The One Who Got Away (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (9 page)

“After you,” I grumbled. I raised both eyebrows, wondering if Lincoln was in a joking mood. “Unless you’re planning on driving us to some elite hotel in my car?”

It was clear from Phillip’s smirk that he had a sense of humor. “No ma’am.” He gestured at my briefcase. “Shall I?”

I tightened my grip on my bag. Not because I was worried he was about to make off with my folders, a wallet that had a couple of dollars in it, and a pack of gum. I just blanched at the thought of him carrying something I was perfectly capable of carrying. “No thank you.”

“Right this way.”

The sleek Mercedes stuck out like a sore thumb among the Corollas and Civics, the paint job gleaming like a black diamond. I nearly beat him to the door, but he was clearly not allowing me to keep him from being a gentleman.

I slid into the backseat, biting back a sigh as my butt kissed the leather. When we pulled into motion, just the gentle rocking of the car was enough to massage out all the kinks of a long day. A ‘life of luxury.’ How many times had I heard those words, both in conversation and in hushed tones when people thought I was out of earshot? Chauffeurs, private jets, parties, champagne, caviar...that was to be my destiny as a Carraway.

As soon as we mentioned the engagement a month after my graduation, everyone’s attitude toward me changed. Suddenly, the popular girls that wanted nothing to do with me were sending me Facebook friend requests. When I went to the grocery store, the mean cashier, Gladys, was recommending wedding magazines to me and ruefully sighing that she always wished someone would swoop in and take her to a big mansion on the Italian countryside. Even my parents were suddenly having conversations with me about not forgetting where I came from and losing myself amid my new last name. I’d been so in love that the money was just a bit of glitter on an already bomb ass cake. Besides, Lincoln and I agreed that we’d use the money to do good, not land a spot on some reality TV show about the rich and famous. No jet setting and excess for us.

Yet here I was, sitting in a luxury car, headed to a hotel where the ‘poorest’ guest probably made six figures a year.

I looked straight ahead at the man behind the wheel. I knew the Lincoln that I loved, but the Lincoln that lived this life, the one that had a chauffeur and where dinner meant a special car for a very special lady instead of Netflix and a pizza...that Lincoln was a mystery. The fact that this man knew the new Lincoln better than me made my stomach knot as I leaned forward. I wanted to change that.

“How long have you been working for Lincoln?” I asked, feigning a passing interest.

He didn’t miss a beat. “For two and a half years.”

“Wow,” I mused, fiddling with my hair, wondering what crazy stuff he’d witnessed while under Lincoln’s employ. “Lots of partying and leggy models, I bet.”

Phillip’s dark eyes shifted from the windshield to the rearview mirror. “Maybe if Carraway Consulting was headquartered in Manhattan or Los Angeles.” Something flickered in his eyes that told me he knew I was mining him for information and not out of general curiosity. “Maybe if Mr. Carraway was a different kind of man.”

That made my heart perk in my chest. It wasn’t like he would trash talk his boss and detail every debauchery since discretion was at the top of the must-haves to survive in his line of work. Still, I felt that damn flutter, like maybe all wasn’t lost and my Lincoln lay beneath all the shiny trappings of wealth.

“And what kind of man is Lincoln?” I asked tentatively.

We pulled onto the highway and he kept his eyes trained on the road, but his voice was as steady and sure as if he was behind a podium, giving a lecture on Lincoln Carraway 101.

“He’s driven, but that much is obvious. To take the reins of a Fortune 500 company out of school and drastically increase the profits is proof of that. He enjoys the finer things in life.”

I snorted at that and leaned back in my seat. The after work pick up and our destination was proof of
that
.

“But he is the most generous man I’ve ever met.” Phillip didn’t acknowledge my rude interruption. “No one in his employ wants for a thing. And when he requires my services, he has me stop whenever we pass someone asking for help. It would be easy to hand them a couple of dollars, but he does more than that. He talks to them and listens to their story. He doesn’t treat them like they’re less than. Everyone, from the rich to those standing on the corner with a cardboard sign, has skeletons in their closets. Mistakes they’ve made, broken families, heartbreaks...”

The emotion clutching Phillip’s words when he trailed off turned his dark eyes into slick obsidian. My lips tipped downward because I had a feeling his story was a sad one. I was being flippant about Lincoln when it was clear he had helped this man, and a lot of others, when they needed it most.

I thanked him for sharing and watched the city zip past, the tires slapping, each moment pulling me closer to Lincoln. What was I doing? How could I forgive him? How could I even agree to see him? And for dinner, like we were dating and forgetting the fact that he left me high and dry? I wished that it was just a distant, unpleasant memory that I could wave off.

It wasn’t. It had been over five years and I still carried those moments like an anchor. Dad’s face when he told me that he wouldn’t be walking me down the aisle, because there would be no one waiting for me at the end of it, would haunt me until the day I died.

Watching the city zip by, knowing that Lincoln was at the end of the tunnel, made my body rattle with anxious energy. Someone else needed to give me guidance because I didn’t trust the voices inside my head. They were ready to wipe the slate clean. To take a step off the ledge and find out if there was room in my heart, in my life, for second chances. The only other person I trusted for advice that was within reach was Ashton, and I already knew what her answer would be. I wasn’t objective, she wasn’t objective-

Phillip!

Even though he worked for Lincoln so he was Team Carraway, he was more balanced than either of us. And if I was making a terrible mistake, I’d realize the error of my ways really quick and never see him again anyway.

I swept my tongue over my teeth and scooted the sleeves of my blazer to my elbows. It was time to get to it. I knew these streets and the hotel was just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He nodded, and I knew if it didn’t mean moving his hands from their position at 9 and 3, he would have touched the rim of his invisible cap. “Absolutely, Miss Wilkes.”

“Please, call me Catherine.” I had a feeling he wouldn’t, but I couldn’t help but offer, especially since I was about to put him smack dab in the middle of my business. I shifted in my seat and spit it out. “Do you think there are things that are unforgivable?” I cringed, realizing how stupid that must sound. Of course there were things that were unforgivable. “I mean, do you think that people can be redeemed? That you can forgive someone that did something incredibly hurtful?”

We approached a stoplight and once the car was fully stopped, he gave me his full attention, kind gaze and all. “Personally, I don’t believe in lost causes. But forgiveness is something that only the person who was slighted can give, and that person alone.”

I swore he could see every heart-wrenching detail all over my face, so I thanked him for the advice and pretended I had pressing business to take care of on my cell.

It was up to me, and me alone.

****

“S
o, what do you think?”

I swiveled toward the mirror and almost brought my hand to my mouth until I remembered that would screw up all her hard work. I shifted my eyes from the stylist, hired by Lincoln of course, to the primped and preened woman in the mirror, then back to the stylist.

Yup. Still in shock.

After I checked in at the hotel and warily took the cushy elevator up to the penthouse suite, I’d opened the doors and was faced with an elegant room that screamed glamour and luxe. The first thing I’d seen, besides a breathtaking view of the lake, was a metallic clothing rack filled with cocktail dresses. Just as I was about to call Lincoln and tell him that it was too much, a jet-black haired, waif thin woman who looked like she belonged on a runway strutted out of the bathroom. After I took a step back toward the door, ready to dash back in the hall or use my briefcase as a weapon, she told me that Lincoln had hired her to be at my beck and call. My wish was her command, like a fairy godmother. I realized I had a choice. I could tumble into this rabbit hole, or I could get off the ride.

So I walked over to the vanity, where she’d turned the space into a pop up salon, sat down in the beauty shop chair, and told her I wanted him to walk in...and forget all about dinner.

When I looked at myself,
I
forgot all about dinner.

My fingers hovered above my face, vibrating and pulsing in awe.

I’d micromanaged her for the first five minutes before her saccharine sweet voice turned to hard candy and she wheeled me away from the mirror until she was done. To be honest, I’d been worried because her face was so meticulously made up. Don’t get me wrong. Nothing was out of place from the perfectly arched eyebrows to the bold red lip. But that would have looked like a mask on me. Like I was trying too hard. She’d winked when I told her that I was looking for something low key and natural. She’d delivered and then some. My skin glowed from the inside out. From my cheeks to my eyes, I looked like some sun-kissed mermaid, my blue eyes as wild as the sea and the pale pink gloss on my lips as alluring as some hypnotic siren’s song. She’d taken my blonde and brown strands and tousled them just right, the waves cascading around my face.

“Sasha, I look amazing!”

She clapped her hands together with glee. “I’m so glad you like it!” She untied her apron, her smile glittering with excitement. “I’ll let you finish getting ready. I’d tell you to have a good night, but I think that’s kind of inevitable.”

I bit my lip, but my natural blush rivaled the added rosiness in my cheeks. When I was alone, I looked at myself for a few more minutes, then migrated to the rack. My first instinct was to look at the price tags, but I averted my eyes to the fabric instead. Everything felt so beautiful. The indulgent, soft fabrics all seemed perfect when I held them up to my body. I decided on a ebony colored one with a neckline that dipped low in the front and curved down to my behind in the back. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror, heat pinched my cheeks and swelled in my core. It was like dark chocolate had been drizzled all over my body. Like I was good enough to eat.

I ignored the nerves that tumbled in my stomach and glanced at my phone. I still had a few minutes until the time I’d agreed to meet him in the hotel restaurant, but waiting around in the room would just make me more nervous. At least I could get a drink downstairs.

I gathered the train on my dress and glided to the elevator. I smiled at the people who took stock of me in a dress that seemed more appropriate for the Oscars than dinner. When I got to the restaurant, I paused behind a man decked out in all his golfing finery. There was a single staff member at the door and from his pained grin and the golfer’s gruff tone, things weren’t going well.

“What do you mean the entire restaurant has been reserved?”

My eyes bulged.

“I’m sorry, sir. The restaurant will be open to the public for breakfast tomorrow.” The smile never left the host’s lips. “Perhaps the concierge could assist you in finding an alternative?”

The man whirled around in a huff, leered at me for a minute, then stomped in the direction of the lobby.

The host locked eyes on me and some light weaved into his grin. “You must be Miss Wilkes!” He didn’t wait for me to confirm or deny, turning on his heels and opening the heavy oak door.

I’d expected a room awash with light, glittering chandeliers sparkling overhead, but darkness beckoned. I hesitated, then took a breath and powered forward. Candles illuminated the way, but just barely. I could see the shadows of tables and chairs filling a ballroom sized space.

White pillar candles were lined up one by one. Like breadcrumbs.

I knew he was at the end. I could feel his presence as surely as if he was right behind me, whispering my name.

With each step, I got a little less bold and a lot more unsure of why I was here. Why was I playing along with a romantic evening with my ex? How many women got the
Pretty Woman
treatment? How many thought they’d finally found their golden ticket? Or worst...how many had loved Lincoln Carraway?

Every step that pulled me closer to him reminded me of the walk that never happened: the walk down the aisle. The naive happiness and wide-eyed stupidity turned into a knot of bitterness that took root in my chest. It took up residence in the place where my heart was supposed to be. The heart that he’d so callously dismissed with little more than penciled scribblings about ‘not being ready.’ From the stylist, to the dress, to the candles, to the annoyingly sweet music that hummed from some unseen source. This night was like honey. Decadent enough to rot my teeth right out of my mouth.

I lingered in the center of the room. I knew it was the center, even without much more than candlelight to guide me, because I felt some beautiful future spinning around me. A life where entire restaurants were rented out for a party of two. Where dashing, sexy-as-hell billionaires wooed girls like me from itty bitty towns in rural NC. Fairy tales. But this was real life. And Lincoln Carraway wasn’t a white knight in shining armor.

I strode forward, anger simmering beneath my facade of glee and adoration. My leading man rose from the table that was arranged just for us. Rouge-colored roses were scattered underfoot, and I couldn’t deny that my eyes devoured him one spoonful at a time. His hair was slicked back, turning him into some gothic perfection from a classic novel, but his suit was very much from the now. It was some designer’s brainchild, tailored and made for Lincoln. The way it was cut made his broad shoulders sing and his torso called to me, begged me to slip my fingers beneath the expensive threads. Tear it from his body so I could get to his flesh.