Page 55 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
I swallow hard. “I’m not… I’m not the kind of girl that men fight over.”
He shakes his head, a quick dismissal. “That says more about us than it does about you. And nothing good, that’s for damn sure.”
“Does that mean you’re going to apologize to him?” Christopher stands only six feet away from us, leaning against the curved stone edge of the fountain, staring out at the city’s skyline. It shouldn’t be possible to see his expression in this darkness, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s melancholy. It makes me long for the hard-edged, cold Christopher.
The one who breaks my heart but doesn’t look melancholy.
“No,” Sutton says. “But I’m not going to punch him again. Not tonight.”
“I suppose that’s the best I can do, but I can’t leave him like this. I’m pretty sure he drove here.”
Hard blue eyes study the solitary figure. “We can call him a cab.”
When did it become Christopher against me and Sutton? Maybe from before I even met Sutton. I would have aligned myself with anyone against Christopher. Does that mean what I have with Sutton, this connection, the invisible string that draws me toward him, isn’t real?
“I can’t leave him here,” I say finally, resigned that I won’t figure out the secrets of the heart tonight. “The way he is now. There’s too much history.”
A sleek black limo glides into the courtyard. Sutton’s limo.
I put my hand on his arm, feeling the restraint in his muscles, the heat of his body. “It’s okay. I’ll take an Uber with him. You don’t have to do anything.”
He looks increasingly remote, the more I try to reassure him. “Bring him.”
Into the limo? Sutton may have promised not to punch Christopher again, but I’m not sure putting them in a closed metal box going eighty miles per hour is the answer. “We couldn’t.”
An impatient wave of his hand. “It’s the fastest way. The safest, too.”
I can’t argue with those points, and I don’t really relish waiting for an Uber in the dark, making small talk with a random stranger—or Christopher, who seems like a stranger.
He looks up at the stars as I approach him, unmoving even though he must hear my heels on the cobblestone, the red carpet rolled up and put away until there’s another show.
“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you home.”
“I’m not drunk,” he says, gesturing to the sky as if that proves a point.
“Well, you’re not sober.”
“Go on ahead. I’m not good company tonight.” A humorless laugh bounces off the stone and water of the fountain. And abruptly falls silent.
I put my hand on his arm, feeling his muscles—so different from Sutton. Sleek where he’s bulky. Tense where Sutton is deceptively casual, reserving his strength for when he needs it. “I don’t have a red and white life preserver, but there’s a limo that will work just as well.”
He glances over. “Don’t think Sutton would appreciate that.”
“It was his idea.”
Christopher remains still, considering. I wonder what scales are in his head right now, weighing the cost of being near me and Sutton. Weighing the return on investment of a ride home.
I take a step away, hoping he’ll follow. “Remember what you said to me? Can you climb? I need you to climb right now, Christopher. One rung at a time.”
His eyes are as deep and fathomless as the bay was that night. There might have been sharks in that depth. Or it might have been my imagination, running wild. In the end he stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “We didn’t hurt you,” he says like a statement, even though it’s a question.
“I’m fine.” That’s a lie, but there are no bruises on my skin. Nothing he can see.
On the inside I’m hurt in ways I didn’t know were possible.
It’s natural for me to lie, I almost believe the words myself. From the time I was little I had to tell Daddy I was fine or risk losing my mom. I had to lie to Mom or watch her fall apart. Lying is how I keep the world together. It’s how I survive.
Sutton has the door open for us when we walk up. He stands a few feet to the side as we get in, both Christopher and me in the very back. Sutton slides in toward the driver, facing us. A rap on the roof, and then we’re driving through downtown Tanglewood. We start the drive in almost-silence, only the muffled sound of the tires on the road to soothe us.
“How much of that champagne did you drink?” I finally ask.
“Damon Scott has his own bartender,” Christopher says. “Who kept refilling my drink. And I kept drinking it, which is damn stupid of me. I’ve done a lot of stupid things.”
“Okay, Mr. Valedictorian. Clearly you’re a sad drunk. That’s something I didn’t know about you. And now that I know it, you aren’t allowed to have liquor.”
