Billionaires Dollar Series

“Thank you.” I take a sip of my wine and wish I was dressed in something different, that my hair wasn’t in a braid, that I had put on mascara.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

“Do your aunt and uncle often travel this long?” Ethan’s gaze is on the kitchen beyond, taking in the pristine countertops. I’m dedicated to keeping the house as clean as possible.

The question bites. “Fairly often, I think.”

He looks down at his wine, the thickness of his hair in view. Would he be upset if I admitted it was a silly white lie, one I didn’t think would hurt? Would we laugh about it?

“Well, I’m glad they do,” he says. “No disrespect to them, but I much prefer your baked goods and engineering expertise.”

I smile into my wineglass, twirling it around as if it holds all the answers. Just tell him. “Well, it’s funny you should say that,” I say. “Actually, you know them-”

I’m interrupted by the loud sound of an alarm. Ethan curses, fishing up his phone, and gives me an apologetic look.

“Damn. Sorry, but I have to go. It’s around the time Haven often wakes up.”

“Not a problem at all.”

He stands, looking from his glass of red wine to me and back again. “This was nice. Even if I did barge in.”

I slide off the barstool. “Barge in any day.”

He smiles that wide, effortless, charming smile again, the one that seems to warm me from my head to my toes. “You might regret you said that,” he warns.

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

His smile turns crooked. “Interesting,” he remarks. “Well, I’ll see you around, Bella.”

“Good night.”

And then he’s gone, the front door shut behind him, and I’m left reeling in the hallway. Ethan Carter in my kitchen, coming over for casual conversation. Even if I never see him again after this very moment, he’s made my summer.

I shouldn’t have lied to him. I resolve to tell him my true reason for staying here the very next time I see him, running through potential ways of phrasing it in my head. Besides, my racing heart is definitely overthinking all the possible implications of this. There is no way he’s interested in me, as a man to a woman.

I count out the reasons as I lie in bed, forcing a semblance of logic. One-he’s twelve years older than me. He wouldn’t want a student. Two-he has two kids under the age of ten. That’s his priority, as it should be. Three-he’s, well, Ethan Carter. He can have anyone. Why on earth would he want me?

They’re good, sound reasons. And yet, I fall asleep to the image of his wide smile and the strength of his hands as he uncorked the wine bottle.

So yeah, I’m pretty screwed.

The coming days are an absolute mess.

Work is on the verge of madness-my chief engineer needs to take a few personal days a week before we launch our latest product-and I’m left trying to fit eighteen hours of work into a fourteen-hour day. Gone are the early morning runs, as are any social events after Haven and Evie have gone to bed. I’m at my computer for so long each night that I should just give up and propose to my MacBook. It’s time we made it official, anyway. We’ve been living in sin for long enough.

It’s late one such night when I see a man leaving Bella’s house. In the dim lighting from the streetlamp, his face is young and unlined, his hair dark.

I can’t see her, but he’s holding a paper bag in hand. My mind immediately fills it to the brim with cookies or brownies or whatever else she might have given him. Her heart, perhaps.

The disappointment I feel at the sight is unwarranted. She’s been nice. Neighborly and nice, and nothing more than that. Of course she has a boyfriend. A smart, beautiful young woman like her? Of course she does.

I shake my head at my own stupidity. Years without a relationship and months without a woman’s touch have addled my brain. I could only hope that she didn’t think I was a complete creep, coming over unannounced with a bottle of wine like that after my kids were asleep.

Remembering some of the things I’d said… embarrassment burns. I’d mentioned my ex-wife. My kids. Asked how long she’d be staying here this summer. Yes, she must have noted my interest.

When I finally shut my laptop, it’s past midnight and my mind feels like it’s turned to sludge. There are too few hours in the day, I have a million things to do, and yet my mine keeps replaying the image of the young man leaving her house.

It’s not improving my mood.

The door to my home office is pushed open. Haven is standing there in her polka dot pajamas, blinking at the sharp light. I twist my desk lamp away.

“Daddy?”

“I’m here.” I push my chair back and scoop down to pick her up. She fits easily against my side, her hands on my neck.

“You weren’t in your bed.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Shutting the door to my study, I walk with her over to my bedroom. It’s rare that she comes over at night anymore. “Did you have a bad dream?”

She nods. “Can’t remember it now.”

“That’s good. We don’t need to remember bad things.”

Turning on the dimmed lights in my bedroom, I pull back the covers with one hand and put her down with the other. She stretches out like a cat before curling up on her side.

Her hand won’t let go of my shirt. “I’ll be back, baby girl,” I tell her. “Just give me a minute.”

“S’kay.”

When I return, teeth brushed and in a clean T-shirt, she’s so quiet and still that I’m sure she’s asleep. But she turns to face me across the wide expanse of my bed.

“What is it?”

Her voice is a whisper. “When will Mom visit?”

Ah. She knows I don’t like this question, though I’ve always tried to be nothing but civil when my ex-wife is discussed. I could bear it if Lyra’s flakiness only extended to me. But to our daughters? It makes my hands knuckle into fists.

I scoot closer and run a hand over her soft hair. “I don’t know,” I reply. I’ve always tried to be honest with my kids. Don’t know if it’s the right strategy, but it’s the best one I have. “She comes and goes as she wants, a bit. I know you miss her.”

Haven shakes her head at that. “Don’t miss her. Not at all.”

The denial cuts. “It’s okay if you do and it’s okay if you don’t. You can feel whatever you like about Mom. About me too, for that matter.”

She nods and nestles her head against my hand, her breath evening out. When she speaks again, it’s so soft that I barely hear the words.

“You liked those brownies. The ones the neighbor made.”

What on earth?

“Yes,” I murmur, “I did. Why?”