Page 75 of A Billion Dollar Romance
I grimaced, staring into my tea. “Yeah, but that’s different.”
Flora tilted her head, lifting one eyebrow. “Oh. I see how it is.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re worried Professor Martin will think you’re, what,squanderingyour potential, writing what you love?”
“Well, it’s not exactly–”
“What,great literature?” Flora finished for me, eyebrows raised. “I thought you were better than that, Edie. I’m disappointed in your snobbery.”
“It’s notme,” I said, although I knew that was not entirely truthful–itwasme, a little bit. “It’s just that I know he doesn’t like…”
“The books that make him all his money,” Flora said, flatly. “He’sthe snob.”
I looked back, mimicking her expression. He was acollege literature professor.Ofcoursehe was a book snob.
“Well,” Flora said, “if it would make you feel better, I’ll read it and do a full work-up; I’ll give it the freshman lit major treatment. Talk about the symbolism, and–ooh, Freud,definitelyFreud–”
“Ugh, Flora,” I complained, but I was smiling. “Thank you, but no.” I dragged my tea bag around in my mug, staring at the steam rising off the surface. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This is just for fun. I’ll have time to finish my real projects later.”
“At the cabin.”
I nodded, and Flora leaned back in her chair. “God, that sounds amazing. I still can’t believe you managed to pull this off, Edie–only you could sleep with your boss and end up with a billionaire boyfriendandan all-expenses-paid writing retreat out of the deal. What I wouldn’t give for a month by myself, not evenonefifth grader asking me for a bathroom pass…Bliss.”
She closed her eyes, a placid smile on her face, and I let my own smile fall for a moment.
I didn’t want to admit–even to myself–that lately, when I’d been dreaming of the cabin, it hadn’t been my laptop that I’d been envisioning beside me in a quilt-covered bed. It hadn’t been my half-finished drafts that were keeping me company at James’s cabin, in my daydreams, but the man himself.
CHAPTER36
James
It all wentto hell Friday.
Bridget and Lyle were waiting at my office when I made it to the top floor with two coffees and a pastry in a bag for Alice. Edie had been giving her morning buns for months, I’d learned, once or twice a week. I hadn’t even known Alice liked pastries, and I’d known her for a dozen years.
But Alice didn’t meet my eye when I approached, passing over the small brown bag and the paper cup of coffee–two sugars, one cream.
“What is it?” I asked, looking from her uncomfortable smile to Lyle’s blank stare to Bridget’s frown.
“You’d better go in,” Alice said, and like little sheep, Bridget and Lyle followed me into my office.
“You haven’t seen it,” Bridget said as the door swung shut behind her.
“Seen what?” I snapped. Edie hadn’t slept over once this week, and I was sleeping worse as a result. I’d even taken to staying up late to read over the company reports I’d neglected to follow for a year and a half, and I’d woken up this morning half-dressed, a stack of indecipherable spreadsheets scattered across my aching body. I was too old for this shit. I needed Edie back, and I’d have her,for good,after our date tomorrow. I had barely seen her since–
“The interview,” Lyle said, and pulled out a copy ofNew York Week. The cover was folded back to show an article.
Verity: The Sordid Truth Behind Scandal-Plagued Heir’s Engagement.
My blood froze in my veins.
“They know about the–the fake engagement,” I said. “How?”
But Bridget’s frown just deepened, her jaw clenched tight.
“Mr. Martin, it’s… it’s not the fake engagement that they’re reporting,” Lyle said, the corners of his eyes pinched.
I snatched the paper from him, skimming through the article. Alongside the shots of Edie and I gazing into the camera–and when had they taken those? We looked soserious–was an article detailing not our favorite brunch spots, not who made my suits or where we’d have our wedding, but–
“This was supposed to be a puff piece,” I growled, flipping the page over. A close-up shot of my hand, clasping Edie’s tightly, her ring glinting dully. “How did this happen? This is a fucking–it’s some kind of anexposé–”
