Billionaires Runaway Bride

“I'd like to have dinner with you again sometime,” I said suddenly. It wasn’t at all what I had intended to say. I had intended to steer our interactions back toward a strictly boss-employee relationship, but apparently my mouth had other ideas. “But no drinking. Or, uh, at least we won't have nearly as much.”

Her gaze searched mine for a moment, and I wished I could read her thoughts. “That, uh, sure. I’d like that,” she replied. For a brief moment, I saw the guard she’d been hiding behind since she’d walked into my office fade. A soft smile brushed over her perfectly-shaped lips. Then, just as quickly, it went back to full strength. “But for the moment, I think we both really need to focus on the Harry Winston campaign. That comes before anything else.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” I agreed. “That is our absolute top priority at this point in time. And there are a few new projects coming up, as well, that could make or break us in the coming financial quarter. Projects that I'm going to need you to be performing at your peak for. Projects that we're all going to need to have absolute crystal clear focus for. So, yeah, we shouldn't let . . .” Our eyes caught again and I had to refocus. “We shouldn’t let anything distract us from that.” I said the words, but I didn’t mean them. I wanted nothing more than to be distracted by this woman, and I really couldn’t even explain why.

“Agreed. I'm here to make a significant contribution to this firm, and I intend to put my best foot forward at all times,” she assured me.

“That's what I like to hear. Anyway, I think I've kept you from your work too long already. We do still have a long way to go on the Harry Winston campaign, so I’ll let you get back to working on that.”

She nodded and stood. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something else, but instead she simply nodded again and headed out of my office.

***

I cranked up the punk tune on my Maserati's sound system as I pulled out of the Sinclair Building’s parking garage, nodding my head in time with the driving beat. While I usually played classical music on my drive home to relax my mind after a hard day at work, since finding out that Lilah’s brother was in a band I'd been into since I was a teenager, I'd searched through my collection and added a few tracks by the Razor's Edge to my playlist.

I weaved through the early evening traffic as the track raged. I was barely two blocks from the office when I noticed a familiar figure walking along the sidewalk.

Lilah. I would recognize her curves anywhere.

I pulled up to the curb and rolled down my window.

“Lilah!”

She glanced over her shoulder, looking surprised to hear my voice. She saw me in the car and smiled.

“Hi, Asher!” she said as she stopped and turned to acknowledge me.

“Do you need a ride?”

She hesitated before responding. “I suppose I could use one, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all. Come on, hop in.”

She hurredly climbed into the passenger seat of my car.

“Nice ride,” she said. “I do love a Maserati.”

I grinned and gave the engine a rev. “She is a beauty, huh? I have a soft spot for fast cars. Guy thing, I guess. You should come check out my collection sometime.”

“Sure. I'm not exactly a gearhead, but I can appreciate a well-built machine,” she revealed, her undertone just enough to send a touch of warmth rushing through me. “And, I happen to know a thing or two about engines,” she added.

I tried not to sound surprised as I replied. “Oh, you do?”

“I grew up an only girl in family of older brothers, two of whom are motorcycle fanatics, and no mom. My dad was a mechanic who had his own garage, and he spent most of his waking hours there working on engines. Being in the garage was pretty much the only way I could spend time with him, so I learned a thing or two about engines while I was growing up.”

“Wow. Sounds like a unique childhood.”

“I suppose in some ways, it was. As yours was, I imagine.”

“Yeah, I guess it was,” I replied. I wasn't quite ready to discuss my childhood with her, even though talking to her did feel like the most comfortable and natural thing in the world, so I decided to switch the topic.

“So, why were you walking home from work? It's a good 45 minute walk from the office to your place, if I remember correctly.”

“My car's at the mechanic's,” she replied. “And, since it was a nice evening, I just thought I’d walk instead of taking the bus.”

“Couldn't fix it yourself, huh?” I joked with a wink.

“I could have, quite easily, but I don't have the time—not with the current schedule being what it is. Not that I'm complaining,” she added hastily.