ROYAL BRIDE (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance) (22 page)

The house always looked great. She’d stock the fridge with my favorite food and booze. What I liked the most about her was that, like everyone else, she was in total awe of my wealth. That therapist, though... I tried not to let myself linger on her for too long.

My house was huge. On its own, it’s not what you’d imagine a billionaire owning. However, it was only one of six houses. I had two more in California and three scattered across the east coast. Each one was as big and extravagant as the next. This one had a lot of space. The walls were tall, and everything was ultra-modern and chrome, with a five-car garage for my toys and my own personal indoor pool and gym.

Gretta dropped me off in front. “Give Ariel my love.” Ariel was my live-in chef. She had her own room and a salary. She was attending university, so except for meal times, we didn’t see her much.

Fiona greeted me, redheaded and tanned, her big, brown eyes highlighted with purple liner. She looked great. She flashed me a white smile and wrapped her arms around me.

“Hi, baby.” She oozed perfume. “How’d your day go? Did you seal the Parker deal?”

I muttered gruffly and took a seat. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Fiona’s entire demeanor changed. “But I don’t understand! Didn’t you see the therapist?”

“Not until after work,” I informed her.

“She didn’t fix you yet?” Fiona moaned. “I thought they could do that in one session.”

“Nah. She just asked me a bunch of shit. What’s for dinner?”

“I’m having Ariel make Thai. Your favorite,” Fiona winked.

I sighed and took her into my arms. She once told me I had the nicest arms on a man she’d ever seen. “I know what I want for my first course,” I muttered into her neck.

“Mmm,” she cooed. “And what’s that?”

“A fine Irish and Italian meal,” I said, running my fingers gently over her crotch.

“Sounds great.” She gasped as I pressed on her clit.

I led her upstairs. I nodded to Ariel, who was going down to start dinner. Fiona giggled the whole way, rather obnoxiously, but there was nothing I loved more than giving a woman head. And, yeah, I was good at it. Fiona told me I was better than men half my age. She could barely sit still when I was at it.

I closed the door, locking it behind me. She backed onto the bed, knowingly spreading her long, tanned legs. I loosened my tie and pulled her panties to the side, gently kissing her taut thighs as she squirmed against me.

The smell of herbs began to fill the house, increasing my hunger. She was already moist and ready for my tongue. I glided the tip of it around her swollen labia, and she moaned in appreciation. I gently took the folds of her into my mouth, feeling them swell. My tongue finally met her engorged clit, and she sighed, her body arching into my mouth.

Something strange happened, though. As I glanced in the mirror, seeing my head moving gently between her legs, the therapist stared back at me. I shouted and fell backwards.

“What?” Fiona exclaimed, her face serious rather than aroused. “Oh, God. Did I not clean myself well enough today or something?”

“No… no, it’s not that,” I said. “I guess I’m just hungry for food. Let’s eat.”

“Okay,” she said, but I could tell she was angry. “I’ll join you after I finish myself off.”

I handed her a towel, which she threw at me in annoyance.

The night that followed absolutely sucked—one of the worst nights of my life, actually. I couldn’t get the therapist’s face out of my head as I poured the wine. It remained all through dinner. During the movie we chose to watch, amidst Fiona’s babbling, I imagined Katie Warren’s legs…her lips...

My mind was starting to drift off to a pleasant place—Katie’s office. I envisioned her talking, her smooth and concise voice filling my ears. My son’s arrival interrupted my thoughts. He was already well fed and sleepy.

“What’s up, kid?” I said. His eyes were red from playing too many damn video games. As unique as he was, he sometimes seemed like a completely normal kid.

“Hey, Dad. Fiona,” he said.

“One of your packages came today,” Fiona said.

His eyes lit up. “Yes! I was expecting it.”

“What on earth is it?” she asked.

“Trust me. You wouldn’t like it,” Zach replied.

“You coming to sit with us?” I asked.

“Nah. I gotta get to sleep. Going to the flea market tomorrow.” He walked away without saying goodnight.

That night in the shower, for the first time in a while, I almost cried. After, I met my own eyes in the mirror. “Get it together, you crazy fuck,” I said to myself. I raked a towel through my mid-length hair and took solace in the fact that I was still an attractive man. Knowing I still had it would always erase the feelings of disappointment. Tonight, though, I had uncovered a feeling of disappointment, something that cut into me.

I held Fiona as she slept, my eyes wide open. I fumbled near my dresser, took a pill, and tried closing my eyes. Nothing worked, and soon, dim morning light filled the room. At one point, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming.

Katie

“Kathleen Warren, MA, LPC,” I said to my mom on the phone. I ran my hand over my Master’s degree, feeling proud of my accomplishments. I had made it as a mental health professional. Every day I went to work and enjoyed the experience so much that I nearly forgot my stupid loans.

“It’s a good thing you took some time off from school,” my mother said. “You needed to work rather than study.”

The original plan was to get my master’s degree, after which I would become a counselor. Then, I would immediately go for my doctoral degree. I was as surprised as anyone when I had decided to take two years off to work as a counselor before getting my doctoral degree and becoming a psychologist.

“How is school going now?” she asked.

“I’m in the project phase of my dissertation now, and it’s a pain in the ass,” I complained, my head hurting just thinking about the pile of notes at home.

“How exciting,” she said, always applauding me.

“How’s Amelia?” I asked.

“She’s good. Still stressed from work.”

“And Brandon?” I asked.

“He barely has time to see us lately. They have a lot of crime down in Philly.”

My older sister was a psychiatrist, my younger brother a police officer. I’d see them every other weekend at home in Pennsylvania. Though we were all adults, nothing much had changed. We were still the same dysfunctional, loving Italian family.

“And Dad?”

“Yesterday your father helped one of our friends with their plumbing. You know how he is. Always busy.”

I’d spoken to my father on the phone the night before. He was retired now, but still did some heating and cooling work on the side. He’d trade his HVAC services for a good Italian meal. My parents were uncommonly kind people, and I always tried to emulate their goodness.

As admirable as they were, they didn’t do a good job hiding the traumas of the family from me. I grew up to be a fixer, trying to make everything right. I’d learned to separate my desire to fix from my role as a counselor, but if I had to be honest, it was sometimes difficult.

“Do you have any sessions today?”

“No. Not today. I feel burned out.”

“You have to make sure to take care of your own needs, sweetie,” my mother warned.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” I said. “It’s even in the code of ethics.”

“When was the last time you took a day off?”

“Um…” I thought, trying to remember. “I can’t really say. Maybe a couple of months ago?”

“Well, I know you’re busy, but don’t be afraid to come home for some TLC.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mom. I gotta go, though. Lots to do.”

We said our goodbyes, and I looked around my office, relieved to have some time to myself.

My burnout had never been as clear to me as it was yesterday. That session with Mr. Carson had disturbed me. I hadn’t been disturbed by the man, though; my quickened breath and feelings of arousal were my main concern. To feel these things for a client was downright wrong, never mind illegal.

The phone rang again. “Hey there,” Kent greeted.

“Kent, my fellow counselor. Are we still on for tonight?” I teased.

“Yes indeed. I’ll be at the spot in a couple of hours. Hope the train time doesn’t do you in,” he teased.

“I’m used to it. I can’t wait. I could use some self-care.”

“I’ll be pleased to help take care of you. See you then,” he said. He hung up, leaving me to my thoughts.

Kent went to an Ivy League school, but he was modest. His gentleness and modesty had drawn me to him. He had a quiet way of looking at things, an attribute I related to. We’d been friends since I started, but I’d be open to more if it was there.

I lived in a small blue Victorian house in Yonkers, where I planned to host my own sessions one day. I’d been renting it, but I hoped to own it eventually. I never saw myself buying a house—all throughout college and graduate school I had hopped from dorm rooms to couches, sometimes alternating between them and my car. I dreaded the idea of being settled, but it was such a feeling to savor now that I was an adult.

My favorite part of my house was my office, an old, rustic study where I took my doctorate classes online. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling lined one wall, and I had filled them with old feminist books and politically incorrect books from the Victorian era. I wrote my assignments on a typewriter and scanned them into software that would feed it into a word processor. Though doing this made the process more complicated, it kept me focused. I also enjoyed the feel of writing on old typewriters, and it served as a motivator. I had a 3.9 GPA thus far, on top of a full-time job and various responsibilities, so I was doing something right.

Today, I was taking the train to Grand Central to meet Kent, who lived in a small apartment in the Upper East Side. He reminded me of myself when I first got my license—bright eyed and feverish for experience. A natural fixer. He’d learn soon enough.

The train wasn’t as crowded as it normally was during the week. The conductors looked wide awake, no matter what time of day it was. Truly, though, I’d always been a night owl. I got my best work done after eight. Sometimes I paid for it during the day—that could be why I needed all those cups of coffee.

The older man next to me noticed my red briefcase.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks. I’ve had it for years.”

“Reminds me of my daughter. She’s been gone for a while now. Moved to Europe,” he said sadly.

“Really?” I asked, genuinely concerned. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” he informed me, going off on a long tangent.

I was used to strangers coming to me from out of nowhere to talk about their problems. If it didn’t happen at least twice a day, I’d be surprised. When I was a teenager, I had a hard time dealing with it. I’d close myself up inside, trying to get some distance.

I rarely shared this with anyone, but I picked up on feelings from people. I wasn’t exactly sure what this ability was, if it was a kind of psychic thing, or some kind of a natural profiling ability. Whatever it was, it still sometimes overwhelmed me. That’s why, as much as I loved the city, I had settled in Yonkers, far away from the noise. I could identify with the suburbs more at the end of the day. At home, I’d draw the curtains as a shield between myself and the rest of the world. I would warm some tea after I’d wrapped myself in blankets.

My biggest challenge was not letting my intuition cloud my professional judgment. Though I was usually right, it would be wrong of me to come to conclusions founded entirely on my own feelings. Sometimes my abilities were hard for me to deny. This man… The second he sat next to me, he’d bombarded me with energy. Sad feelings. Misery. I felt his aching for his daughter. It was my understanding of this ache that made me want to help people. Often, their ache was literally my own.

Last night, Mr. Carson presented a similar ache, but his emotions were clouded by fear and disappointment. I didn’t tell him, but I knew exactly who he was. I had Googled him. I knew of his success, of his billions. I’d seen pictures of him when he was young, standing in front of a building he’d opened. He had a spark then. Now, he was ashamed. This was confirmed by the fact that he was almost childishly outraged when he thought I didn’t know who he was.

I was being honest in giving off the vibe that money didn’t impress me, though. In my profession, writing a paper or coming up with a new treatment method was something to brag about. We weren’t the type of people who valued money. Still, I was somewhat jealous of my sister, who made tons of money as a psychiatrist. I couldn’t deny the security that allowed her.

I knew the realistic constraints of not having a lot of money. I was able to put off the loans because I was in school, but I still had my rent, train fare and tuition to pay for every single month because I didn’t want more student debt. Each month, the money would come out of my checking account, just as my paycheck was going in. This was the only time I remotely thought of money or wished I had more of it.

The train arrived at the station. Grand Central never failed to delight me. Each time I stepped off the train, I was in an entirely different world. People hustled and bustled, purposeful and whole. I drew my black coat closer to myself and huddled past the crowd, gently bombarded with passing bodies like water lapping against a boat.

I took a seat at the coffee shop. It was my favorite place in the city and not the least bit extravagant, but the pastries were killer. The windows were tall and covered with fingerprints. Classical music hummed in the background. Around me were writers, tired graduate students, and disgruntled, impatient business people needing their fix. I took off my coat and placed it on a table to claim it, then walked up to the counter and ordered my usual: a large black iced coffee. I paid for my drink and sat, waiting for Kent to arrive.

A medium-built man with brown hair sat in front of me. “Hey,” he said.

I blinked. “Hello,” I replied pleasantly.

“You go to NYU?” he muttered.