The Billionaire's Secret

"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.

I couldn't imagine losing him, and yet it seemed like I would be. Very very soon.

Tricia was gently stroking my arm, her sharp eyes watching me. I can tell she wants to talk some more. She probably visited the corner house recently, probably brought Otis some of his favorite schnapps and gotten drunk with him.

Why can't I bring myself to do the same? Stop by, joke with him, enjoy the time we have left?

Tricia sits back, patting me abruptly. "So you met a guy," she prompts, pulling me out of my guilt-ridden reverie. "How could mama possibly have a problem with that?"

"Well," I dab my eyes hastily and pull myself together. "He's...rich. He's a client's brother. He's totally off-limits."

"Forbidden love," Tricia laughs. "Romeo and Juliet!"

I glare at her. "They both die, you know."

"That's why I refused to read to the end, keep it happy," she explains. "They kiss, I close the book, the end."

"No wonder you had to cheat off of me during that unit in Mrs. Stewart's class."

Tricia pokes me with her toe. "You know, you were lousy to cheat off of. I only got a B on that test. My parents were totally pissed. Even more so than their normal levels of pissed."

I laugh at the memory. "So aside from the fact that we aren't star crossed lovers doomed in a suicide pact, there's another small factor standing in the way."

"What, is he a deformed hunchback or something?"

I laugh. "May as well be as far as mama is concerned." I heave a sigh. "This feels so awkward and wrong, but...he's white."

Tricia glances towards the kitchen where her Hispanic wife is fixing dinner. "Is that a problem?'

"Not to me, but...."

Tricia nods knowingly. "Mama," she says evenly.

She has never come right out and said it, but I know my mother blames our troubles when I was young on racism. "Seek out our people," she had always told me. "We can trust our own."

"I think she would rather I be a lesbian than date a white guy. But why am I even talking about this? I just met him, he's the brother of a client. I'm not about to get involved, that's totally unprofessional and besides, I have no idea if he's even interested."

After all he didn't even kiss me, I don't say.

"I'm sure it's nothing. Just a little fleeting crush. I'll get over it." I sound more dismissive than I feel.

Just then, Rita comes in with three plates stacked effortlessly on her arms with the practiced touch of a former waitress. The sight and smell of the steaming empanadas make my mouth water. She places all three plates on the coffee table and sits down in between Tricia and me. "Did Felicia get in touch?" she asks me out of the blue.

Rita has the habit of just blurting out her thoughts, whether they are pertinent or not. Keeping up with her is enough to give me whiplash, sometimes.

Quickly, I switch gears from my nonexistent love life to my neglected business. "She hasn't, no," I shake my head as I reach for my plate. "I put another call in to the Styles desk this afternoon before I came here, though."

Rita nods. "Felicia likes to have an angle," she muses. "That's why she's an editor and I'm still a silly beat reporter. But I talked to her about you today."

"Aw, thanks Rita," I blush and Tricia pulls her in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

She laughs. "Don't thank me yet, guys. I don't think I have the power you think I do." She sits back and pats Tricia's knee as she talks. "Felicia definitely seems interested. I mean, I think she does. She just needs...something else."

"What's that?" I ask eagerly.

Rita hedges. "She wants a hook. Something that will grab her readers. An angle for the story that will make her readers care about your business."

I sigh, frustrated. "The story is; I grew up in homeless shelters to become an entrepreneur who plans weddings for rich people. Maybe I'm a narcissist or something, but I feel like my life alone should be the hook."

"I agree with you babe," Tricia said quickly, cutting off Rita with a slight shake of her head. "Try again. She probably needs to hear it from you."

I nod fiercely.

"And Yahya?"

"Yeah?"

She stares daggers at me. "Go see Dad."

Chapter Eleven

Carter

When the helicopter rose into the sky last night, I cursed myself loudly. "You fucking idiot. You should have kissed her."

Walking with her, her warm arm pressed against mine… It felt so right and natural that I didn't even consider that she wasn't always going to be there. I felt like I had all the time in the world to savor the scent of her swirling around me. I was so lost in the novelty of her presence that I took too damn long to act.

And then she left.

Of course she left. She was just getting started, looking over the place and thinking about the wedding. Whatever connection I thought we had… It wasn’t supposed to happen. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen.

I fucked up. Royally. She likely had already moved on, bored with my hesitation last night. Women like Sanniyah Jones didn't wait around for anything, least of all idiots who suddenly find themselves stumbling around like inexperienced schoolboys in their presence.

I am Carter fucking Easton. I got where I am by following my gut. And my gut said to kiss her. Hard.

The only thing standing in my way right now is my impending nervous breakdown.

The black car pulls up to the back entrance of the building. "All clear, sir," Benson tells me, rolling down the partition.

I try to quell the panic attack that is looming. "Thank you Benson," I say instead, surprised at how even my voice is. "I'll be ready to return in about two hours."

"Very good, sir." My driver knows enough not to get out and open the door for me. That would attract too much attention. The paranoia that grips me whenever I am forced to visit the city is always the worst right at this moment. When I have to leave the safety of my car and walk quickly into the building.

It's irrational, I know. By now I have been out of the limelight long enough that the frenzy has faded, at least a little. But there is still a chance of a telephoto lens, hidden somewhere that I wouldn't even know to look, taking pictures of me, my car, my license plate...renewing the bloodlust of the paparazzi.