Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(110)

“I told you,” she mouthed, and whatever shred of function that remained in him snapped.

“You can afford it!” Laura screamed.

And with that, Mike threw the Jeep keys at Dylan and began to run home. It was a good ten miles.

A good start to pound out the pain.



The sight of Mike’s back as he began to run away was unbelievable. Dylan stared, mouth open, the keys loose in his palm. The guy was running home? It was at least ten miles, which was nothing for Mike, but he was dressed in jeans, a polo shirt, and Merell shoes—not exactly runner’s clothing in August in Boston. He’d turn into a puddle of goo by the time he crossed the Charles River.

Maybe that was the point.

Right now, though, he really didn’t have a spare ounce of caring in him for anyone but Laura. How could he have been so callous? Man, he had totally misjudged how she perceived him and his every move. The “It’s always complicated” joke not only fell flat, it seemed to have been the nail in the coffin of any chance they may have had to rewind their botched attempt at waiting for the right moment to tell her about their money. Ego be damned; he could admit when he was wrong. He was man enough. And boy, oh boy, was he wrong.

Mike didn’t even want to be in the same car with him, Laura had just told him, in so many words, to go fuck himself, and now Josie stood in the window shaking her head, mouthing words in an exaggerated way, as if he should be able to lip read.

“She’s done” was all he could read, and then Josie pulled back the curtain, replaced by the old calico.

Done.

He didn’t want to give up, didn’t want to get in the Jeep and head back to the apartment because there? There he’d have to face Mike. Eventually. Once Mike got home from his run, which—knowing Mike’s speed—would be in less than an hour, they’d have it out. Not part of their relationship. They didn’t do fighting. No one had ever put them in this position.

Wait. They had put them in this position. He had to be fair to Laura. Hope died a quiet, soulful death as no one moved, he heard no hushed whispers, and the cat began licking its privates.

Time to go home.

Standing on her front stoop, withering in the heat, the object of ridicule from the two hipster pet owners who now held little grocery bags of poop off their thumbs, Dylan made his way slowly down the steps to get in the jeep and just go home.

Home? Where, exactly, was home anymore? Laura was home, where he felt comfortable and important and where the three of them, together, could do or be anything.

Including a billionaire.

Driving Mike’s Jeep made him appreciate his Audi, the Jeep too high, the steering imprecise. He managed it, driving without thinking while on autopilot, not even bothering to turn on music. The route he chose took him past Jeddy’s, ironically, where he and Mike had inadvertently been successful in getting Laura to look past their clumsy error and to give them another chance.

If only he could have another accidental meeting with her. Maybe if she weren’t on her guard he could talk to her openly, apologize profusely, and at least tell her how much he loved her.

Good thing he was at a red light and at a full stop, because the words loved her made his brain smack against his skull. Love? Where did that word come from? He didn’t throw it around lightly. Being a charity auction bachelor and a bit of a cad meant he had his share of women, and he liked it that way—having his share. His slice. His percentage. Love? Love was something he’d saved for Mike and Jill.

And now, apparently, for Laura.

The woman he’d just driven away.

The rest of the drive was a blur until he parked the Jeep in Mike’s spot, then made his reluctant way to the apartment. When he walked in, he found the last thing he ever expected to see.

Mike. Beet red, veins bulging, shirt completely soaked and arms flexing, neck expanded as if he’d just been doing deep squats with twice his weight on the bar. Huffing from exertion, Mike wouldn’t look him in the eye. Pacing, he walked back and forth down the entrance hallway, a hulking mass of nervous energy.

“How did you beat me home?” he asked, puzzled. At best, he was twenty minutes ahead of Mike’s top marathon speed.

“Cab.”

“Why’d you take a cab? I thought you were running it out.”

Silence. This Dylan could handle; he knew what to expect when Mike withdrew. But walking into the living room gave him a scene he was wholly unprepared to encounter.

Glass. Shattered glass everywhere. On second thought, it wasn’t nervous energy Mike emanated.

That was rage.

The smoked-glass coffee table was a heap of shards and broken footings. A fifty-pound dumbbell lay cock-eyed in the middle, books piled on it from the collapse.