting to match me up with one of their girls. I’m sure if my net worth was lower, they would have already written me off as a lost cause.
Since the surrogate I selected back in October backed out on me, they’ve sent me more than twenty different dossiers and I’ve rejected each one. Even I’m willing to admit my excuses for a few of them were getting pretty flimsy.
The woman whose information currently fills my cell phone’s screen seems perfect. She has one child of her own, a bright boy of ten, and has also been a surrogate twice, indicating that she’s unlikely to flake on me. She’s intelligent, appears to have good morals, and seems reliable. The only problem is I just can’t get enthused about her.
When I close my eyes, I can’t imagine her heavy with my child. I’m sure the fertility agency is wondering if I actually want a baby, and in the spirit of honesty, I’ve wondered the same thing myself from time to time. Sometimes, it just doesn’t seem like my heart is into it.
But the problem goes deeper than that. Every time I read a potential surrogate’s dossier, a vision of Lara floats in front of my eyes.
As if conjured by my thoughts, my phone dings, alerting me to an incoming text message. A second later, the message appears with a little image of Lara’s laughing face.
For a moment, my eyes remained glued to the image as a familiar feeling of warmth and pleasure spreads throughout my chest. Our relationship might have started out as an impromptu one-night stand. It defied the odds when it lasted throughout the morning, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. Since that night, somehow, we’ve managed to become fast friends. The kind who constantly text, Facetime, and call one another.
We’ve talked about everything: music, books, movies, her bar, my work. For the first time in my life, I understand what it feels like to have an honest-to-goodness best friend. Someone who is on the same wavelength as me. No one would believe me if I told them that I’d made a friend as a result of a one-night stand.
That is the one thing we’ve refused to talk about – and it’s killing me.
In the past few weeks, my conversations, my friendship, with Lara has become the most important thing in my life. I’d do anything to make sure nothing jeopardizes that, which as far as I’m concerned means no sex. But there’s something about Lara that’s gotten under my skin. Just her picture, the sound of her voice, makes my cock spring to life.
Every. Freaking. Time.
From a distance, I can maintain the friendship I so desperately need. But up close, where I can breathe her sweet scent and see how the 1920s-inspired clothing she loves hugs her hot little body?
I don’t think I have enough strength to resist her…
That’s why, despite how lonely I was on Thanksgiving, I didn’t fly to Chicago and take Lara up on her offer to have dinner.
There are also a few things I haven’t told her yet. Like the fact that I’ve started the process of having a baby via a surrogate. Or that while in high school I discovered I had a knack for creating the type of software that military and government agencies all over the world need and are willing to pay an exorbitant price for, which is why last year I officially became a billionaire –one who not only owns one of the highest grossing software firms in the world, but is also a leading shareholder in many other, equally successful corporations.
Lara is one of the first people I’ve encountered in the past decade who hasn’t already known about my wealth before meeting me. I get the sense that even if she knew about my net worth, she wouldn’t be impressed by it.
“Mr. Sullivan.”
Jackie Albright, the skinny, redheaded barista who took my order and who also happens to be my Uncle Pete’s next door neighbor, nudges a large paper cup across the counter. “Your order is ready.”
“Thanks, Jackie.”
I wrap my hand around the cup, enjoying the way the warmth seeps into my skin almost as much as I know I’ll enjoy the dark liquid it contains.
She blushes bright pink. “No, thank you for putting me in contact with that scholarship group. Without that money, there’s no way I’d be able to afford to go to college next fall. Not without taking out a fortune in student loans.”
“It wasn’t a problem. You deserve it.”
A bright girl with big dreams, Jackie has always talked about going to college and studying architecture, but her family is in an income bracket that makes it difficult to get the funding needed to finance higher education. I was happy to help out. I always am.
I pull a twenty out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Here, add this to your college fund.”
Jackie’s blush deepens but she takes the bill and stuffs it deep into her apron pocket. “Really, Mr. Sullivan. You don’t have to do things like—”
I smile at her. “I want to help out, Jackie. You deserve it.”
Jackie flashes another quick smile before turning to take the next order.
I take my coffee to a quiet corner of the shop and settle down to read Lara’s text.
I expect to get a bad joke, or a fun story about a bar customer. Maybe even a picture of her ridiculous dog like she occasionally sends me. The contents of this particular text are the last thing I anticipate.
Paul,
We need to talk. There’s a serious problem. When can you come to Chicago?
12
Lara
My to-do list is out of control. Filled with need-to-do-right-freaking-now items such as replacing Thanksgiving decorations with Christmas ones, checking my inventory, playing around with a recipe for a different kind of whiskey, evaluating my staff and deciding who should and shouldn’t get a raise, and about a hundred other things.
Yet I can’t talk myself into doing any of them.
Instead I sit at a table in the middle of my closed bar, slowly spinning my cell phone around in circles, while opening time creeps closer and closer.
I was in a blind panic when I sent that early morning text to Paul. Running on fumes and adrenaline. I didn’t think about the possible repercussions. I should have.
Most people, upon receiving that type of text message, would be full of questions, but not Paul. His curt response said he was on his way.
What did he mean?
He owns a business, that much I do know about him, and my gut tells me he’s extremely responsible, not the kind of guy to drop everything and close up shop on a whim. I presume that it will be a few days before he can get here.
I give my phone another spin, torn between wanting him here right now and dreading his arrival. Somehow, during numerous text messages and Facetime chats, Paul’s become my best friend. I look forward to talking to him every bit as much as I enjoy tallying the night’s records and confirming that my business is a success.
What I have to tell him … It’s going to change everything.
And not for the better.
I wish I could hold on to the secret. But I can’t. It’s too big, and if I didn’t tell him and he found out… My mind refuses to explore that possibility.
I need to come up with a plan. Have a speech already prepared, one that’s designed to soften the blow I’ll be delivering. And before Paul gets here, I need to know what I want to do and what I’ll need from him.
A sharp rap on the doors tugs me from my thoughts. I swivel in my chair, turning toward the entrance, ready to yell that the place is still closed and to come back later.
The words dry up in my throat.
Paul peers through the thick glass, his eyes intense, his expression grim.
So much for having a few days to prepare a speech.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I push myself into a standing position. Closing my fingers into fists to hide their shaking, I make my way across the room to unlock the door and let him in. I’m praying to a God I’m not even sure I believe in for the strength and clarity of mind needed to tell him about the massive mistake we made.
13
Paul
Lara’s early morning text message scared me to death. After reading it, my hands shook so badly I was barely able to type a reply before I started making arrangements to get myself to Chicago as quickly as possible.
I was almost prepared to make the long drive by myself, breaking the speed limit the entire way when one of my contacts returned my call.
All things considered, making the trip took less time and went more smoothly than I could reasonably have expected it to, but that didn’t stop me from resenting every single long second it took.
Something about the tone of Lara’s text message made it impossible for me to even imagine what she could possibly need to see me about. The variety of different horrors that line of reasoning triggered inside my mind was too much to bear.
My first thought upon reaching the Blind Pig and seeing Lara sitting at the table, her head bowed, phone in front of her, is thank God she’s here and not in some hospital somewhere.
Her expression caught somewhere between horror and pleasure, she pushes away from the table and walks toward me, each step seeming more reluctant than the one before it. The tension that settled between my shoulder blades when I received her text now ties itself into a stubborn knot. For someone who wanted me here, she doesn’t seem very eager to talk to me.
Not a good sign.
While I don’t see any visible injuries, she doesn’t look healthy. The jeans and sweatshirt she’s wearing hang on her body, like she’s lost weight during the past few weeks. Her pale skin stretches across her high cheekbones, and the dark shadows under her eyes make them look impossibly big.
Not seeing any potentially life-threatening injuries does little to ease my anxiety. For all I know, she could have been diagnosed with some horrible illness. Maybe even been told that she has a few months to live. The idea is almost enough to bring me to my knees.
It’s hard to believe that someone I’ve known for such a short time has become so important to me.
She chews on her lip as she unlocks the door. I don’t wait for her to open it fully, managing to bang my shoulder against both the door and the frame as I try forcing my body through a too-small gap.
“Are you okay?” I wrap my arms around Lara’s upper arm, holding her in place so I can study her more closely.
“I’m fine.” She jerks free from my grasp and spins on her heel, angling back to the table she just vacated. “How did you manage to get here so fast?”
“I chartered a flight.”
Her head whips around so fast she stumbles. I reach out to steady her. “You chartered a flight! Who does that?”
Billionaires worried their best friend is in a world of shit.
Rather than say that, I opt to keep it simple. “I occasionally need a chartered flight for work. My contact was happy to help out this time.” And it didn’t hurt that I offered three times his usual rate. It never ceases to amaze me how much more smoothly life goes now that I have a little walking around money.
With a hand on the small of her back, I guide Lara to the table and wait for her to take a seat before I settle into the chair across from her.
“What did you need to see me about?” Her pale skin and the lines of strain radiating from the corners of her eyes convinces me to keep my voice gentle.
Lara stares down at the table top. “I thought I’d have a little more time before I saw you.”
“I can leave and come back later if you want.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
In my head, I know Lara and I can’t be more than friends.
More than likely the differences between us are why our one night together felt so different, so magical. And the memory of that night is likely the reason I’m tempted to take our relationship past the friendship stage.
But how long before we started to clash, when one of us feels like they are making all the sacrifices? And once that happens, everything, including the friendship I value, will crumble to dust.
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s probably best this way. Gives me less time to change my mind.”
“Okay.”
“The reason I asked you to come instead of phoning or texting you-”
Lara’s already pale face grows even paler, until the only color is a faint, unearthly greenish tinge and the deep shadows beneath her indigo eyes. Her shoulders hunch forward as her torso heaves. She scrambles to her feet, the back of her forearm clamped over her mouth, and races away from the table, disappearing into the bathroom.
14
Lara
I lean against the side of the toilet. Salty droplets soak my sweatshirt as I wait to see if my stomach has settled. When a minute passes without any further convulsions, I slowly climb to my feet and make my way to the sink.
My fingers curl around the porcelain edges, holding on for dear life. I stopped stocking anything but soap and paper towels when I realized that anything nice I placed in here, including plastic flowers and decorative air fresheners, walked out with customers.
That means I never got around to storing any cups in here, a decision I’m beginning to seriously regret. As soon as I have the energy, I’m bringing some in. And if I have to chain them to the counter like the bank does with their pens, well then, so be it.
Using my hand as a cup, I bring water to my mouth, swishing it around a few times before spitting it out and repe
ating the process. My muscles feel like they’re made out of jello. Every single movement takes every ounce of strength and concentration I possess.
I barely recognize my reflection. I look like someone who hasn’t had a single easy day in their entire life. Worn out and sick of life. That’s what happens when you can’t sleep and vomit up everything you eat.
The only thing I want to do right now is sink to the floor and sleep for twelve hours straight, but that’s not an option. Dealing with Paul is my first – and only – priority.
I expect to find him sitting where I’d left him. Instead he’s standing just outside the bathroom door, his expression etched with harrowed concern.
“Are you okay?” He wraps an arm around my waist. My legs are still pretty shaky, so I don’t reject his support.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, too worn out and feeling way too miserable to inject any warmth into my voice. “It’s just an upset stomach.”
“Still—” Paul helps me sit. “Maybe you should get some rest.”
Stomach churning, I twist my fingers together and wish I had something to do with my hands: a fidget spinner, a piece of napkin to tear, a pen to doodle with. Since wishing isn’t enough to magically conjure any of these items out of thin air, I settle for picking at my nail polish.
The only time I’ve ever felt pulled in two different directions like this was in the moments leading up to when I signed my mortgage for the Blind Pig. I’d been elated that, finally, I was going to have the business I’d always dreamed of, scared of the amount of work needed to get the building ready for customers, and terrified at the amount of money involved.
Now I’m delighted to see Paul. Since I left him at the entrance of the Philistine Hotel, not a single day has gone by when I didn’t desperately want to see him. On the other hand, I don’t even know how to begin to break my news to him – and I can’t bear to think about what’s at stake.