His Secret Muse: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (4 page)

“And did you see the way he touched my shoulder when he led us out?”

Lesley beams at me, holding the book up to her chest as we leave the venue and step out into the cold early spring night. She has been bouncing up and down like an excited kid since we were dismissed by Cedric and his employees. The few minutes she had with him made her night. And thankfully, it let her forget about her anger at me.

Cedric was kind enough to spend a few more minutes with Lesley in the room. He even offered her a drink, which she declined just like I had before.

“I could never swallow anything in front of that guy,” she later explained to me.

“What an odd thing to say,” I joked, which caused her to blush as she realized how unintentionally dirty her exclamation sounded.

I distanced myself a little while they were having an actual conversation about Cedric’s books. I know he was exhausted and slightly annoyed, but being the professional he is, he never let it show and gave Lesley all the friendly attention she so desperately craved.

It put me to shame, how well she knew his works and how much thought she has put into them. Unlike me, she was able to hold an in-depth conversation about his writing.

He glanced over to me once or twice, but I always averted my eyes, looking at Lesley instead, while she was talking to him. Seeing her this happy and excited put me at ease. At the same time, I felt incredibly guilty for what had happened before. And about the business card that I was hiding in the back pocket of my jeans. The card with his phone number on it. The card I was to tell no one about.

I felt bad for having this little secret in front of Lesley. As happy as she was right now about being able to talk personally to Cedric – and have him sign the book she brought – she would explode with jealousy if she knew what he said to me before we asked her to join us.

I had told her that it was indeed about me signing some form of disclosure because he and his organizers were afraid I might think of suing him or the venue. She just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

We walk toward the parking lot. My crappy little car is parked very close because we had been among the first people to show up at the venue. Despite having reserved seats, Lesley did not want to take any chances and be super punctual.

“This is the first time that I understand why people say they would never wash their hands again after shaking hands with someone they have adored from afar for a long time,” she says while we are leaving the parking lot.

I laugh. “Wow, twenty six years old and we are still acting like little teenage girls.”

She looks over to me. “We? I don’t see you jumping up and down with excitement."

“Oh, no, I mean,” I stutter. Of course, she wouldn’t know. I have never been one to openly show my feelings – or talk about them. This is not only about the secret Cedric and I share, but also about me just being the person I am. Acting calmer than I truly feel.

Plus, she did not see me melt and burn beneath his eyes, when he held my hand up to his face, whispering sweet words while his piercing eyes held me in place.

I am glad that it is already dark outside, otherwise there was no way Lesley wouldn’t notice my blushing cheeks as I recapitulate the exchange between me and Cedric.

Lesley and I live close to each other, within walking distance. I am lucky enough to find a parking spot surprisingly fast. It is closer to her place than to mine, but I don’t mind a little walk.

“Thank you,” she says as we hug goodbye. “For driving me home – and for being the awkward embarrassment you are.”

“Err, thanks, I guess,” I reply, and we both start laughing.

She grins at me and turns around to walk home. “Bye, sweetie!”

“Bye.”

My eyes follow her for a few moments before I turn around and walk off in the opposite direction.

Lesley lives with two other roommates while I have my own little place a few streets away from her.

We both prefer to live as close to the city center as possible, despite our limited financial resources. For her, that means she has to share her living space with others while I opted for a place of my own. A very small one, though. It is more of a studio than an actual apartment. I do have a separate bedroom, but it is so tiny that it only fits my bed and absolutely nothing else.

I breathe in the chilly midnight air and try to gather my thoughts. What an unexpected turn of events. I haven’t felt my heart race like this in a long time. Despite the unusual
nature of our secretive situation, I am quite certain that I will use that phone number to contact Cedric.

Eventually. Not tomorrow, maybe not even this week. But at some point.

I would be stupid not to. Even now, while I am walking alone through the freezing night, I am not shivering in the cold. I don’t even notice it. My cheeks are glowing, and my entire body is filled with an inexplicable warmth.

Though, it might not be that peculiar.

What keeps my blood boiling is the thought of him. Him looking at me, touching my hand. Examining me as if I was the most fascinating person on earth.

And saying things that I can somewhat relate to.

He said that he was good with people. That is a quality we definitely do not share. On the contrary. If anything, I would say that interacting with people, reading their emotions and knowing how to act in certain social settings is one of my greatest deficiencies.

That was one of the reasons for me to choose programming and computer science in the first place. My job as a software developer does not require for me to interact with people. That part is left to the guys in our sales, marketing, and account managing department.

I just spend all day behind my desk, alone in front of my computer. Sometimes, I don’t even show up at the office, because it doesn’t matter whether I write my programs from home or at my desk at work. It is ideal, really.

But I do understand the feeling of being bored easily. Even though, for me it does not occur because I find people to easy to read and handle, but rather because I don’t understand what makes them tick. Why they are so easily excited about things. I have always envied people like Lesley for their ability to be enthusiastic.

My emotional state equals a quiet lake while hers reminds me of the wild sea. The world is colorful and glittery to her – and miniscule to me.

All the more reason to follow up on what has happened to me tonight. Cedric might be a twisted playboy who takes advantage of his fame. But he does promise some excitement in my otherwise dull life.

And as long as I don’t get too attached and watch out for myself, there’s nothing that could go wrong with this.

Right?

The phone feels oddly heavy. It has been a while since I picked it up to make an important call. I hardly use it, because most of my communication with other people takes place via texting and social media platforms. I can’t even remember the last time I called my parents. Or anyone else for that matter.

And especially not like this. For a date.

“This is so 20
th
century,” I whisper.

I quietly curse him for not giving me a cell phone number or e-mail address. Aren’t those usually included on business cards?

The card he gave me only shows his name and a
landline number. Calling him is the only option.

It has been almost a week since the show, and I still haven’t found the courage to dial the number. I have been sitting in my living room again and again, holding the card up to my face, phone in hand, determined that
today
would be the day.

But it never was the day.

Today might be different. It is a Friday night. I finished work early and went for a long run with Lesley. Over all these years, despite taking different routes job wise and not sharing the daily experiences of college life, we still managed to keep our routine of regular runs. We would usually make it a night run since both of us are night owls, but she has plans tonight.

I don't.

My only plan is to rest. Maybe binge watch a few shows while enjoying my after workout treat.

And to call him. Finally.

I poured myself a glass of wine to help myself find the courage. And then another one, when I felt that the first one didn't do the trick.

Due to still being dehydrated from my run, I already feel tipsy half way through the second glass. But I don't feel exactly brave. Especially when a  realization hits me: It is 7pm on a Friday night. The number he gave me might be his business number. Who would want to be called at this time? And who would pick up?

If this is some kind of office number, I probably won't get an answer anyways.

So, I might as well try. At least then I could tell myself that I tried.

I take a deep breath and mentally prepare to dial.

What if it is his private number, though
?

He might answer, then. And he might be bothered. Then again, if that was the case, he never would have given me this number in the first place.

"Oh, for god's sake!" I urge myself.

I am acting like a silly teenager. I don't like it.

I finish my second glass of wine and finally get myself to dial his number.

It rings once, twice. After the third one, I am beginning to think that it really is an office number, and no one will pick up.

But then someone answers.

"Hello?"

It's a female voice, and that is all she says.

I am too dumbfounded to find a reply and just breathe for air. Maybe I dialed the wrong number?

"Hello?" the woman repeats.

"Errr... hello, I am trying to reach Mr. Crow?" I finally articulate.

"May I ask who is speaking and what this is about?" she asks.

So, it is the right number.

Just when I am about to give her my name and the reason for my call, I remember what he asked me to do.

What he
ordered
me to do.

Tell no one. Be creative
.

I gulp. My brain is working at the speed of light, trying to come up with a good lie. Something that is far enough from the truth, but will still get me through to him.

Something that might tell him that it is me without actually having to say so.

"My name is Mrs. Hawkings," I begin. "I am a puppeteer, and Mr. Crow approached me, saying that he wants to learn more about my craft. Research for his new book, he said. He asked me to contact him at this number."

What?!

What kind of crazy story was that? Who on earth would believe such nonsense?

Apparently, she does.

"Did you talk with him last week at his show?" she asks after a few moments of hesitation, showing no sign of suspicion.

"Yes," I say. "Exactly."

She pauses for a moment.

What was I thinking? A puppeteer? He said to be creative, not kooky.

Her last question didn't sound like she was surprised at all, though. Whoever she was.

"Hold on for a moment," the woman finally says, still sounding all professional.

Before I can say anything else, I am put on hold.

My heart races again. I curse myself for coming up with such a ridiculous story. There were so many other options. Journalist, for example. Why did I not say that? Asking for an interview, maybe. Or something that is somehow related to public relations. Wouldn’t he get calls like this all the time?

But not on a Friday night.

I am beginning to regret my decision to call him tonight. I am starting to feel dizzy, too. That damn wine. Why did I have to drink two glasses so fast? Right after jogging. I should have known how bad of an idea that was.

“A puppeteer, huh?” his voice pulls me out of my reflections.

“Cedric! Hi! It’s Renee,” I hurry to reply.

“I know it’s you,” he says. “I knew from the moment I heard that a puppeteer wanted to talk to me. Very creative, young lady. Albeit, a bit out there.”

I sigh. “It was the first thing that popped up.”

“Don’t worry, you did good.”

Did I now? Truth is, announcing myself as a puppeteer just came to my mind because I was thinking of our conversation.

“I don’t think I can teach you much, though,” I say with a low voice. “You’re a much better puppet master than me, aren’t you?”

I have to admit, it has been a while since I last flirted. Hence, my more than clumsy attempts.

He is polite enough to grant me with a light chuckle.

“Who was that woman?” I ask.

“My personal assistant,” he explains. “You could have told her the truth. But I like how serious you are taking my order. Very promising.”

Promising? I frown, unbeknownst to him. But before I can ask what he means by that, he moves on.

“So, will I have the honor of seeing you again?”

“Yes,” I respond. “I think I would like that.”

“That is as much enthusiasm as I can hope to get,” he says.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t-“

“How about tonight?" he interrupts me. “It doesn’t seem like you have any plans.”

That sounds kind of sad, but it is true.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask.