Page 11 of Kissed and Missed

Could I live here? If things work out the way I want them to?

Yes. Yes, I could.

It surprises me how easily the answer comes. As we drive further into the city, it’s clear that there are no luxury boutiques, paparazzi, or plastic surgery clinics. Connecticut is a world away from the place I’ve called home for my entire life, and yet the thought of starting over here doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.

We stop at a light, and I watch as a man outside the nearest house heaves the last shovel full of snow from his front walk. His wife steps outside onto the porch, wrapping a cardigan around herself as she says something I can’t hear, but makes her husband laugh. As the car begins to move again, the glimpse of a cozy normalcy fades into the distance, leaving a lump in my throat.

Yes. I want that very much. In order to get it, though, I have work to do.

Our first stop is an outdated office building, situated on the outskirts of an industrial complex. Only a few cars are parked outside this early, and a lone groundskeeper is spreading salt over the sidewalk. He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction as I push open the door and step out, content in not drawing attention to myself.

Fame, or at least newsworthiness, was something I once thought I wanted. Press meant catching the attention of investors or customers, and for most of my career, I took every interview, went to every event, and smiled for the cameras. It wasn’t until recently that I started to resent the whole business and question the morality of my financial position.

Unfortunately, the train had already left the station. I’m a public figure, a famously wealthy one, and the last thing I want is press drawing unwanted attention onto Honor. This thing between us is already tricky, and a sure way to have her running for the hills is to have her face splashed all over gossip websites.

The thought alone has me uneasy as I enter the building’s beige, dated lobby and scan the directory posted beside the door. The Healthy Heart Foundation is located on the second floor, and I take the steps at a jog, my pulse picking up as I find my way into the office where Honor spends her days.

This early, none of the employees have arrived for the day, and I pause, scanning the collection of desks. My gaze catches one on the far wall. There’s nothing to suggest it’s hers, no pictures, only a plant and a few knickknacks cluttering the desk. A blue knitted sweater is draped over the back of the rolling chair, and, unthinking, I draw forward. Just as I reach out to touch it, however, a female voice sounds from behind me.

“Mr. Ballard! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

Reproachfully, I turn, my hand falling back to my side as I offer the woman standing there a well-practiced professional smile. “Miss Phillips, I presume?”

“That’s me!” she says with a nervous laugh, wiping her hands on her pencil skirt. “If you want to come through to the conference room, we can talk.”

I cast one last look at Honor’s desk before following Miss Phillips into a room just as drab as the rest of the office.

“I’m so sorry,” she titters, pulling out a chair for herself. “I was going to pick up refreshments, but everything was closed this early, and I didn’t have quite enough warning to?—”

“Please, don’t worry.” I take the chair across from her. “This was very last minute. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

She bobs her head, visibly nervous. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I would like to pledge fifteen million dollars to The Healthy Heart Foundation.” Dead silence greets my words as Honor’s boss stares at me, her eyes bulging out of her head. Sensing it will take her a moment to process this and wishing to speed it all along, I continue, “It hasn’t been made public yet, which is why you were asked to sign the NDA prior to our meeting, but I am starting a nonprofit. The goal is to work with smaller organizations, such as yours, through financial assistance, marketing resources, and training. If you and your board of directors are amenable, I would like this to be the first nonprofit to benefit from The Ballard Fund.”

Miss Phillips’ throat bobs, and she gazes at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Wow. Um. Yes? Absolutely. It would be fairly insane to turn down that kind of offer.”

I chuckle. She isn’t wrong. “Excellent. Once you have board approval, we can move forward. I just have one small request.” I lace my fingers together atop the table, careful to disguise mysudden rush of nerves as I continue. “The Ballard Fund would like to throw a gala to publicly make the announcement. We will cover all the costs and invite top donors to raise additional funds. However, as our first partner, I think it would be appropriate if your organization was involved in the planning.”

“Of course,” Miss Phillips assures me in a rush, leaning forward eagerly. “I will personally see to it?—”

“No,” I interrupt firmly, “I couldn’t possibly take up so much of your time. As director, I’m sure you’ll have quite a lot of work cut out for you.” My heart is pounding against my ribcage as I lean forward, smiling slightly. “Do you have an event coordinator perchance?”

7

HONOR

SIX WEEKS AGO

Julian Ballard’s home is a white and chrome contemporary structure that my architect father would call “soulless.” The interior, all sharp angles and white furniture you’re afraid to sit on, isn’t any warmer. The whole place strikes me as something he bought because he was checking a box on some billionaire to-do list.

Luxury car collection?Check.

Private jet?Check.

Supervillain house?Check.

The sounds of a family Christmas party underway drift from below my feet, but I’m more than content to hide away up here, far away from my ex-girlfriend’s family.

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