by Ember Casey
“Come on,” I say, pulling him toward our seats. “The film’s about to start.”
He lets me drag him down the aisle, his hand still in his pocket. I smile to myself. Once, I was disappointed by the idea that I was only the brightest part of his day. Yeah, I know—I was an idiot. But I’ve grown a lot since then. And now that we share more of ourselves with each other—the good and the bad, our dreams and our fears—I strive to bring that brightness into every part of his life. For the rest of our lives.
I’ve never felt so lucky. And I can’t wait to see what other new adventures we’ll face in this life we’re writing together, one laugh at a time.
THE END
~
I hope you enjoyed The Thrill of Temptation! This may be the final book in the Fontaines series, but that doesn’t mean you’ve seen the last of them - I already have an idea for a special bonus story spinning around in my head, so make sure you’re a member of my special VIP Newsletter List if you don’t want to miss it.
If, on the other hand, this was your first Fontaines book, then you’re in for a treat! Each of Orlando’s brothers—Dante, Luca, and Rafe—has their own deliciously wicked romance. I recommend starting with The Sweet Taste of Sin, but you can find links to all the books in the series here on my website.
Looking for something else to read instead? Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. On the next page you’ll find the first chapter of The Billionaire Escape Plan, a standalone romance that’s just as sexy, sweet, and humorous as The Thrill of Temptation. If you enjoy romantic comedies, second chances, and untraditional billionaires, you’ll love this friends-to-lovers romance about a girl and her former best friend (turned mega-hot billionaire).
Until next time, happy reading! And thank you for coming along on the Fontaines’ journey with me. These bad boys will always hold a special place in my heart. <3
xoxo,
Ember
The Billionaire Escape Plan
CHAPTER ONE
Most girls dream of marrying a billionaire.
Me? I’d rather make fun of one. Especially if the billionaire in question is Alexander Grant.
Excuse me—Xander Grant. That’s right—the “mega-hot” entrepreneur who’s appeared on both Modern Startup Monthly’s “Richest Innovators Under 35” list and Celebrity Spark Magazine’s “Hottest Eligible Bachelors” list in the last year.
To me? He’s still the guy who once ran naked down Main Street with “Free the Goats!” painted across his butt cheeks. My partner in crime until we went off to separate colleges and he and his buddy went on to sell the dating website they designed for a cool twenty-three million dollars. Practically overnight, he became known as one of the hottest young entrepreneurs in the country—a far cry from the guy I knew with the overlong hair and the weird obsession with dinosaurs.
Alex and I have seen each other a handful of times since his first big deal—his mom has always tried to badger him into coming home for holidays—but as the years have crept by, he’s come back to Haverton less often. Apparently being a big-shot billionaire keeps you busy. We’ve kept in touch by email and phone, of course—I mean, someone has to remind him how ridiculous he looks in those suits he wears now—but today will be the first time in almost four years that we’ll be face to face. I can’t friggin’ wait.
“Norah is about to throw a fit,” my mom says as she puts her famous potato salad on the picnic table. “Alexander is late.” She’s wearing her dress with the giant blue flowers, the one she always wears for our neighborhood gatherings because it matches her favorite hat with the silk roses.
“He’s driving in from New York,” I remind her. “He wouldn’t miss his mom’s birthday. He probably just hit some traffic.”
Norah Grant’s birthday party is always one of the biggest events of the year—Norah is a member of the town council, and her husband is principal of the local high school, which means they’re friends with everyone. Half the town shows up on their lawn whenever they have a party, and most people dress like it’s Easter Sunday or something, all bright dresses and pearls and ridiculous matching hats. If our little town of Haverton were big enough to have a society, then this would be one of the main events of the season. Honestly, Norah’s parties are just fancy, glorified barbecues that give all the town ladies the excuse to dress like rainbow-colored chickens—but damn, if her husband doesn’t make the best burgers I’ve ever tasted.
“Alex wanted to fly his parents into the city,” my mom continues. “But Norah insisted that he come here. He hasn’t been back home in almost four years, you know.”
I smile as I straighten the punch bowl. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here, Mom.” I hope. As much as I love the food at the Grants’ parties—the only thing that comes close in deliciousness to Luke Grant’s burgers are those cream-filled donuts down at the diner, the ones with the fudgy glaze—this isn’t exactly my crowd. I mean, I don’t even own a fancy hat, despite my mom’s many attempts to buy me one. I’m afraid that the moment I give in, the moment I put one of those ribboned and bedazzled monstrosities on my head, I’ve committed myself to a future as a Haverton busybody. I swear—the moment a Haverton woman puts on a big hat, she’s suddenly convinced that everyone else’s business is her own.
My mom seems to take my word about Alex, at least. She nods and glances over her shoulder, back toward the street. “Speaking of late arrivals, Mae—where’s Wes? I told you Norah said you should invite him, didn’t I?”
“I…” Shit. I was secretly hoping she would magically forget about Wes—God knows I’m trying to. But while I’m desperately trying to think of a believable excuse, my mom has already switched gears again.
“Oh, did I tell you I saw Alexander on TV again earlier this week?” she says, her eyes bright as she turns back to me. “I just can’t get over how dashing he looks now!”
I snort a laugh. “I think the word you’re looking for is goofy. Or maybe stuffy.”
She bats at my arm with mock admonishment. “Maebel! That’s a terrible thing to say. I think he looks quite striking. You know, Norah says he gets all of his suits custom made. Can you imagine?” You can tell she thinks I’m being ridiculous because she’s called me by my full name—a name that, in my opinion, should never be used on anyone under the age of approximately ninety-seven.
I grin and bite my tongue. I remember asking Alex once how much one of those suits cost—my mom would have an aneurysm if I told her the price. I still have trouble believing the Alex I knew would ever spend that much on business wear. The Alex I knew once wore the same pair of socks for twenty-two days because he thought they were lucky. And he complained for weeks when he had to wear a tux in his cousin’s wedding. But fancy-pants Xander has a reputation to protect, apparently.
“He’s so well-spoken,” my mom goes on. “He was talking about some company he’s building or something. I wish I’d thought to record it for you.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell me all about it,” I say. Back when Alex first sold that dating website, I used to watch all of his interviews. It’s not often that someone from Haverton gets national fame. I’m not going to lie—it was weird seeing him up there on the TV with his shirt tucked in and his caramel-colored hair cut short. Even though he was twenty-three at the time, he looked like a kid dressed up in his dad’s clothes. I spent so much time giggling at him that I’m pretty sure I missed half his answers.
I dip the ladle in the punch and scoop myself a nice serving. Part of me wonders if things will be different between us now. Alex was my best friend for most of my childhood—and even afterward, when we were living in different places, that’s still what I called him to everyone. I mean, sometimes someone just plays a role in your life for so long that it’s hard to imagine them as anything else. And honestly, Alex and I seem to have the sort of friendship where we can go months without speaking and then pick up exactly where we left off. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that our parents live right next door to each other and
our moms are gossip buddies.
“Did you hear about that Harris girl?” my mom asks. “What’s her name—Madison?”
My stomach clenches. I take a sip of punch and run my free hand down the front of my sun dress, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “No. What happened?”
“I heard she was back in town,” my mom says. “I ran into Phoebe Jane at the grocery and she said that Madison has been having trouble finding work. I can’t imagine why—she’s so beautiful, isn’t she? Did you ever see that kitty litter commercial she was in?”
Way too many times, I think, trying to decide whether it would be worse to throw up on the potato salad or the deviled eggs.
“Mm-hm,” I tell her with a nod. Madison is the last person in the world I want to talk about right now.
“She was always so talented,” my mom goes on, oblivious to my plight as she fiddles with the vase of daisies in the center of the table. “I always told her mom she was destined for great things. I was sure she’d end up in movies eventually. She has the face for it, doesn’t she? And she was always so good in your little high school plays.”
If I have to listen to any more of this I really am going to hurl all over this table. Definitely aim for the deviled eggs, I think. I’m pretty sure Collette brought those, which means they’re going to be over-seasoned anyway. And besides, your mom will kill you if you ruin her potato salad.
“I’m going to go see if Norah or Luke need any help,” I say, backing slowly away from the table. But I only make it a few steps before I hear the car coming down the street.
Maple Avenue is usually fairly quiet—let’s be real, all the streets in Haverton are usually fairly quiet—and since most of the town’s population is already here, it’s not hard to guess who might be pulling down the street right now. Especially when the car in question turns out to be a black Lamborghini.
That’s new, I think as the luxury car comes to a stop next to the mailbox. In high school, Alex drove a teal pickup truck with his name spray-painted on the side—and yeah, that was exactly as classy as it sounds. In the years after he sold his first website, he upgraded to a more reliable sedan—an expensive sedan, but something practical. I guess it was only a matter of time before he decided he needed something more stylish and sporty. Every billionaire bachelor needs an obnoxious car, doesn’t he? I’m pretty sure that’s in the rich dudes’ handbook somewhere.
But as much as I want to roll my eyes at his choice of wheels, I can’t help but grin as he gets out of the car. Alex will always be Alex, no matter what he drives or what he wears. No matter how many magazines or news sites claim he’s the hottest, richest thing ever or post torrid rumors about his sex life.
But geez, even the new Alex—excuse me, the new Xander—should know how ridiculous it is to wear a suit like that to a barbecue in Haverton. The dude striding across the lawn toward us is dressed for a board meeting, not one of his mom’s birthday parties. What a doofus. His entire getup probably cost more than some of the houses here.
I take another sip of punch as Norah and Luke head across the lawn toward their son. Alex’s younger brother, Levi, goes too, as does Sawyer, the family’s golden retriever. My mom and I hang back with the other guests. I notice Jimmy and Samantha Tyler whisper something to each other over by the side of the house.
It’s been a long, long time since any of us here in Haverton have seen Alex—outside of TV and magazines, at least—and I’m not surprised people are talking. He’s big news these days. Not to mention the fact that he looks like a completely different person—how could he have changed so much in just four years?
It’s not just the suit—though that certainly is part of the picture—or that he now wears his caramel-brown hair short, rather than long enough to tuck behind his ears. It’s not even about that perfectly manicured layer of stubble he seems to be sporting along his jaw. In fact, it’s not really about looks at all—it’s more about how he carries himself.
The Alex I knew looked silly in suits. Dopey. Like a kid playing dress-up. The Alex in front of me…doesn’t. He looks like he belongs in those clothes. When the hell did that happen? I close one eye and try to imagine him in that T-Rex T-shirt with the hole in the armpit that he wore all the time in high school, but I just can’t seem to do it.
No, it’s not his appearance that’s different. It’s his entire bearing. I know it’s impossible, but he looks taller. Broader. Distinguished and self-assured in a way he didn’t before.
This isn’t Alex, I realize with a start. This is Xander. He’s left his old self completely behind.
It’s a strange, almost unnerving realization.
My mom moves to stand beside me. “He looks so handsome, doesn’t he?”
Maybe. I have to admit, I don’t have the urge to laugh at him the way I usually do. From a purely objective standpoint, then yeah, he’s pretty attractive—I mean, Celebrity Spark Magazine devoted an entire spread to what they called his “perfect jawline”—but this whole thing just feels weird. It’s like I’m looking at a stranger, and I don’t like it one bit.
I pour myself another cup of punch. Somehow my first one is empty already. Why now? Why today of all days? Another time, I might have been able to deal with this, but not today. Today I’m barely holding it together.
“Be careful with that punch, Mae,” my mom says. “Norah said that’s her special adult recipe. There’s vodka in there.”
Good. I need all the alcohol I can get right now.
“I won’t have too much,” I promise her. I’m feeling sick again, and I find myself looking around for somewhere to run. The Grants are coming our way—except for Luke, who returns to the grill—and I’m beginning to think it would be easier to just flee.
I should have told them I was sick. Why did I think I’d be up for this today? Earlier, though, the thought of seeing Alex felt like the perfect distraction. It was honestly the only reason I didn’t fake the bubonic plague and stay curled up under my comforter all day with a sleeve of sandwich cookies and a bottle of cheap white wine. Now, I’m thinking I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I tell my mom.
“Right now? Alex just got here.”
“He’ll be here when I get back,” I tell her over my shoulder before dashing toward the house. I take the stairs up to the porch two at a time and don’t bother to look back as the screen door slams shut behind me.
Fortunately, I’ve been in the Grants’ house enough times to know exactly where the bathroom is. I barely manage to get there before the dry heaving starts. I bend over the sink, trying to pull myself together.
What the hell are you doing, Mae? I ask myself. Grow some fucking balls. You’re better off without Wes. If you let yourself have a breakdown, he wins.
And honestly, I’m not sure I’m sad about Wes at all. I know I should be. A normal person would be. But while I’d love to be at home with a tube of cookie dough right now, I’m still not sure how to process my feelings about all of this. If I’m not sad, then what is this knot in my stomach? Rage? Despair? Uncertainty? The sudden intense need to cut the balls off of the asshole who cheated on me?
I look up at myself in the bathroom mirror. Long days in the summer sun have brought out the gold and red tones in my otherwise light brown hair. They’ve also brought out the freckles on my cheeks and upper chest—the latter of which are on full display in my pale blue sun dress. Wes always liked my freckles—he always teased me that he was on a mission to kiss every single one—but now I can only picture him kissing Madison Harris. I wonder how many freckles he’s kissed on her.
Just make it through the party, I tell myself. Just get through the next hour. Make small talk with the friends and neighbors, say hello to Alex, and try to ignore the fact that something has changed about him. That you might not know him anymore. I think that’s what’s freaking me out the most—I thought that by coming here today I’d see a familiar face, find comfort with a friend who’s known me lo
nger than anyone outside of my immediate family. Instead, seeing him has made me aware of how much time has passed since we’ve talked—I mean really talked. I thought we were the sort of friends who’d never grow apart, no matter where we were in life or how much time passed, but seeing him just now made me realize I was wrong. And the hollow punch of loneliness that’s followed that realization has hit me hard.
Just make it through the next hour. After that I can go home and slide into my pajamas and watch cute puppy videos on the internet until I can’t think straight anymore. Later, when I feel like a normal human being again, I’ll bribe my roommate Lucy with some ice cream to listen to me vent about how all men are scum. I’m just not ready to talk to anyone else about it yet.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door.
“Just a second!” I call. It’s probably Mom come to check on me. I flick on the faucet so I can lean over and splash some cold water on my face. I can do this. I can put on a smile and pretend that the world is all sparkles and rainbows. Especially if Norah’s “adult” punch is as potent as it usually is.
I dry my face and give myself one last look in the mirror. My eyes look normal, at least—I’m not really much of a crier—and my practice smiles look real enough. Most people will be focused on Norah, anyway, since it’s her birthday. Or Alex, of course, since he’s a sexy, big-shot celebrity now. I swear, the guy looks as if he just wandered off of some photo shoot for the cover of a romance novel or something.
Another knock sounds at the door.
“I’m almost done, Mom,” I say, silently cursing to myself. I know she means well, but can’t she give her daughter three minutes to have a mini-breakdown in the bathroom?
I throw open the door, ready to bound out and assure her that I’m perfectly fine, but instead I slam right into the person standing there—a person who most definitely is not my mom. Unless, of course, my mom has suddenly found herself in possession of a very expensive custom suit.