Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1) (2 page)

During today’s meeting, the dean had detailed the fact that the project deemed best in show—a decision that would be voted on by all the faculty—would be permanently displayed in one of the galleries on campus. It was the first year they’d decided to do such a thing, and it had the entire senior class abuzz.

“Don’t focus on the end result,” Patrick advised. “The process is what it’s about. And I’m sure both of you will do just fine.”

“I bet Loren’s going to win it,” Shawn said, sighing heavily.

I opened my mouth to admonish him, but Patrick beat me to it.

“She might very well win it instead of you, especially with that attitude. And maybe if you’d picked something a little more practical than painting, you would have a chance at both the best in show and a marketable career when you graduate.”

I winced; this was a constant sore point for the two of them. I was over here so often that I inevitably bore witness to some tensions between father and son. Patrick wanted the best for Shawn and tried to support him in whatever pursuit he chose. The problem was, Shawn usually didn’t know what pursuit he wanted. It vexed Patrick to no end. Patrick was the go-getter.

“Gentlemen,” I said before Shawn could retort and before egos could get any more bruised than they already were, “I appear to be in need of refreshment. Can I get anything for anyone at the bar?”

“Another for me, please,” Shawn said, still eyeing his father darkly.

“What the hell, I’ll take one,” Patrick said. “But you guys better eat something. I’m serious. I worry.”

It was adorable when Patrick tried to act like a dad. He did the best with Shawn that he knew how to do, but he’d just had his son when he was too young. I wasn’t any sort of expert on families—far from it, in fact—but I suspected that was some of the reason that they were at each other’s throats so often.

Just too close in age. Patrick had only been nineteen—almost three years younger than me. It didn’t excuse it, but it did make it easier to understand. I couldn’t help but shudder at the idea of having a three-year-old child now, at my age.

“I mean, if you insist, pizza or something is just fine,” I said. “Nothing fancy.”

“Great. I’ll tell the chef to make flatbreads,” Patrick said, stepping out briskly.

I rolled my eyes at that. These people clearly didn’t understand the fine art of takeout and delivery fare. I’d requested something simple and easy, and Patrick was deploying his cooking staff. It made me want to slap my forehead.

I returned to the den with a trio of beers to find Shawn much more relaxed than before. Good. I hated it when he was wound up so tightly. It made him difficult to be around, and I liked being around him. He was my best friend.

“Why don’t you just live here?” Shawn asked for only the thousandth time.

I shook my head and gave the same answer for the thousandth and first time. “I have a perfectly nice apartment near campus that I stay in rent free,” I reminded him. “It was part of the package I was awarded to come here, and I’d be an idiot not to live in it.” Besides, living here, in this house, with Patrick would probably drive me crazy with the tension that I sometimes felt crackle between us.

“You’d be an idiot not to sublet it,” Shawn muttered, fixated on my apartment. “Seriously, Loren, the house is enormous. You’d never have to see anyone if you didn’t want to. You could use the pool all you wanted, drink all the beer you could drink, eat all the food you could manage. Hell, I bet my dad would even let you use one of the cars if you needed to.”

Freedom from public transit—that was a real temptation. But I knew that it would mean loss of freedom from other things, like the serendipity I often experienced waiting for a bus, the little moments I would otherwise miss if I had to be behind the wheel of a car. And freedom.

“You are very sweet to offer—again,” I said. “But I do love living alone. Lots of naked time.”

He laughed. “Too bad I’ll be missing that. Honestly, I just wish you lived here to keep my dad in check. He’s easier to get along with when you’re here. It’s like he’s putting on his best behavior.”

“Oh, stop it,” I said, even as I glowed inwardly. Patrick putting his best foot forward for
me
? That was the stuff dreams were made of. It almost sounded like he was trying to impress me. “He cares about you, and he just wants the best for you.”

“He doesn’t understand anything.” Shawn made the observation easily, without anger. It was a simple statement of fact, and it made me sad, somehow.

“He works in technology, in Silicon Valley,” I said, opening our beers and handing him one. “Can you blame him for not understanding your art? You’re from two completely different worlds.”

“And see? That’s why you need to live here. So you can explain my father to me.” No, so I could seduce his father. I felt a blush crawl across my face.

But seriously, how could I explain anyone’s father to them? I didn’t know my real parents at all. I was eternally grateful for my foster parents, who saw me through my childhood. I certainly wouldn’t be here without them. But other than that, I wasn’t qualified to tell anyone about their families. I was the last person who could be trusted with something like that.

Patrick joined us again shortly, bearing a steaming tray with an assortment of flatbreads, all cut into strips to allow us to try and share the different flavors. He took the warming beer from me, our fingers glancing off of each other, and I had to clamp down on a shiver.

“So, Loren,” he said, settling the tray down on a low table and arranging a few more floor pillows around so we could all eat there. “Shoot anything interesting lately?”

I perked up. “Oh, yes. Always something interesting.”

“She made me pull over on the way home so she could shoot some people on the side of the road,” Patrick put in drily before stuffing his mouth with flatbread.

I couldn’t choose which one to try first. Some of them had traditional toppings, like cheese and pepperonis and tomato sauce. But others had more tempting offerings—capers, olive oil, artichokes, and other vegetables, chicken, and feta. I chose a vegetable one and wasn’t disappointed.

“I was actually going to ask you, Shawn, if you might be able to give me a ride to the Golden Gate Bridge tomorrow morning,” I said around a mouthful of flatbread.

“In the morning?” He cringed. “Like, early?”

“Before sunrise, preferably,” I said, smiling and batting my eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

“I have a project that’s going to keep me up late,” Shawn said, rubbing his eyes. “I have to put the finishing touches on a painting that’s due first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds like you should’ve started it a little earlier,” Patrick rumbled, but I headed him off.

“Hey, inspiration takes time. Don’t make the muse angry. I’ll just take a bus.”

“That’ll take forever,” Patrick said. “I’ll take you.”

Both Shawn and I looked up, surprised.

“Please, don’t inconvenience yourself,” I said quickly. “I’m sure that you have much more important things to do than to ferry me to the bridge.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said, brisk and businesslike. “It’ll get me out of the house early, and I’d like to see the sunrise over the bridge. That sounds nice.”

It sure did sound nice—watching the sunrise over Golden Gate Bridge with Patrick with by my side.

I tried once more to let him off the hook. “I really don’t need a ride. It was a luxury. San Francisco has a fine public transit system. I’ll be able to get myself there without any trouble whatsoever.”

“No, no, it’s settled.” Patrick waved his hand, apparently letting me know that the argument was over. “I’ll pick you up about six in the morning. How’s that?”

“I guess that’ll be just fine,” I said, more than a little tongue-tied. I’d never been around Patrick on my own, without Shawn at least being in the same house. There was a thrill of joy that shouldn’t have been there. Was this crush getting out of control, or what? The truth of it was that an opportunity had presented itself that I couldn’t help but give attention to. Maybe Patrick was only being nice, putting his best foot forward, as Shawn had said. If that were the case, I was being a fool. But something about Patrick’s offer coupled with the slow, simmering boil of my feelings for him was making me way more excited to shoot photos at the bridge tomorrow.

After a few more beers, Shawn excused himself to go work on his painting, and Patrick called me a car.

“What in the world do you have against public transit?” I laughed at him, as we sat out on the front porch, waiting for it to arrive.

“Why take public transit when you have other options at your disposal?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’d feel better if someone I trusted took you back to your apartment. You know, especially when you’ve been drinking. You’re always welcome to crash out here. God knows we have the space to accommodate you.” It made my face pleasantly warm in the cooling night to realize how much Patrick cared about my safety, and I realized I was probably blushing in the darkness.

“Thank you, really, but it’s not necessary,” I said. Lord, Shawn really was just like his dad. Both of them were trying to get me to live here now. “I can stagger onto a bus just as well as I can stagger into a car. I just have to sit still long enough for them to get me home.”

“Do you think I’m too hard on Shawn?” Patrick asked suddenly. I realized that he rarely drank so much in front of me, and all those expensive craft beers must be working their magic on his tongue. His tongue…my face heated up even more. Why was I fixated on his tongue? How much alcohol had been in those beers?

“He knows that you care for him,” I said, choosing my words cautiously. “You support him, and that’s what’s important. Just stop comparing me to him. It’s not useful for anyone.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Patrick said. “It’s just…he has such potential, and you’re such a good friend to him. I only wish he’d allow himself to be motivated by the greatness that swigs beers with him nearly every day.”

“I’ll bring a case of Miller Lite to replace the fridge next time,” I joked, knowing that my statement was basically sacrilege, trying to ignore the curling pleasure I felt when Patrick told me my work was good.

“Oh, stop,” he scoffed. “Your beer’s no good here. Just…push my son. I don’t know why he needs the motivation. I had motivation to spare when I was his age.”

“Comparisons aren’t useful,” I said in a singsong voice, wagging my finger at him. “Your son is a different person, and it’s not useful for him to hold him up against the pedestal you keep yourself on.”

“Damn, what’s with the burn?” Patrick asked, laughing and covering his chest with his hand. “I probably deserved that one though.”

“You absolutely deserved it,” I said, smiling. I loved hearing him laugh, and I loved making him laugh even more.

“So what’s at the Golden Gate Bridge for you?” he asked, switching topics abruptly. “You have any ideas for your senior project?”

“I have too many ideas; that’s my problem. I just want to make sure I put myself out there and put myself in situations where meaningful moments might present themselves to my camera. Well—if my camera feels like working tomorrow. We’ll see.”

“How are you so good to talk to?” he asked me, studying me in dim light afforded by the lamp behind us, inside the house.

“Good to talk to? Me?”

“Yes, you.” He laughed again, but it didn’t come as easily as before. This was a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I have friends I’ve known for nearly as many years as you’ve been alive, and I still don’t feel as at ease talking with them as I do with you.”

“Maybe they’re just bad talkers,” I said, unable to look away from those green eyes.

“There’s just something about you, Loren….”

God, I loved it when he said my name, regardless of the circumstances. I loved the way it lingered in his mouth. He leaned closer, as if he were going to tell me a secret, or maybe kiss me…and we both pushed back, away from each other, at the sound of tires against the pavement of the driveway leading up to the house.

The car rolled in, and Patrick handed the driver a few folded bills while I tried to put my life back together. Had we really been about to kiss? Impossible.

“Don’t,” I protested, exasperated. “You don’t have to pay for everything, Patrick. It makes me feel like a mooch.”

“I can pay for everything, and I want to pay for everything,” he insisted, smiling at me. “When you make your first billion from your photographs, you’ll understand.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, getting into the back of the car. “I will be sure to let you know when I see the light.”

“Six o’clock tomorrow morning,” Patrick reminded me, leaning into the open car door. I had a fleeting urge to hug him goodbye—or kiss him, even—but it was so bizarre that it was easy to ignore. It was probably from what had just almost happened—whatever that magnetic attraction between us had been.

“Six o’clock,” I confirmed, nodding.

“I look forward to it.”

I hoped Patrick didn’t realize I wrenched around backward in my seat to watch him as I was whisked away in my hired car, trying to make sense of him. Of myself.

I wondered if he hoped I didn’t realize that he stayed there, watching the car, until it vanished completely from the line of sight from the house.