Page 21 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

“Zero to sixty in less than six seconds,” I cry, giving a whoop of delight. Coy grabs the doorhandle.

I’ve always loved driving, always been fascinated with cars. When I was five years old, I demanded the latest cars the company was making, same as Ashton, and it was my idea for Dad to commission the real live models of his most popular toy cars. I made his driver teach me the basics of car repair, not that I’ve ever needed to do it myself.

I don’t even own a car at home; it’s too easy to take my pick of my father’s stable of high-end vehicles when Iwant to drive.

I’ve never wanted to race cars like Ashton does, but whenever I could, I’d show up in the middle of his pit crew and take in as much as I could as I cheered my brother on.

I take the corner too fast and speed up as I straighten out.

I could buy this car.

I don’t go far, just around the neighbourhood, with Coy pointing out different houses and describing problems he’s had with the people who live there.

“You seem like a popular guy,” I tell him as I pull back into the drive.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “If you want the car, you best come into the house. The wife’s getting supper ready.” He gets out without waiting for a reply.

It’s one thing to have him in the car with me when I’m doing the driving, but I’m too much of a city girl not to feel more than a hint of uncertainty at the thought of going into his house.

His wife is home.

How do I ever know there’s actually a wife? He could have made her up.

But still, I follow him to the side door, telling myself not to make this into a big deal. And when he holds the door open, I’m happy to see the figure of a woman in the kitchen.

The inside is more appealing than the outside. Warm and tidy with framed pictures on every surface. There’s Coy at different stages of his life, never with a smile. The woman beside him more than makes up for it.

I shiver—the warmth of the home makes me realize how cold I was.

Coy nods at the woman at the stove. To her credit, there’s no surprise in her expression at the sight of me with her husband, only the usual mild wariness. “That’s Laura,” he says to me. “Pet, she wants to buy the car.”

Laura throws up her hands, one still holding a wooden spoon and a few drops splatter over the floor. “Thank the Jesus for that. But it’s too big a car for a lass like her,” she warns.

“D’yu know who she is?” Coy asks his wife as if I’m not standing there. “She asks me but I’ve no idea.”

“She stays at the castle, a friend of the Gunny Prince,” Laura reports without a second glance at me. “Famous for something, I hear. You in the movies, lass?”

This is the part that always stings. I’m famous for being famous, like the Kardashians before their makeup empire took over the world. Like Paris Hilton, back in the day. Hailey Bieber. I’m famous because of my father, or to be blunt, because of my father’s money.

I’ve always been accused of doing nothing to earn my celebrity. The echo of it sticks in, like a thorn piercing the soft skin of my hand every time I try to smell a rose.

Of course I’m not about to admit this to anyone, let alone a grumpy fisherman and his wife. “You might have seen me in magazines,” I tell Laura.

“A model? Huh. Guess that explains why you’re so gosh darn skinny. Best pull up a chair for some chowder. It’s going to be a chilly one and you look cold.”

I can’t argue with that.

I sit at the table with Coy and Laura and accept a steaming bowl of fish chowder and a glass of milk. They ask a few questions about Gunnar and King Magnus, but mainly I listen to their conversation as I finish every mouthful.

Laura pours me a second glass of milk when I tell her I don’t remember the last time I had a glass of it.

Twenty minutes after I finish, I send a text to the group chat.

Me: I bought a car!

Chapter eight

Silas

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