The Billionaire's Desire (A Billionaire BWWM Steamy Romance) (4 page)

Chapter Nine

Sanniyah

I
shouldn't have just blurted it out like that. His face is completely stricken.
I can see how pale he is, even in the low light. "I'm...sorry, that was
rude," I start to stammer.

"No."
He sighs heavily. "It's a valid question. One I've been trying to come up with
a good answer for, myself." He gives a rueful chuckle and runs his hands
through his hair, tugging slightly. I have the urge to smooth the rumpled tangles
away. To smooth the worry lines off his face.

Carter
Easton turns away from me, striding up the beach to sit heavily on a piece of
driftwood far above the waterline. I hesitate. He seems like he wants to be
alone. But he also seems like he wants to answer me. So I move towards him,
shifting a little as I sit so that our bodies aren't touching. I am acutely
aware of the heat in the air between us.

"Basically,
it comes down to this," he says, like he is making a decision, once and
for all. "Cammy is my baby sister. She should have a normal, happy
wedding, with our father walking her proudly down the aisle. But she can't have
that."

I
swallow. The crash. I didn't put together what it meant for Carter, what it
meant for Camilla, until just now.

I am
saved from having to murmur something apologetic and awkward by the fervor in
Carter's voice as he continues. "She's getting married, to a good man.
She's found happiness, and deserves to have that celebrated. And I can make
that happen. I can afford to give her that, give her the wedding of her
dreams...fuck, I can afford that a million times over. It's not going to make
up for our parents not being there, but it's the best I can do."

The
silence after his speech hangs heavily in the air. I can feel all of my
assumptions about Carter Easton sliding slowly sideways. This isn't what I was
expecting...at all.

I slip
my hand quietly into his. "I can help you do that," I tell him.
"It's my job. And I'm really good at it."

Carter
looks up, and bursts out laughing. "Thank you," he says. "I
think I'm going to need the help."

I shift
on the log. This is more my speed.
Dolphins, birds, walks
on the beach...Carter himself...they all had me feeling off kilter, but planning
a spectacular wedding? That I understand. "Why don't you tell me what you
have planned," I start.

Carter
runs his fingers through his hair again, the wild, trapped look fading from his
eyes. It is replaced with a boyish, rueful grin. I can see Cammy's shyness,
there underneath the gorgeous, studied cool of his exterior. "If we're
going to be...working...together, Ms. Jones."

"You
can call me Sanniyah," I interject quickly, blushing slightly.

"Okay
Sanniyah," he grins wider, showing a dimple deep in his left cheek.
"You need to know that...I don't really...plan. That's not how I work, not
how I've ever worked, honestly." He slides his hand out of mine and for a
moment I miss its warmth. The faraway look I first saw on his face when I
arrived, returns. "The more I try to control things, the more they slip
away from me." He spreads his hands wide. "So I just learned to let
it all...go."

There
is a sadness to his voice that gives me pause. I want to touch him and suddenly
I do, running my hand up his forearm. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop
back. Then suddenly he rises to his feet, lifting us both. His hand is on my
waist and we are walking in silence, just touching.

I
should be working. I should be talking about the wedding, my client's needs. I
should be planning, doing my job.

But I
am only walking next to him.

I don't
want to break the spell I am under where this is completely okay.

Chapter Ten

Sanniyah

My
dreams are filled with the sound of the ocean in my ears, the memory of
Carter's fingertips on my skin as indelible as ink. I really don't want to wake
up and have that memory fade away.

We just
walked, nothing more, but that walk was more intimate than if I had torn off
his clothes and kissed every inch of his body.

And
while every cell in my body yearned for him to kiss me, he did nothing more
than
squeeze
my hand when we said goodbye.
 
The pressure of his hand on mine still
heated my skin the morning after.

It is
torturing me that I didn't kiss him. I lift my phone to stare at his number.
Then, feeling like a complete idiot, I press my lips to the cold screen.

Since when did I revert into a teenager
around guys?
It didn’t matter. Carter was no ordinary man…

It will
have to suffice. For now. Because right now I really have to return to reality
and get to work. I wasn’t here to play matchmaker for myself. I was here to
plan a wedding.

My home
office is the same as it always is, but for some reason, today it
feels...lonely. I blaze through my emails like I am trying to set land speed
records. I am keyed up, rushing for some reason.

You know the reason.

Carter's
phone number is in my phone. Taunting me. Like the
 
cookies in the pantry that I am
deliberately avoiding, that phone number calls to me all damn morning. My gaze
keeps dropping down to my Iphone. I want to pick it up, text him. "No, Sanniyah
Rose," I told myself out loud. "Stop it."

The
morning goes by in fits and starts. It's Saturday and I have a wedding
scheduled for this evening, but until then I have plenty of time to get my
emails and pitches done.

Instead,
I fritter away my time looking at pictures of Carter on the
internet
.

Pathetic.

I need a
distraction and luckily one lives right next door to my apartment.

Tricia has
been my best friend since I was a nervous and traumatized fourteen-year-old girl.
The first day my mother and I moved into Otis' house, Tricia hailed me from her
driveway. "Oh, you're the new kid? Thank god you seem normal," she
had shouted.

I
certainly didn't feel normal back then. Moving to the big house on the corner
from the tiny studio apartment my mother and I had shared was making me feel as
conspicuous as if I had a horn growing out of my forehead. My mother had just
married Otis, down at the courthouse, and all of our possessions were crammed
into plastic bags, in the back seat of his car. Everything I knew had just been
turned upside down, but Tricia said I looked normal.

I never
forgot that.

We went
through school together, the Asian and the black girl a united front. And when
we both moved to the city after college, we made a pact to live in the same
neighborhood again. The universe had done us one better and let us be next door
neighbors once more

I love
having her so close. Especially this morning when I need to talk and only face
to face will do.

I knock
on her door, inhaling the scent of cooking smells that emanate from within her
apartment.

Her
gorgeous wife Rita answers the door, spatula in hand. "Hey Yahya, you eat lunch
yet?"

I
smile. Rita likes to feed me and I don't ever object. "Even if I had, that
smells too delicious to pass up."

"Come
on in," she steps aside. "Babe? It's Yahya."

Tricia
pads out of the bedroom, still in her pajamas. "You've embraced the
weekend completely, I see," I laugh, hugging her.

"Nah,
I'm not even drunk yet!" she protests, then sniffs her armpit. "Do I
stink?"

I lean
in and adopt a critical expression. "You smell like sloth and decay."

Tricia
nods. "Good." She plops down on the couch. "Sit down, you're
making me nervous. How's your mom holding up?"

I
freeze, mid-sit. Guilt washes over me in waves. It has been a week, no wait,
more than a week now. Aside from a few hasty texts, I haven't been to the house
on the corner since last Sunday. Before Camilla and certainly before Carter.

Flopping
back on the beat-up brown sofa, I try to smile breezily. "You talk to my
mom more than I do, I figured you'd know already."

Tricia
cocks her head, the hair flopping away from her face. Her eyes are narrowed.
"I know. I was wondering if you did."

I plop
on to the couch, picking at the edge of the afghan Rita had painstakingly
crocheted for months on end before abandoning it all together. It's narrow and
oddly shaped, but I love it. I yank it on to my lap like a literal security
blanket. "I've texted her," I tell Tricia defensively.

Actually
talking to my mom, hearing the sadness in her voice? It's too damn hard.

It's
the same heavy anguish creeping back that I thought had been banished forever
when she met Otis Johnson.

My
stepdad.

No. My
Dad.

"Well
that's good, I guess." Tricia says, though she sounds disappointed.

"She
wishes you were her daughter instead," I smile. It's a joke I've made
forever. Tricia has a sappy, emotional side that clicks a lot better with my
mother's sensitive rawness. They understand each other; speak the same
language. I feel like a robot whenever I am in the same room with the two of
them. I'm too buttoned up, too rational to understand them. I can not handle
the full force of my mother's emotions. Especially not her grief. "You
guys can do all the mother, daughter stuff I suck at, like gabbing on the phone
for hours on end and making dates for brunch. She'd adopt you in a heartbeat,
I'm sure."

"Perhaps."
Tricia smiles enigmatically.

I try
to steer the conversation back to my lighthearted ground. "You had a
wedding, at least, even if it was in a courthouse."

"To
a woman." Tricia clarifies.

"At
this point I think my mom would prefer I was a lesbian. At least that would
explain the glaring lack of men in my life." My mind flashes back to
Carter, his warm smile and the sunset glinting off the ocean as it reflected in
his eyes. Tricia peers at me piercingly and I quickly look down at my hands.

"You're
blushing, Yahya," she says, wielding my nickname like a hammer. "Why
are you blushing?"

"It's
nothing."

"That's
a bunch of bull."

"I
think I met someone, but Trish...he's rich as hell."

"Your
mama won't mind that one bit."

"No
seriously, he's like too rich."

"No
such thing. Mama will be proud."

"Will
she?" My voice caught in my throat and in an instant Tricia's hand closed
over mine. "Hey girl, hey," she murmurs softly as the tear slips down
my cheek. "Your mother is so proud of you, she is fit to burst."

"Really?"
I sniff. I don't believe it, but it is still nice to hear.

Even
back when it was just the two of us, my mother and I were like two foreigners
stuck in a room trying to make small talk. We circle each other warily, neither
understanding the other. Bound by love and not much else, it became infinitely
easier to be together with Otis there to deflect the expectations.

Dependable,
genial Otis. A widower at sixty-eight, he had married my mother, twenty-three
years his junior, and set himself to the task of guiding her angry, despondent fourteen-year-old
girl. He already raised three kids of his own; my distant stepsisters who
regarded me as some sort of curiosity. He could have rested on his laurels. But
instead of kicking back, Otis dove in.

 
A retired city worker, his pension was
enough to give us the stability I had craved my entire life. Thanks to him, my
mother and I could finally start planning for a future.