The Millionaire Affair(48)

Sure and then I'll win the lottery, and ride a unicorn into the sunset,  she thought grimly. The fantasy of moving her store, having her own  clothing line, and raising a child was …  well, a fantasy.         

     



 

Babies were expensive. Even babies of millionaires. And she refused to  ask Landon for more than his fair share. She was no gold-digger. She  wouldn't ask him to provide her with a lifestyle she hadn't earned.  Didn't deserve.

I never should have pushed him away.

The thought was so out of left field, she choked on her tea. She waved  at a neighboring table when they looked on with concern. "I'm fine," she  croaked.

But she wasn't fine. She was an idiot. She'd ignored her heart, ignored  her feelings. All because …  because she was trying to be someone she  wasn't. Because she'd allowed her past to predict her future. She'd  ignored every instinct she had about Landon. And why? Because she'd  failed in the past? But this situation was unlike anything she'd ever  experienced. She'd never been pregnant, and she'd never known  anyone-never loved anyone-the way she loved Landon.

He'd been a recurring thought, looping her brain every day. Maybe  because half of him grew inside of her. Of course she'd think of him. If  she hadn't been pregnant, she wondered if they would have stayed  together? Yes. They would. There was too much connection, too much  desire, too much joy between them to walk away.

So why did she insist on walking away when they shared something as  epically life-changing as a child? Because she'd screwed up, that's why.

Picking a corner off the muffin, she chewed forlornly, no longer hungry.  When he'd come to her house, she'd shoved him away. Demanded an  agreement. An arrangement, she thought with a wince. And he'd been  there …  why? Why had he come to her apartment?

She sipped her tea and thought back to the night he'd climbed her stairs  and tried to kiss her. After she'd refused him, she'd steered the  conversation and, like the captain on the Titanic, had gone down with  the ship. Landon may have taken charge when it came to drafting their  agreement, but only because she'd asked. He'd looked downright resigned  while doing it, she recalled with a stab of certainty.

What if …  she shouldn't think it …  but she did anyway. What if he came there that night to say he loved me?

She loved him. No doubt about it. All the pragmatic and practical  arguments she'd been making were forced. That had been her, trying to be  someone she wasn't. She wasn't practical or pragmatic. Why hadn't she  trusted her heart? Just one more time?

She'd denied her feelings, denied the man she loved. And why? Because  she was a modern-day woman who had a baby in her belly? A baby that  wouldn't be there if not for Landon. A baby that was as much his as  hers. A baby he'd been so terrified of losing that he'd agreed to a  rigid, black-and-white arrangement at her behest.

What have I done?

And what would that arrangement look like to their child? She'd been  concerned over becoming an embittered housewife, but now what would she  look like? A woman going robotically through the motions each time she  talked to Landon? Denying their emotional connection-her love for him?  Did she really want her child seeing her as some emotionless robot?

And what if she wanted a second child? What if she wanted a brother or  sister for the baby growing in her womb? Could she really date again?  While the man she loved was in the same town, sharing custody, and  making her long for his touch each and every time she saw him? No way.

Kimber shoved her food away and stared into her cooling, flavorless tea.  She'd made a horrible mistake, and all she could hope for was that  Landon would be magnanimous enough to hear her out. Would he consider  giving her another chance to make things right between them? She hoped  so.

Her phone chimed: e-mail. She tapped the screen and read the message, confused for a handful of seconds.


To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Voice mail

Dear Ms. Reynolds:

Please read this before you open the attachment.

You may recognize my name, you may not. I'm Landon's cousin/business  partner who lives in Ohio. Last night, he seems to have gotten  incredibly inebriated and called my secretary Keena by mistake. The  voice mail was meant for you. I debated sending it, and I'm still not  entirely sure you want to hear a slurring speech of undying love from my  eldest cousin, but in the end, I can't not forward it on. It's here, in  the attachment. Sounds like he got cut off at the end, but I'll leave  it up to you to call him and hear the rest.

For what it's worth, Landon is a good guy. He's about as hardheaded as I  am when it comes to women, but his heart's in the right place. I was  lucky enough to find the woman who was willing to wait out my stupidity.  On the chance you might be that woman for Landon, I didn't want to deny  you the same opportunity.         

     



 

We're a thick bunch sometimes.

Sincerely,

Shane August, CEO August Industries



Kimber's thumb hovered over the attachment as she digested Shane's  e-mail. She reread it, stopping to think about what "a slurring speech  of undying love" might sound like.

She was about to find out. There was no way she wouldn't open it now.  She wanted to hear what Landon had to say. Drunk or not. She clicked the  attachment and brought the phone to her ear.

"Kimber. Hi, it's Landon … "



His head pounded harder this morning than it had Sunday morning. And  Sunday's hangover had been a whopper. Probably wasn't a good idea to  drink last night, too, but he figured why not? He'd made a grievous  error-not letting Kimber know how he felt-followed by another grievous  error. The phone call where he had. Maybe if he kept drinking, he'd kill  off enough brain cells that one day he wouldn't be able to remember  doing either.

He'd held out hope she might hear his message and call him, but his  phone stayed silent all day Sunday. No messages. No calls. Just a  silence that spoke louder than anything she could have said to him. She  may not hate him, but she didn't love him. And she hadn't appreciated  his profession being soaked in thirty-year scotch.

Imagine that.

He remembered the gist of what he'd said in that voice mail: I love you,  I miss you. Even though he'd spoken it through a throat burning from  Macallan Limited Release, the sentiment had demanded a reply. But she  hadn't replied.

Which he took to mean she didn't care. That was the only reason not to  call back. If the opposite of love was apathy, it wasn't hard to reason  that Kimber felt nothing but indifference toward him. Maybe he was  better off spending his nights drunk and alone in his enormous and  lonely penthouse. Maybe he should get a dog.

"Mr. Downey?" his secretary's voice came over the speakerphone in his office.

"Yeah, Cindy." He grabbed his head with his hands to stop the throbbing  in his skull. Speaking made his brain ache like he'd shouted instead.

"I have a Ms. Reynolds here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment but-"

"Send her in." He stood from his desk, knocking his chair with the backs  of his legs and rolling it several feet from his desk. He raced across  the room to his private bathroom, shocked by the man staring back at him  from the mirror. He looked like hell. If hell had been subjected to  freezer burn, then microwaved. He dampened his fingers and ran them  through his hair, swishing mouthwash around his teeth at the same time.  By the time he'd stepped into his office and slid his glasses back onto  his nose, Cindy opened the door.

She ushered Kimber inside, and he nearly buckled at the sight of her.  Seeing her was like walking into the bright sunshine after a long day  under fluorescent lighting. She practically burst with light …  the  pregnancy glow.

He wanted to drop to his knees, bury his head into the folds of her  green dress, and beg them both-Kimber and the baby-for a second chance.  Melodramatic? Maybe. But he'd do anything-anything-to get her back. He'd  give up his business and his penthouse. Move into her teeny little  apartment and become a stockroom boy for Hobo Chic if he had to.

Because nothing else mattered. Not his career. Not his top-floor  penthouse. He'd worked hard to craft a perfect façade of a life. Then  Kimber had come into it, and left, proving the life he'd worked so hard  to build as flimsy as a matchbook house. One that had gone up in flames  the second she walked out of it.

Cindy shut the office door and Kimber gestured to the couch. "Mind if I sit? I'm exhausted."

"Please," he said, holding the crumbling walls of his heart together  with both hands. Maintaining as usual. Mr. Control. Sometimes he hated  that about himself.

She patted the cushion next to her and he sat, obediently. Tired of not  saying what was on his mind he blurted, "I want to touch you so badly."

She smiled, her eyes shining. There was something in them that was real  and warm, and not the least bit indifferent. A spark of hope lit within  him. Tentatively, he reached for her face.