Page 11 of One Billion Reasons

“Sure.” I struggle to keep my voice polite. I don’t like being treated like the help, and I’m already on edge, between the pushy emails and the demand to come to this glass tower, as if I’m being summoned to see Satan himself.

George turns and arches a black brow. “My apologies for dragging you here. I’m afraid my boss insisted.” The amusement in their voice indicates that they don’t feel sorry at all. They turn again, pleated pants swinging above platform loafers, and I roll my eyes at their back. The office boasts some truly impressive views of Manhattan. I half expect to see clouds floating by, we’re so high up. The other office buildings around us are glimmering in the afternoon sun.

We stop at a corner office, a frosted glass door hiding the occupant. George pops their head inside and murmurs something. A man’s low voice responds, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that voice. I know that slight rasp. I take a step back before I can control my reactions. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not Miles.

But fate would never throw me a bone. I’ve been waiting for this day ever since the engagement shoot. I’ve been waiting for that dark head to round a corner, for those clear grey eyes to look through me. For a cutting remark, just like he tossed out on the day of the shoot. I shiver at the memory of his black expression that day, the anger clear in the tightness of his jaw.

“Go on in.” George smirks, like they know I’m in for something good and are amused at the prospect.

“Thank you,” I murmur and draw myself up. You got this. Confidence.

I step into the glass and chrome office. Clear grey eyes meet mine. They widen. He sucks in a breath, like he’s been punched. Or maybe that’s me.

“Hi, Miles.”

6

Lane

“Lane.” His voice is bleak, and his eyes are hard. If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t show it. I run my eyes greedily over him, the way I always have, every time he’s in the room. Even though I hate it, I can’t stop looking at him. Or perhaps I hate it because I can’t stop. Whatever.

His beauty is a punch to the face. It always has been. It’s why he’s so popular in the tabloids, why so many men and women in college were obsessed with him. He has a little scar under his left eye that’s slightly paler than the rest of his golden skin — the slightest bit of imperfection in an otherwise sculpted face. And I’m one of just a few who knows how he got it. That secret, stupid night we snuck into his parents’ liquor closet and broke their good crystal playing drinking games.

God, he’s tall. I forgot just how tall. That day on the beach I was slightly uphill from him, but now the difference is stark. He holds himself straight and proud, shoulders back, spine erect, legs spread. Navy suit molding to his lean frame, tie loosened just a tad. Like a king in his kingdom. I suppose he is a king. And I’m just a peon. Nothing changes. My lips twist.

“You’re the one who wants a refund?” I shake my head. “I can’t believe this.”

His jaw tics, but his face betrays no surprise. He knew I was coming here today. I was the only one in the dark. Which means he planned this. Devious man.

“What do you want?”

He leans back against his desk. “You don’t give refunds?”

We do, but not when the money is gone. There’s no way in hell I’m telling him that, though. He’ll think I’m foolish and dreamy and all those other bad things he’s ascribed to me in the past. “It’s against policy. I can show you on our website, if you’d like.” I smile serenely. This is my line, and I’m sticking to it.

“And how much was the package we bought?”

The “we” makes me feel a little ill. He’s part of a couple. I keep forgetting that.

“$25,000.”

“Only the best for her,” he mutters.

“So I assume you found a better photographer? Or your fiancée did?” I press my lips together, waiting for his cutting response.

“No. It’s over. I thought you knew.”

Relief makes my head swim. Silly, Lane. “I had no idea. Why would I?”

“It’s all over the tabloids. You never googled me?” He smiles, finally, his white teeth flashing, his eyes crinkling. I’m struck again by how handsome he is, especially with the slight lines around his eyes.

“Googled? No.” I snort. “Why would I google you? Is that something you assume people do?”

“You might have been better prepared for this meeting, then.” His words are mild, but suddenly I’m twenty-one again, never good enough for him. And just like I did then, I wrap my animosity around me like a blanket.

“I don’t need to prepare. I’m not giving you a refund. You’ve got the money. Deal with it.” Miles Becker doesn’t need my charity. He’s always been the man who has it all.

“There may be another way you can repay me.” He looks far too pleased, and I’m sure I won’t like whatever he’s about to say.

---