Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3 (10 page)

I
flop
on the sofa as soon as I get home. I’m too exhausted and emotionally wrung out to read or watch TV, so I just stare at the ceiling and feel sorry for myself. I cry until I’m out of tears. When I’m finally so thirsty I can’t stand it, I walk to the fridge and grab out a bottle of white wine. I was saving it for a special occasion, but it’s an emergency and I can’t be choosy. I debate drinking it straight from the bottle in my despair, but my manners win out and I grab a large glass from the cupboard. And a pint of ice cream from the freezer.

My phone vibrates and I hustle back to the couch. I’m sure it’s Jordan, checking in on me. It’s not.

I’m missing you, babe. Want to grab dinner tonight?

Possible responses run through my mind:

Not if you were the last man on earth.

Why don’t you go fuck yourself.

If you can steal some time away from Elizabeth.

I hate you.

Instead, I decide to take the high road and just ghost him. I toss my iPhone down in disgust and grab my laptop. I need a distraction. Because I don’t hate him. I’m still fucking crazy about him.

I start scrolling through my usual websites. Reviewing the local news and the national news. Checking in with my favorite bloggers. And then, for a little guilty pleasure, my favorite celebrity gossip site.

My hand flies to my chest and I gasp as the page loads. Because the front page is me. I’m with Nash, of course, tucked in the corner table of the candlelit restaurant from the night before. I guess he wasn’t as good as avoiding the press as he thought.

Billionaire Playboy with Mystery Woman

They must have been working with one hell of a telephoto lens, because I can see every detail of the scene. And the more I examine the photo, the more confused I get.

I click on the link to see the rest of the photos.

They have every angle, every detail. And I just don’t get it, because, just like that text of the article points out, he does look totally enamored with me. He laughs at my jokes, gazes into my eyes, and doesn’t take his eyes off me once. We look totally love struck; I don’t think it would be a first page story if we didn’t.

How could he have me so fooled? Maybe I should just call him. Give him a chance to explain.

No.

I won’t give him a chance to hurt me again. Or to try to explain things away with some bullshit story. I’m suddenly exhausted from my emotionally draining morning. I snap my laptop closed, slide it onto the floor, and curl up with a pillow on the couch. Maybe things will be clearer after a little shut eye.

The rattle of my phone vibrating on the table jolts me awake. I’m a little out of it, but then I regain my bearings pretty quickly. And I feel like someone sucker punched me in the stomach when the events of the morning come rushing back.

I snatch my phone from the table top.

It’s him again.

Are you having a crazy day at the shop, babe? Call me - I want to see you.

Forget that. I leave his text unanswered and walk to the kitchen. It’s a disaster and I unload the dishwasher and wipe down the countertops. My face still feels raw from my crying marathon this morning, so I decide to hop in the shower. Maybe I’ll feel better once I wash away the disappointment of today.

I strip off my clothes and toss them on the bathroom floor. I crank the shower until it’s so hot I can barely stand it, and then I step under the scorching water. It pounds at my shoulders and back and feels wonderful. I lather up my hair and then rinse it clean. I massage my body with lavender soap and I start to feel human again.

I could stand under the molten spray forever, but my reverie is interrupted by loud banging on my front door. I know it’s not Nash; he doesn’t know where I live. It has to be Jordan, stopping by to check on me. But then there’s the small part of me that hopes it is Nash. Hopes that he came here to fight for me. And then I get mad. Mad at myself for having hope. Mad at him for putting me through this. For pretending to love me. For making me think I could have the fairytale ending I’ve always wanted.

I wrap my robe around me and belt the waist. My long hair hangs in a wet sheet as I stomp to the door. It better not be Nash. For his sake. Because I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind.

“Evie, it’s me. Please let me in, babe.” I look through the peephole. He looks as miserable as I feel. Practically panicked. I should feel pity, but it just makes me more angry. I yank open the door.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“
Y
ou’ve got
some nerve showing up here. I want you to leave.” My eyes are spitting imaginary daggers. “And don’t you dare come back.”

I wind up to slam the door in his face, but he grabs my arm and stops me. “Please, Evie.”

“How the hell did you find out where I live? It’s really fucking creepy.” I push on the door but he slides his foot between the door and the frame to keep it from closing. It just makes me more mad. “I pay good money for my privacy, and I don’t appreciate you showing up here out of nowhere like it’s your right.”

“You have to help me out, Evie-” He snakes his hand inside the door and tries to wedge it open.

“I don’t have to help you with anything.” I release my hold on the door and he slides inside. He leans against the wall and catches his breath. I close the door and turn to face him. Might as well have it out now, a clean break is always the easiest kind.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says as he throws his hands up in the air. His hair is messy and his eyes look a little wild. “I stopped by the store; I figured you were slammed and that’s why you weren’t returning my texts. Jordan ran me out the second I stepped foot inside. Did you know she keeps a gun under the counter? I don’t understand-”

“You don’t understand? Don’t worry. I do.” I rest my hands on my hips. “I understand that I’m the laughingstock of the city. That this whole time you’ve been pretending you were falling for me, you were still playing the field behind my back.”

He furrows his brow and squints at me. “Where did you get that idea?”

I raise my voice. “So you don’t deny it?”

“Of course I deny it.” He walks toward me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “Because it’s not true. There’s nobody else. I’m in love with you.” He leans in and I duck away.

“I may have believed that before. But I don’t now. You’ve just been stringing me along for a good time until you found what you were really looking for.”

“You are what I’m really looking for. What the fuck is going on? Who’s filling your head with this shit?” He throws up his hands in frustration.

“That’s the best part. I got it directly from the source.” I grab the order for the flowers and throw it at him. He catches it mid-air and examines it closely.

“Where did you get this from?”

“All the floral orders for your family have started coming through my shop.” I practically spit it out.

He starts to laugh and I’m incensed. I’m so hurt and angry that tears start spilling down my cheeks again.

“I’m glad you can see the humor in it. Because I’m heartbroken.” My voice breaks.

He pulls me close and I let him. I’m limp in his arms; he wraps his giant arms around me and kisses away my tears.

“Evie, I wrote that order but I didn’t send it to your shop. That was my mother’s handiwork, I expect. She never stops meddling.”

“So I was never supposed to see this at all.” I’m still mad, but knowing his mother had her filthy hands all over things makes me believe maybe it is just a misunderstanding.

“Elizabeth is a family friend,” he says. “She’s 72 years old.”

I open my mouth to argue and he presses his index finger against my lips.

“She’s also a psychiatrist.”

I pull back and look at his face. All I can manage is a surprised “Oh.”

He nods. “I’ve known her for a long time and I thought I could maybe talk to her about… things.”

“So you were-”

“I’m trying to get better for you. So I can be the kind of man you deserve.”

I cry harder now, but they’re a different type of tears. Happy ones. I nestle my face against his chest and hug him back this time.

“But the note said you were a beast,” I realize.

“Our first session didn’t go exactly as I had planned. I’m still not ready to open up to anyone and when she pushed me I may or may not have pushed a stack of files off her desk. And then kicked the door on my way out.”

“Oh no, babe.” I run my hand through his hair.

“It’s ok. I’m positive that therapy isn’t the answer for me at this point. So we’re working on a few other options.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She had a great idea. There’s a vet who teaches meditation as a way to deal with trauma. She recommended him and I got him to agree to teach a class down at the center. I’m going to take it with the other guys.”

“That’s fantastic,” I say.

He takes my hands in his own. “So, do you think you can forgive me? I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, I just wanted to keep it to myself for a while until I knew where things were headed.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I was the one jumping to conclusions and being a total idiot. I feel like such a fool.”

“You’re anything but, my darling.”

He tilts his head down and captures my lips with his own. His skin is soft and smooth against mine and he tastes like coffee. He parts my lips with his tongue and strokes the inside of my mouth as his arms envelope me and pull me close. I’m ready to get lost in the moment, but my eyes fly open and I push back.

“Wait a second.” I’m nearly whispering. “Did you say you love me before?”

He smiles, pulls me close, and lifts me off my feet. “I did. And I do. And I hope you don’t mind hearing it every day for the next fifty years or so.”

I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

T
wo Months
Later

T
he dress is even more
amazing than I could have imagined. The theme of this year’s ball is history, and we decided a vintage approach would be best, given my killer curves. Other women are milling around in the arrival area, waiting to take to the red carpet, but I don’t focus on them. I focus on me. Because I look damn good and I know it.

My dress looks deceptively simple, but the tailoring is a dream. It fits like a glove and showcases my tiny waist, curvy hips, and ample bust. It looks like something Bette Davis or Rita Hayworth would have worn to the Oscars. The black fabric sets off my pale skin like a sheet of fresh snow and the black lace cap sleeves add a hint of texture. My hair falls to my shoulders in perfect waves. Rich red lipstick completes my vintage movie star look.

“Are you ready for this?” Nash gives my hand a squeeze and then lifts it to his mouth for a kiss.”

“I don’t think anyone can ever be ready for this. But it’s what I want.”

“Maybe they won’t notice,” he says with a shrug.

I laugh and look down at my left hand. A diamond nearly the size of a golf ball glitters under the lights. “I’ve seen paperweights smaller than this diamond. I’m pretty sure they’re going to notice.”

“So what if they notice. At least it will save us the trouble of announcing our engagement.” He slides his hand to the small of my back as we prepare to step out.

“People are going to talk shit.”

He shrugs. “Jealous people always do. We’ll ignore them together.”

“You parents will be furious.”

“We’ll ignore them together, too.”

“It’s almost like you have a plan for everything,” I say.

“We live happily ever after.” He leans over and kisses my brow. “That’s my only plan.”

“Well, we better get on with it.” I hold onto his hand for dear life as we step onto the arrival carpet together. It’s terrifying at first. All I hear are the clicks of the cameras and all I can see are the flashes going off. Nash holds me close and waves to the crowd. I lift my hand and wave, too. We walk the line and I’m just surviving, losing the battle against my nerves, when I hear someone ask “Who’s the bombshell with Nash Manning?”

I relax. I’m the bombshell with Nash. The one who’s going to marry him, wake up to him every morning, kiss him goodnight every evening, get freaky with him at least several times a week, bear his children, and grow old with him.

And it’s going to be fucking perfect.