Billionaire Stepbrother Enemy

Packing my fucking suitcase and getting the hell out of here.

CHAPTER FOUR

I so relieved to get back to my own place. Left without goodbyes to anybody. I’ll make it up to Mom later, but honestly, I’d be glad to never see Randy or Scott ever again. I don’t need that kind of drama in my life. I do much, much better here in my own city, with my own apartment, own job, friends, my own life. They can take their billions and shove ’em. Which I guess might take quite a while and be somewhat painful, which frankly I’m okay with right now.

It’s sort of like getting out from under a hangover, coming home after a trip back to the mansion. What with the funeral, making out with my step, and accusations of giving public bjs, I’d say this last visit rated about a 7 on the drama scale.

Oh wait. See, when stuff hurts my feelings, I tend to box it up and forget about it. Much less painful that way. Except, like just now, it tends to jump out of the box and escape when I’m not suspecting it: I forgot all about the GAY ROMP. All about how Scott was pretending to be so into me, when obviously he only wanted get his rocks off close to home. Or who knows, maybe kissing me was just another prank in a long line of unfunny pranks.

I toss and turn, not getting any decent sleep, with strange dreams of orchards and Randy undressing and Scott yelling. When I get up for work it feels like I barely closed my eyes. And then the calls start coming. I swear it’s buzzing every few minutes—work, my mom, even Randy.

Randy? He never calls, and thank god for that. So what the hell does he want? Maybe Scott is forcing him to apologize. Watch me give zero fucks.

I notice Scott hasn’t called to apologize. I guess billionaires are better at ordering other people around than taking care of their own business. Or maybe he’s not even sorry. Maybe he’s busy arranging another GAY ROMP and I’m out of sight, out of mind.

It’s not until my lunch hour that I decide to drop my barricade. I listen to my messages, and first up is Mom, telling me she’s sorry I left so quickly and that she hopes I didn’t believe that story she showed me about Scott. Just lies, nothing but clickbait, she says.

Second is Randy, and—I turn my phone off. Zero fucks, as I said.

Now hold on a sec, Ainsley.

I’ve gotten a sandwich to eat in the park because the weather is so pleasant. But instead of ravenously gobbling it up like I usually do, I sort of sink down onto a bench, my knees wobbly.

I’m um, a total idiot? Once it sinks in, what my mom said, I realize that of course that photo must have been faked. Do I not live in the age of runaway crazy celeb made-up gossip, plus Photoshop? And by the way, since when does my mom know what clickbait even is?

Am I going to keep letting the past control my reactions to everything? The gorgeous, thoughtful man who arranged that picnic for me, who walked me down that astonishing aisle of apple blossoms—he wouldn’t have bothered with any of that if he was just playing around. And his kiss…well, what do I know. Nothing, obviously. But his kiss—that felt as real as things get.

As full of feeling. As loving.

Okay then.

I don’t waste any time. I put my ass in gear and you know me well enough to know that when I get busy, I really get busy.

First I call my boss and tell her I’m not coming back this afternoon, family emergency. Then I call Mom and get the address of Scott’s office, where she thinks he’s in meetings all afternoon. And then I go shopping. I buy the best little suit my credit card can afford—it’s decently made, it’s super sexy but not trashy, and it looks perfect with the Louboutins my mom gave me. (Don’t think for one second in my hurry to pack I left those behind. You think I’m crazy?)

And then I drive like a banshee back across half the state to the city where Scotty’s offices are. I hope the place isn’t packed with security because I don’t have a plan for getting past anyone more threatening than an admin in her seventies. I’m remembering those beefy guys with the earpieces that were at our grandmother’s funeral, and that worries me a little.

Even though I’m scared as hell, and racked with all my anxieties—what if the kisses were still just being friendly or just for fun? What if the beefy dudes throw me out of the building on my ass? What if—”

Despite all that, I manage to find a decent station on my crappy car radio and start rocking out to a run of really great tunes. And you know how that can change your attitude just like that. It makes the miles fly by, and lifts my spirits to where I’m mostly just looking forward to seeing Scotty again.

I leave my car in a spot so illegal, they may put me in jail if they catch me. I don’t care. All I can think about is telling Scott that I misunderstood, telling him I am sorry, and leaping into his arms at last.

A pretty young receptionist is the only guard I see so far. “I’m here to see Mr. Caulter,” I tell her. “Tell him it’s Ainsley.” Perkily she hits a button and speaks into a mouthpiece. I’m looking around, goggle-eyed at the building, which is some kind of architectural marvel with vast windows and behind the receptionist, a stunning reception room all in black and white.

Well, wait a minute. Hold on a sec, Ainsley.

Maybe I’ll apologize for being an idiot, and then see if he will apologize for being a dirtbag when we were sixteen. And I’ll leap or not leap, depending.

I’m so damn torn. I want to put the past behind me, I want to make excuses for him, but I know that’s not the right thing to do. That won’t lead anywhere worth going.

So now I’m slowing down. Way, way down. To a stop, actually. Why the hell am I so impulsive? Did I really think that a new suit would make everything turn out like a fairy tale? The hurt of those years hits me right in the face and makes me falter. He was so mean, so cold to me.

This is never going to work.