Page 16 of One Billion Reasons

“Even if you don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter if I do. I need someone who will look like she’s in love with me. And someone who can charm the other guests.”

“And you couldn’t find someone else?” In college, Miles slept with what seemed like a new girl every weekend. Luckily, when we lived together, he rarely let them sleep over. I can’t imagine much has changed, even with his brief engagement.

“There is no one else.” His voice is tight.

Got you. He does need this. Me, specifically.

“So you need me to pretend to be in love with you. Why?”

“Do you need to know?”

“I do.” I hate feeling like I’m caught up in one of his schemes. I know that’s what this is. When we were twenty-three and pretending to be beach bums at his Montauk house, his stupid plans were fun. I loved sitting on the board while he paddled out, even though he always took us too far out and I wasn’t the best swimmer. I loved getting dressed up and going drinking with him when Liam was away at a game, even though Miles wanted to stay too late and dance too close. But it stopped being fun when people started getting hurt. Be serious, Miles. Life isn’t a joke. And this is exactly the type of thing that he would have done, before, but he’s not joking now.

“My reputation is in tatters. The broken engagement has been…bad for business.” He sips his drink. “So I need you to pretend to be in love with me. I need you to smile at me, kiss me, and stay in the same room with me.”

My breath catches at that. Kiss Miles. I swallow hard.

“Do you think you can do that?” he challenges, like he expects the answer to be no. I’m silent for a minute, my pulse fluttering at the thought of sharing a room with him. “I know it will be difficult, with how you feel about me.” His voice is bitter.

“I’ll do it,” I say swiftly, before he can change his mind.

He looses a sigh. “I’ll have George email you the details. And Lane?”

“Yeah?”

“If anyone questions our relationship, even once, the deal is off.”

I clench the phone in my hand and end the call without responding.

9

Miles

The house I grew up in is beautiful. The helicopter takes me from the rooftop helipad at the office, circling the old mansion once before setting down in a field on the expansive property. The usual Maybach is waiting on the adjacent path to take me to the house, but I wave the driver off. I’d rather walk, and I assume my mother is out here too, somewhere in between mile three and mile five of her daily route around the property.

The massive Connecticut property spans acres of light woodland and fields. It’s been in my mother’s family for 150 years. As a child, I loved nothing more than traipsing through the muddy grass, down to the little creek that runs through the trees. I tip my face up to the September sun as I walk toward the house.

The property is wilder now. I can tell my mom hasn’t been maintaining it. I should call someone. I frown and look for her across the overgrown field. I barely come here anymore. It’s too painful.

My mother started walking more when my dad died, started paying attention to her health. We all did. He ignored his doctor’s warning for years about eating better.

I find Louise Becker near the creek, stretching, her walking outfit a matching blue set with a white sweater. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I immediately feel guilty for not visiting her more frequently. If only she didn’t live here. It would be easier to see her without the need to steel myself for the aching pain in my chest every time the mansion comes into view. It’s better than seeing the Montauk house, at least.

“I thought I heard the helicopter.” She smiles and hugs me, her perfume the same as it was when I was a boy. She’s not skin and bone like she was until recently, but close. My father’s death hit all of us hard, but my mother most of all. She stopped eating and spent most of her time in her bedroom with the shades drawn.

“I thought I’d come see you before I head to Long Island tomorrow. How are you?” There’s a world of meaning behind that question, since just a year ago, she was nearly too weak to answer me. I still feel echoes of that fear, that panicked feeling that I was powerless to help her.

“Good. Seeing Grace later.”

I smile as I fall into step beside her, and we head back for the house. Grace is my father’s sister, and she’s the opposite of my mother in every way. Where my mother can be harsh, Grace is gentle. She’s a Buddhist, loves to garden, does yoga every morning. She’s a good influence. I’m still waiting for some of my mother’s sharp edges to soften, but at this point, I doubt it’s going to happen. The only people she’s ever been soft and motherly to are Lane and Liam. She must have sensed they needed it all those years ago when I showed up at Thanksgiving with two additional mouths to feed and no warning.

“How’s the acquisition going?” she asks, not looking at me. Her shoulders are tense. I wish I could wrap an arm around her, but she’s not that kind of mom. I’m surprised she’s even mentioning the property I want to buy, though she’s not saying the word Montauk.

My chest tightens. “We’re making progress.” I can’t tell her the truth right now, which is that it may not happen at all. “I’m going to Amanda’s wedding. Rubbing shoulders with that crowd should help the acquisition.” I keep my tone light, as if this is just one more thing to help the process along instead of utterly fucking critical.

She frowns. “Not alone, I hope. That silly girl will assume you want her back.”

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