A Billionaire for Christmas

But she was wrong on one point—it wasn’t good for me. She wasn’t good for me. To believe she was would be an absolute lie.Chapter EightAudreyDylan: Are you still awake?My pulse picked up at the message from Dylan when it arrived. It was half past midnight, and I’d texted him hours ago during the intermission of Waitress. I’d been antsy waiting for a response, afraid he was bailing on me, so obviously, I was relieved to see his name, to say the least.

Now was a better time to talk to him anyway. Sabrina was already asleep, and I wasn’t as into my reading of A Curator’s Handbook as I should have been.

But I was into Dylan Locke. More than I should have been.

Audrey: I was beginning to think u’d gotten cold feet.Dylan: Ha ha. No. Not particularly. It was a lot of rigamarole to get the flat ready for habitation, even though it came furnished. Then Aaron and I had to battle through Latin homework. After that, we ordered pizza and played a rousing game of Risk.I giggled. He was so formal and long-winded in his messages. No one spoke like that in text. No one used proper grammar. But he did. He texted like he talked. I’d probably make fun of him about it someday—I was known to tease—but secretly I loved it. It was old-fashioned and charming.

I curled my feet underneath me in Sabrina’s guest room armchair and typed out a response.

Audrey: Risk, huh. He let u win, didn’t he?Dylan: Now that you mention it...I really think he did.I could picture it—a baby teenage boy, awkward and gangly after a recent growth spurt, chocolate eyes like his father, a dry but still underdeveloped sense of humor. The two would crack witty wisecracks while forming armies and taking over the world, and Dylan would be so enamored with the idea of connecting with his son, he wouldn’t see that the same son was throwing the game.

It was a sweet image, and even if it was inaccurate, I liked imagining it that way. It made me miss my dad who’d died ten years ago this holiday season. I had fond memories of nights when it was just the two of us. Years after my mother had died when Sabrina had gone off to school at Harvard. Nights playing Rummikub past midnight. After I’d win a handful of games, I’d start losing on purpose so my father would stay interested in playing.

Those were good times.

These were beautiful moments Dylan was creating, too. Did he know that? He had to assume they had some meaning. Why else be so engaged? Why else buy an apartment he only planned on using a handful of times a year? He was a very wealthy businessman, a man I suspected that could afford staff and “people” to look after all his needs. He probably lived quite a different life when he was back home in London, but here, where his son was concerned, he seemed very ordinary. He was just like most dads. He cared about his kid, and it showed.

It made me want to care too. It made me want to ask too many questions and get involved.

But that was always my problem—I cared too easily. And this wasn’t a situation where caring helped me.

I blew the air from my lungs and shook my head free from sentimental thoughts. Yes, Dylan was a good dad. But I needed to focus on the kind of “daddy” he could be to me.

This was a conversation I decided would be best voice-to-voice.

I hit the phone icon next to his name and put the receiver up to my ear.

And then I waited.

And waited.

He made me wait four flipping rings before answering. Four long rings where I pictured him staring at my name on his screen and panicking, trying to decide what to do.

Answer it, you nincompoop! You were just texting me! I know you’re there!

“Audrey,” he said in a stern bass when he finally picked up. It made my stomach buzz deep and low, as though trying to match his pitch and resonance.

“Dylan,” I said, in kind.

Then neither of us said anything and silence stretched out between us.

It wasn’t awkward silence, really, but it was noticeable. Noticeable enough that my lips went dry, and my hands began to sweat. It seemed to me it was his turn to say something since I’d just spoken, whatever it was that I’d said. I’d already forgotten. I was too consumed with replaying the way he’d said my name. How beautiful it sounded when he said it in his very British dialect. It made me feel regal and classic and adored, which was crazy since we were practically strangers.

But I felt that way all the same.

And I sat there without speaking as I soaked it in. I didn’t know what his reason was for not talking, but that was mine.