Breaking His Code (The Billionaire Hart Brothers #4)
Chapter 1
COLE
The snap-click of overhead compartments and the soft hum of conversation fill the aircraft’s cabin as some passengers laugh and joke with the flight attendants, who warmly welcome them aboard.
As one of the first passengers on board, I’m checking my email, something I haven’t done in the past two days while attending a law conference in Los Angeles.
When I see an email from Harrison Langley, I open it immediately, expecting it to be important and urgent, as it always is.
I read the email once, then twice, almost laughing out loud.
In his late eighties, he’s one of my most prestigious clients, but when they say money can’t buy love, Harrison is living proof of that.
About to marry his seventh wife, he needs me, his estate lawyer, to amend his will yet again.
Without even a hint of a relationship, let alone a wife, my eighty-seven-year-old client is probably getting more action than I am.
Fuck, that’s depressing.
Instant annoyance racks my body, making me run my fingers through my hair.
After months of trying several dating apps, I’m still no closer to finding the one, and I haven’t had sex since I split with my ex almost three years ago.
I swear I’ve forgotten how to fuck. My brothers might think I’m getting lots of action on every date I go on, but the truth is, I’m not.
I can’t bring myself to have sex with anyone because I’m looking for something more.
I want someone I can connect with on a deeper level and someone I can trust. Something I am struggling terribly with.
I tap my fingers on my laptop keyboard and quickly reply to Harrison, saying my secretary will contact him to set up a meeting for my return to the office next week.
Then I shut down my email, turn off my laptop, and pack it back into my carry-on, pushing all thoughts of my love life, or lack thereof, aside.
But that doesn’t last for long when I receive a text from Libby.
Libby
I have something to tell you…
Me
Good or bad?
Libby
It’s great!
Me
Work or personal?
Libby
Personal.
Me
Tell me…
Libby
I met someone.
I knew she had. I could feel in my gut that she was seriously dating, but I didn’t want to believe it. I even mentioned it to my brother, Eli, the day after our brother Nathan’s wedding.
For months, Libby and I have been scheduling separate dates on the same night and at the same time.
Afterwards, we meet to share notes, catch up, and decide whether we want a second date or if it’s an immediate no.
Usually, it’s an immediate no, and then we start swiping left and right on the dating apps again, something my brother Max thinks I’m addicted to.
I’m not addicted to them. Well, maybe I am.
I’ve never admitted it to anyone, especially not my brothers, but it’s not the apps I’m addicted to; it’s Libby.
She’s fun, and her innocent, glasses-wearing, law librarian act isn’t fooling me or anyone.
I know she’s on a mission to find the one.
She even has a membership to an exclusive sex club, The Velvet Rooms, thinking she’ll find her twin flame there. Now it seems she has.
In the past, I thought something was happening between us.
A spark? Flirting? Or maybe I was imagining it because we get along so well, but all we’ve ever been are friends, which suits me fine because having a relationship with someone at work would be tricky if it all went south.
While I am happy for her, I’m also jealous, because I’ve been playing the dating game for longer than Libby and yet she’s found someone before me.
Me
This is great news. What’s his name?
Libby
HER name is Storm.
Me
The hostess from The Velvet Rooms?
Libby
Yes. We went on a date not long after I took you to the date-in-the-dark event, and then another, and well, the rest is history. I’m really happy.
Well, shit. This is a turn of events, and now everything makes sense. I’m not only the wrong gender, but all her failed dates have been too.
Me
I’m really happy for you.
Libby
It’s taken me a while to realize what I wanted.
Me
I’m so proud of you.
Libby
Thanks, Cole *praying hands emoji*
Me
But the thought of dating alone seems really depressing now.
Libby
You’ll find someone, I’m sure of it. But if you want to find “the one” you have to open your heart to the possibility.
You’re completely closed off, rigid in your ideas of what your ideal woman looks like.
You need to be more open-minded. When did you last date a red-head or someone who didn’t look like your ex?
That’s what I like about Libby the most: her honesty.
Libby
Maybe you should stay off the dating apps for now.
Take a break and really think about what you want in your life and who you want to live it with.
You might decide you don’t want anyone and that you need more time to heal that messed-up head and heart of yours.
Also, let fate do its thing. Sometimes it’s magic.
She’s right. Maybe Max is right, I am addicted to dating apps, so addicted, that in fact, I’ve even forgotten how to chat a woman up in a bar.
I even have three apps on my phone, and they are the only ones I’ve used while I’ve been in LA.
I’ve swiped left and right so many times now, I don’t know who I’m talking to, and none of them excite me.
Libby can read me like a book. Being cheated on has really messed with my head.
Fuck my ex for making me this way. I can’t love. I can’t fuck. I can’t even date without thinking that they will cheat on me eventually, so what’s the point?
Me
I hate it when you’re right.
Libby
I’m always right, you should know this by now. How was the trip?
Me
Boring. Long. Essential.
Libby
You can tell me all about it over lunch on Monday. Have a great weekend.
Me
And you.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself under my breath and switch my cell phone off. Well, that was unexpected. A complete curveball.
Libby’s right, though. I need to move on and heal. How I do that, I’ve no idea.
With time, I guess it’ll get better.
It’s been three years; how much longer do I need?
Having lost my dating buddy, with a heavy heart, I settle into my leather seat.
I lift my drink the air hostess delivered earlier, and down the entire glass of chilled champagne to calm my self-pitying thoughts, then scroll through the movies on the in-flight entertainment screen in front of me, relieved that for the next ninety minutes I can unplug from work-related thoughts.
My finger hovers over the screen as I’m about to select a new action movie I’ve wanted to watch for ages, but haven’t had time for, when suddenly a whirlwind of activity, in the form of a woman, rushes down the narrow, carpeted aisle at lightning speed.
She looks flustered and panicked, searching for her seat number with her eyes darting wildly, like a deer caught in the headlights, drawing a lot of attention to herself as she mutters to herself, “2D.”
She confirms her seat number again, loud enough for me to hear as she scuttles closer while looking at the numbers overhead, and comes to a standstill at the empty first-class seat next to me. In a flash, she plonks herself down and lets out a big sigh, resting her head back against the headrest.
Intrigued, I steal a glance and find she has already closed her eyes, yet her workbag, coat, and phone are still firmly in her clutches.
She exhales loudly, then takes a deep breath and exhales again, her cheeks expanding and contracting with air. “I can do this. I hate flying but I am safe, I can do this,” she whispers to herself repeatedly, like a mantra. “Chill out, I’ve got this. Just breathe.”
Excellent, precisely what I didn’t need—an anxious passenger scared shitless of flying, seated immediately beside me.
More of her deep breaths follow before my anxious neighbor mumbles, “Take off is smooth, it’s normal for the aircraft to rattle and move. The engines are working just fine. I’m in safe hands. I’ll be back in San Francisco in no time.”
I try to look away from her, but I’m fascinated as she keeps affirming positive thoughts about the safety of flying to herself without any attempt to let go of her belongings. Her knuckles are ghostly white from holding them so tightly.
At this point, I’m really wishing I had protested at check-in when the airline told me they had made a mistake with my booking and that I no longer had a private window seat. Unfortunately for me, I’m now seated in the middle row, next to someone who seems terrified of flying.
Although I’m not usually a nervous flier, her constant insistence that the seats are roomy, the seat belts aren’t tight, and the crying baby in the seats at the rear isn’t bothering her might make me start to believe her.
Honestly, flying isn’t very relaxing, and I always end up with swollen feet in my hot shoes.
Plus, at six-foot-five, I never have enough legroom.
Thinking about it, I should have driven from San Francisco to Los Angeles instead. That way, I would have been in my own environment and had access to a car last night, especially since the dinner I was invited to after the conference was an hour’s cab ride away.
I make a mental note to do that the next time, and the Highway 101 through Monterey, Morro Bay, and Malibu is one of the most incredible drives ever.
The perfect day springs to mind, playing out like a movie—bright sunshine, wind in my hair, driving with the roof down, music playing on repeat, and hours of no one bothering me.
It’s a far better way to travel than being crammed inside a small space with hundreds of strangers, coughing and spluttering, and being sat next to an anxiety-ridden elbow buddy who should have considered driving as an option instead of flying.
As if she senses me watching her, she suddenly opens her eyes, jerks her head to the side, and stares at me with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, which seem to bore into my soul.