Page 26 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
Now I used art to help me get in touch with what I was thinking and feeling, to process it all in a way talking about it couldn’t seem to do. I’d discovered that when I transferred the more troubling thoughts and feelings from my brain to a canvas, they couldn’t spin round and round inside and torment me.
Not that I’d talk to Wilder about that stuff. My art was private, not exactly compatible with my image as a hardass ex-SEAL.
“I’m not numb or anything,” I assured him. “I care about the job, the guys from the team. I care about Victoria. It’s just relationships, I guess. I want one—in theory. What you have with Jessica seems great. I’m just not interested in getting to know any of the women I meet, and I’m not interested in letting them get to know me. It all seems like too much trouble.”
The last time I remembered having anyrealinterest in a woman was that crazy week I’d spent in Greece comforting a jilted bride on her un-honeymoon.
In fact, it had been one of the best times of my life—I’d been stupid-crazy about the girl—but moments like that one weren’t meant to last. They were like flares, burning bright and hot, lighting up the night sky for only an instant before they flamed out.
Wilder grinned. “Things with Jessica and me weren’t exactly smooth sailing at the start, if you remember. She was trouble with a capital T.”
“I remember.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Wilder said. “Sounds like you’ve got your head on straight. When the time is right and, more importantly, when thepersonis right—boom, it’ll happen. You’ll find the one who’sworththe trouble.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“She’s out there,” Wilder assured me. “And I can’t wait till you meet her, and I get to say, ‘I told you so.’”
CHAPTEREIGHT
YOU
Scarlett
The cab pulled to a stop in front of 254 Oceanview Drive, and all the air left my lungs. I blinked rapidly, fumbling for my phone.
“Hold on a second, please,’ I said to the driver. “I need to double check the address in my email.”
No, this was it—the street address I’d been given for my grandmother’s house.
But this was no mere house. It looked more like a national monument, with soaring marble exteriors and giant columns and so many windows across the front the cleaning staff must have gone through gallons of Windex every week.
Tall, ornate iron gates separated the expansive property from the sidewalk.
My, my, Grandma, what a big house you have.
I got out of the car and walked through the open gates down a long pea gravel driveway lined with oaks and red maples, taking in neatly manicured gardens complete with water features and hedge animal topiaries.
The grounds were enclosed by wrought iron fencing with flowering rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and dogwoods just inside it, serving as a natural screen from the street traffic.
At one point where the driveway curved outward, I caught a glimpse of blue ocean in the “backyard.”
Thiscouldn’tbe the right place. Maybe it was a ritzy retirement home, divided into apartments to house numerous elderly residents?
But I hadn’t seen any signs to that effect.
When I reached the massive front step, I pushed the doorbell and waited, staring up at the enormous iron and glasswork front doors and listening to the peels of rich melody ringing through the mansion.
I half expected the door to be opened by a man in a tuxedo, the kind of butler you saw in period dramas, or maybe a security guard who’d tell me to get lost, that I had the wrong address after all and didn’t belong here.
That last part was certainly true. I’d never even seen a house like this one, much less been inside.
When the door opened there was no butler but a smiling middle-aged woman standing inside. She wore a navy cardigan over a navy pinstriped top and khaki pants with black flats.
“Hello, you must be Scarlett,” she said.
“Yes, I must be—I mean, I am. That’s me.”
