Chapter 6
6
JULIAN
T here have only been a handful of moments where I knew, without a fraction of a doubt, that my life was about to change completely.
When my ex-wife told me she was pregnant, and when my daughter was born.
When I had an eight-figure offer for my first company, and decided I was going to turn it down.
When Honor Vogel told me—in not so many words—that she wanted me to love her.
It’s one thing to develop feelings for someone you shouldn’t, but it’s entirely another to decide you’re going to act on them. Not just a kiss, or being her friend, or even confessing your feelings. No. I mean to throw yourself, headfirst, into making this woman love you, no matter the cost. Even if it makes you less than the man she believes you are.
Good men do not pursue their daughter’s ex-girlfriend, but in that moment, I knew it was exactly what I was going to do.
In every choice I’ve made for twenty-four years, I put Riley first. Now, I can’t bring myself to care what she thinks. If she disvalued a person like Honor to such a degree that she would be unfaithful, my daughter doesn’t get to claim any part of her. God knows that won’t be how she sees it, but I refuse to feel bad.
Honor is a once in a lifetime event. Nothing and no one has made me feel as good as she does. Never have I been so attracted to a woman or had fantasies like the ones she inspires in me. I trust my intuition, and right now, it’s bellowing that if I don’t fight for this woman, I will regret it the rest of my life.
If she didn’t feel the same way, I would find a way to live with these feelings. She does , though. Honor has spent the past six weeks as miserable as I have. By some miracle, she wants me, and I’m done punishing both of us on my daughter’s behalf. As a parent, it’s difficult to admit it, but her behavior and attitude make Riley undeserving of it.
Which is why I got on a plane.
It’s the logical course of action if you have access to a private jet and need to make a swift trip across the country to seduce a woman eighteen years your junior.
Seduce . Christ. Is that what I’m trying to do?
“Mr. Ballard?” I’m ripped from the very enjoyable mental image of what such a course of action may lead to, by the voice of the flight attendant standing hesitantly beside my seat. “The pilot asked me to inform you we’ll be landing shortly, Mr. Ballard. Would you mind fastening your seatbelt?”
I clear my throat, adjusting the blanket across my lap, conscious of the effect thoughts of Honor have had on me. “Of course.”
“Can I get you anything else?” There’s no mistaking the hopeful, eager tone, nor missing the fact she has undone two buttons on her uniform top since I boarded.
Christ.
Averting my eyes, I busy myself with shoving my laptop into the bag beside me. “No. Thank you.”
She heads off in the direction of the cockpit without another word, and I sink back into my seat. Staring out the window, I watch as the landscape below the plane grows larger and more distinguishable. The sun is rising above the Eastern Seaboard, and while I meant to sleep during the flight, I could never quite manage it.
For hours, my mind has been turning through every possible scenario that might arise from me coming here, developing alternative plans, and firing off emails like a madman. Now that pursuing Honor is what I’ve decided to do, it’s like a switch has flipped inside me, and I’m not leaving anything to chance.
The plane dips lower and, feeling restless, I take out my phone, checking my staff has executed the steps I put in motion for the tenth time, and it’s with no small amount of satisfaction I find everyone has done their job. If anyone found it strange I would cancel everything on my schedule for the next week, charter a plane to fly through the night to New England, and set them a series of strange, seemingly unrelated tasks, they were wise enough not to say so.
I try to be an approachable leader, but the people who work closely with me have done so long enough to sense when I don’t want a discussion, and this is one of those times.
The jolt of the landing gear engaging sends my heart into my throat, and my hands tighten on the armrests. The plane touching ground seems to have driven home the reality of what I’ve decided to do. I should feel fear or panic, but instead, a calm has settled over me.
This is happening, and for once in my life, I don’t feel the need to analyze it.
I keep my head down as the plane door opens and I’m hit by the first blast of icy New England wind. It’s been a long time since I spent any significant amount of time outside of Southern California, and as I hurry down the steps toward the car waiting on the tarmac, I’m reminded why.
“Good morning, Mr. Ballard. Welcome to Connecticut,” the driver greets me smoothly, standing back to allow me to duck into the warm back seat of the car.
It says a lot about my level of obsession that even the freezing February wind doesn’t deter my resolve. On the contrary, the knowledge that Honor is within a few minutes of me has my earlier exhaustion fading away, and I sit up straighter as the driver gets in, pulling off his gloves. My assistant has already handled the travel arrangements, and I stare out the window as we leave the airport, making the short drive into the small city where Honor grew up.
It’s a beautiful place, even with snow piled up along the sides of the road and wintery, gray light filtering down through a blanket of clouds. Beautiful old Colonials line the road, separated from traffic by low rock walls, their roofs and driveways dusted by recent snowfall.
Could I live here? If things work out the way I want them to?
Yes. Yes, I could.
It surprises me how easily the answer comes. As we drive further into the city, it’s clear that there are no luxury boutiques, paparazzi, or plastic surgery clinics. Connecticut is a world away from the place I’ve called home for my entire life, and yet the thought of starting over here doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.
We stop at a light, and I watch as a man outside the nearest house heaves the last shovel full of snow from his front walk. His wife steps outside onto the porch, wrapping a cardigan around herself as she says something I can’t hear, but makes her husband laugh. As the car begins to move again, the glimpse of a cozy normalcy fades into the distance, leaving a lump in my throat.
Yes. I want that very much. In order to get it, though, I have work to do.
Our first stop is an outdated office building, situated on the outskirts of an industrial complex. Only a few cars are parked outside this early, and a lone groundskeeper is spreading salt over the sidewalk. He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction as I push open the door and step out, content in not drawing attention to myself.
Fame, or at least newsworthiness, was something I once thought I wanted. Press meant catching the attention of investors or customers, and for most of my career, I took every interview, went to every event, and smiled for the cameras. It wasn’t until recently that I started to resent the whole business and question the morality of my financial position.
Unfortunately, the train had already left the station. I’m a public figure, a famously wealthy one, and the last thing I want is press drawing unwanted attention onto Honor. This thing between us is already tricky, and a sure way to have her running for the hills is to have her face splashed all over gossip websites.
The thought alone has me uneasy as I enter the building’s beige, dated lobby and scan the directory posted beside the door. The Healthy Heart Foundation is located on the second floor, and I take the steps at a jog, my pulse picking up as I find my way into the office where Honor spends her days.
This early, none of the employees have arrived for the day, and I pause, scanning the collection of desks. My gaze catches one on the far wall. There’s nothing to suggest it’s hers, no pictures, only a plant and a few knickknacks cluttering the desk. A blue knitted sweater is draped over the back of the rolling chair, and, unthinking, I draw forward. Just as I reach out to touch it, however, a female voice sounds from behind me.
“Mr. Ballard! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
Reproachfully, I turn, my hand falling back to my side as I offer the woman standing there a well-practiced professional smile. “Miss Phillips, I presume?”
“That’s me!” she says with a nervous laugh, wiping her hands on her pencil skirt. “If you want to come through to the conference room, we can talk.”
I cast one last look at Honor’s desk before following Miss Phillips into a room just as drab as the rest of the office.
“I’m so sorry,” she titters, pulling out a chair for herself. “I was going to pick up refreshments, but everything was closed this early, and I didn’t have quite enough warning to?—”
“Please, don’t worry.” I take the chair across from her. “This was very last minute. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
She bobs her head, visibly nervous. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“I would like to pledge fifteen million dollars to The Healthy Heart Foundation.” Dead silence greets my words as Honor’s boss stares at me, her eyes bulging out of her head. Sensing it will take her a moment to process this and wishing to speed it all along, I continue, “It hasn’t been made public yet, which is why you were asked to sign the NDA prior to our meeting, but I am starting a nonprofit. The goal is to work with smaller organizations, such as yours, through financial assistance, marketing resources, and training. If you and your board of directors are amenable, I would like this to be the first nonprofit to benefit from The Ballard Fund.”
Miss Phillips’ throat bobs, and she gazes at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Wow. Um. Yes? Absolutely. It would be fairly insane to turn down that kind of offer.”
I chuckle. She isn’t wrong. “Excellent. Once you have board approval, we can move forward. I just have one small request.” I lace my fingers together atop the table, careful to disguise my sudden rush of nerves as I continue. “The Ballard Fund would like to throw a gala to publicly make the announcement. We will cover all the costs and invite top donors to raise additional funds. However, as our first partner, I think it would be appropriate if your organization was involved in the planning.”
“Of course,” Miss Phillips assures me in a rush, leaning forward eagerly. “I will personally see to it?—”
“No,” I interrupt firmly, “I couldn’t possibly take up so much of your time. As director, I’m sure you’ll have quite a lot of work cut out for you.” My heart is pounding against my ribcage as I lean forward, smiling slightly. “Do you have an event coordinator perchance?”