Page 55 of Ella Gets the D
“Knock yourself out,” I say and stand. “Thanks for dinner, but I have other plans. See you tomorrow morning at Jackson’s game.”
A picture is worth a thousand words, and so is Charles’s face when I leave him at the bar with my empty plates. The bartender passes him my bill and gives me a wink.
My heart races at the buzz of an incoming message. “I’m not looking,” I mutter to myself. This isn’t high school, and I’m notwaiting by the phone for my friend to tell me if my crush thinks I’m cute. I’m a grown-ass woman.
Another ping.
A squeal slips, catching the attention of a man walking by in a black suit, who now has a smirk on his face. “We get like that too.” He nods at the cell pressed against my heart. “You should answer.”
I sigh and fish for my keys. “Get a grip.”
What if it’s Morgan asking about tomorrow’s game? Or Erica showing off the latest friend with benefits who’s working her overtime?
Julian is probably balls deep inside some supermodel, not thinking about his sister’s best friend who’s occupying his house with her children. I need some action in my life too.
A glance at my messages confirms my theory. Morgan has a question about what snacks to bring tomorrow, and Erica wants me to go on a double date with her next week. I type back “orange slices and applesauce” to Morgan and tell Erica I’m game before my courage wears off.
Just because I’m not looking for another relationship doesn’t mean I can’t have fun, right?
Chapter 22
Julian
“Staring at your phone won’t send the text for you.”
“No shit.” I peek at the time to play off the fact I’ve checked it at least twelve times. Nothing from Ella.
I fucked things up flying back to London without any communication outside the note I left. Work has been handing me my ass until after midnight, when I crawl from the shower to my bed and start the process over the next day. I’ve had no time for rugby, much less anything else. Meeting up with Preston was by chance based on our schedules, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction.
We’re at a bar in a boutique hotel in the West End. It’s crowded enough to rival a movie premiere. Flowers hang above an illuminated counter stretching eighty feet. Bartenders work around each other to satisfy the crowd pouring in, ready to indulge in the award-winning menu of cocktails and savory delicacies.
Like me, Preston is an heir to his family business. Unlike me, he’s worth billions, thanks to a portfolio of hotels and resorts under the Donnelly brand. The interest he earns on hisinvestments every quarter is more than my entire salary. We met last year during a business meeting and became mates, as they say. He’s from New York City and splits his time between here and there. It’s rare we’re both in town at the same time, and even rarer to have left our offices to link up over old-fashioneds.
Five women have tried their luck at getting his attention in the half-hour we’ve been here. I’d laugh if I didn’t know firsthand how annoying the wealthy playboy title can be. You’re a magnet for unwanted attention and social climbers of all kinds willing to trade a night in bed for bragging rights, but Preston takes it in stride.
He removes a woman’s hand from his navy suit with a subtle headshake to ward off embarrassment and future attempts. “Have a good night, love.” The ocean-blue eyes featured on the cover of countless trade magazines roam her body. His gaze is still on her ass when she leaves.
“Surprised you didn’t want to take her home,” I say over my tumbler. “She’s your type.”
Hickory hair. Light eyes. Curves for days. Shit, she’s my type too—or was until a honey tan beauty entered my life and turned it upside down.
“I’m walking the straight and narrow these days. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.”
“She must be special to get you to settle down.”
His head drops. “She is.” He sighs. “One day, she’ll be mine.”
Preston Donnelly has many layers, but trepidation isn’t one he shows. Tonight, it’s front and center with the facial tics he tries to mask and the way he bites his lip like he’s deep in thought. At least he looks like he’s practicing for a spread inGQand not on edge because of a woman who has him by the nuts.
“I see it now.”
His brows pinch together. “What?”
“The whole”—I wave a hand in his direction—“brooding thing.”
He runs his fingers through his dark curls and catches himself in another pose photographers would sell to the highest bidder. No wonder people lose their minds in his presence. Preston is a billionaire trapped in a model’s body.
“Sod off.” The hint of an accent he acquired from years at boarding school teases his vowels. He shakes off the trance of the woman who stole his heart and takes a pull of his drink. “I recently reconnected with someone after fifteen years.” He nods with a sigh at my slow whistle. “Yeah, mate.”
