Page 3 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
“I’m richer.”
The breath went out of me in a rush. No one–no one–got under my skin likeCharlie fucking Martin.I brought one hand up to his chest, shoving him away. I caught him off-guard; he took a step backward, stumbling in his polished dress shoes before he recovered, grabbing my wrist for balance and holding my hand to his chest. The lapels of his tuxedo were smooth under my palm, and through them, I could feel the gentle warmth of his broad chest. The steady beat of his heart.
“Very funny, Charlie,” I hissed, jerking my hand against his tight grip. “I’ll have you know I have a little more experience than I did when I wasnineteen, too.”
“And a line of men out the door to show for it, right, Sam?” he asked, craning his head. “That’s odd, none of them seem to be here tonight…” He released my hand, and I snatched it away, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Better for them, honestly. They could never hope to compete withme,” he continued, and the cocksure grin was there, but also… an unfamiliar uncertainty in his hazel eyes.
A look that I remembered, from so many years ago.
A look that made me wonder if, even all these years later, it would feel the same.You’re sure, Sami?
A look that almostcompelledme, when his gaze turned heavy and he asked, “Do you want me to prove it to you?” to say–to my own surprise, and to his, if the way his eyes widened was any indication…
“...I do.”
CHAPTER2
Charlie
I do.
“You’re…”serious, I’d almost said, but the word had died on my tongue, sweet and bitter like the shot of bourbon I’d taken with Ryan before the ceremony. Instead, I’d said, “The Sterling Hotel. It’s just around the block.” My voice had sounded gruff. “You’re coming.”
She looked away for a moment to stare at the wine in her glass before putting it down and lifting her eyes back to mine. She had long, dark lashes that had never fluttered in her life. “That’s really considered thebarestminimum,” she said, sounding disinterested, but when I brushed past her toward the door, she’d followed.
What thehellwas I doing?
Going to a hotel withSamantha Scott?
What a joke. I was still half-waiting for the punchline. For her to crack, and smile.
But now, as the old-fashioned elevator of the Sterling lurched into movement, my stomach lurched, too. This wasSamI was talking about.
Sam didn’t joke around.
It was one of the many–many–things I hated about her: no sense of humor, whatsoever. She was always so damnserious. I turned to look at her, only to find her already watching me, her expression unreadable. She stood very straight in a pale blue dress that fell in a silky column, skimming over her body. She looked like a blonde icicle from the top of her head down to her nude stilettos, but it wasn’t the dress’s fault. She looked like that in her navy suits too. She’d look like that in a clown costume, or a kaftan, or nothing at all.
I swallowed.Nothing at all.
I dragged my guilty eyes back up to her face to find it infuriatingly blank.
“There’s still time to turn around,” I said, low and quiet.
My gaze fell to her lips, the pink tongue that darted out between them as they parted.
“That’s right,” she said. “So why don’t you?”
SamanthafuckingScott.
No one–no one–got under my skin like her.
She always had.
We’d grown up together–the Upper East Side was a small place–and at some point, that twist of frustration in my stomach whenever I saw her had grown familiar, almost comforting. Whatever else changed in my life–the growth of my company, my brother getting married–Samantha stayed the same.
Cold as ice.
