CHAPTER SIXTEEN #3
I pause on a portrait still up for sale. This one is… surprisingly ordinary. An elderly man with sharp eyes, a strong jaw, and silver hair. There’s a familiar quality to his face, but I can’t quite place where I’ve seen him.
“Time to make the magic happen,” Gavin says, standing and pressing a kiss to Fiona’s temple. “Looking forward to our beach evening, babe.”
“It’s going to be so fabulous, Gav-Gav,” Fiona purrs.
Bryce squeezes my leg once more before rising, a promise that sends my pulse into overdrive.
He politely nods. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse us.”
The second they’re gone, my fingers fly across my screen.
Me: Change of plans. I’ve got a surprise for you tonight.
Moneybags: Should I alert my lawyer or my doctor?
Me: Depends—how do you feel about putting something long and hot in your mouth?
Moneybags: Jesus, Pip. Are you trying to kill me?
Me: Not kill. Just full-body surrender.
Moneybags: I’ll bring my silk ties.
Me: Meet me at the garage after your last meeting. And B? Come hungry.
***
“Would you hurry the hell up back there?“ I call out, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “We’re burning daylight, and I didn’t go through all this trouble just to watch the sunset from a parking garage. ”
Lord Britchybottom made me sign my life away to borrow this vehicle. One scratch and I’m his indentured servant for life.
The SUV rocks slightly as Bryce changes in the back seat. I sneak peeks at his bare ass in the rearview mirror, and yep, it’s doing things to me.
“ You insisted I change back here,“ he mutters, followed by the sounds of rustling fabric, whispered cursing, and one very stubborn zipper.
“Want me to hop back there and lend a hand? I’m excellent at taking your clothes off, so the reverse can’t be too hard.”
The door opens and Bryce steps out. My ovaries slow clap.
“Well, shit,” I breathe, climbing out to get the full visual.
He’s wearing distressed Ralph Lauren jeans and a crisp white tee that hugs his chest in the yummiest way. He completes the look with a light gray bomber jacket, giving off that effortless cool-guy aura. His tousled blond hair says I’m a gentleman—until the door locks.
“You are absolutely fucking edible. I should be arrested for the thoughts I’m having.”
“Noted. Pip has a thing for denim.”
“Zip it and give me a spin, Ken doll. I want the full 360 on the billionaire booty.”
“Where exactly did you acquire this wardrobe?” he asks, running a hand over the smooth cotton shirt. “And how did you know my measurements?”
“I have my ways.”
He raises a brow.
“Fine. I blackmailed Sebastian. He had a local stylist rush the whole thing.”
“You blackmailed a celebrity stylist? ”
“Threatened, really. There’s a difference.
” I pull out the note that came with the clothes, clearing my throat dramatically.
“Sebastian’s exact words: ‘Miss Brinkman, I find your threat to hide sardine sandwiches in vintage Chanel both disturbing and effective. Consider this my final act of charity in your hopeless pursuit of… whatever. I don’t care. ’”
“Sardine sandwiches?”
“Specifically in the clothes you’ll be returning to him. Figured the smell would make a nasty impression on his next client.”
Bryce laughs— actually laughs —and it makes my whole body tingle. “You’re diabolical.”
“Speaking of which, time for the main event.”
I hold up a silk blindfold.
“Not happening in public.”
“Where we’re going, nobody gives a shit about your net worth or your family name. That’s exactly why I got you the disguise—so you can blend in with us normies.”
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my standard outfit of dark jeans, vintage band tee, leather jacket, and combat boots. “Before we go anywhere, I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
He moves closer, backing me against the car. “You in that leather jacket and those boots? It’s been destroying my concentration since you tackled me at my mother’s house.”
His mouth is on mine before I know what’s happening. He kisses me like it’s been killing him not to. It’s… longing. Possession. Appreciation. Promise.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy. “Damn, B. We should get matching tattoos to remember that mind-blowing kiss. ”
“Is that the surprise?”
“Nope. No surprise unless I’m running the show.” I wiggle the blindfold at him. “You can be a good boy, or I can use one of those tasers you got me. Your choice.”
His gaze smolders. “Why don’t we stay here and see where the back seat takes us?”
To prove his point, he kisses me so hard my toes curl in my boots.
I force myself to break away. “Tempting offer, but we’ve got a sunset to catch. I did not arrange all this so we could make out in a parking garage. Tonight’s about you being a regular dude. With incredibly tight jeans.”
“Fine.” He fake-sighs but lets me tie the blindfold on, muttering, “I swear, if I wake up duct-taped to a pinata—”
“Can you see me flashing my boobs right now?”
I wave my hand in front of him.
He lifts up the blindfold.
“Aaand that was a test. You failed,” I say, smacking his wrist and yanking the blindfold back down. “No peeking. This whole thing only works if you commit, Moneybags.”
“I’m blindfolded in public wearing denim. I’d say I’m all in Pip.”
I loop my arm through his and start guiding him across the garage. “Trust the process.”
We fall into step, me leading him down the sidewalk, my fingers laced with his. The sunset’s already throwing orange and pink across the pavement.
The man who calculates each move like it’s a stock trade let me cover his eyes, in broad daylight, for a surprise.
God, what does that even mean ?
As we get closer to our destination, the world around us explodes with sound and smell—kids laughing and squealing, music thumping from speakers against the backdrop of crashing waves, the thick scent of sugar and fried batter in the air. It’s sensory overload, and Bryce is tensing up beside me.
I spot what I’m looking for—a street vendor with a cart that has the scent of heaven wrapped in grease—and make a beeline for it, pulling one bewildered billionaire along with me.
“ Dos, por favor ,” I say to the guy, butchering my high school Spanish. I hand him some cash. “ Muchas gracias, senor. Keep the change.”
“Are we there yet?” Bryce asks, his head tilting toward the sounds of sizzling meat frying. “I’m famished. Whatever that is, it smells incredible.”
“Poor sheltered rich boy, never had to practice patience,” I tease, accepting two foil-wrapped bundles that are almost too hot to hold.
“Guilty as charged,” he admits with no hint of shame. “Though, I did wait seven years to taste you again.”
I stumble slightly, nearly dropping our food.
Seven years?
Oh my God.
Our kiss. That night. That awkward, desperate, perfect collision between two people who weren’t supposed to collide.
Has he been carrying it, too? Holding it the way I have, all this time?
I want to ask him. Want to spin around and grab his face and demand answers. Was it more than a kiss for you? Was it the moment that ruined every person after?
But fear chokes me .
I don’t say a word and keep walking. I bury the questions deep—into that hidden place where I stash things I’m too scared to want.
“Almost time for the big reveal.”
I line him up like he’s about to be let in on a surprise party. Because he is. Tonight is for him.
I strike a pose with my arms raised high and a cheesy grin across my face. “All right, B, take off the mask!”
He pulls away the blindfold, blinks against the sudden light, and his entire body goes stiff.
Behind me, the beach is a golden halo of lights.
A full-blown carnival by the freaking ocean.
Spinning rides, game booths with stuffed animal prizes, the sweet scent of cotton candy mixing with fried food and ocean salt.
Families wander between attractions, kids shrieking with delight as they race from ride to ride.
Bryce isn’t smiling.
He cycles through emotions I cannot read.
Oh fuck. This was a horrible idea.
“Shit, Bryce, I’m sorry. This was stupid,” I babble, words tumbling out.
“I should’ve thought this through. I—I heard what your mom said about your eighth birthday.
That you wanted a carnival with hot dogs.
And she said, ‘ We don’t do tacky carnival birthdays.
’ So then you got shipped off to Casa Cashmere for some boujee, rich-kid snoozefest.”
He’s still frozen.
“GAWD, I’m sorry… I must seem like some kind of emotional terrorist. We can leave. We can go anywhere else. I can get you a steak, or an emergency scotch. We can go make out in the back seat if you—”
He reaches out, cradling my cheeks, and kisses me. The breath whooshes from my lungs.
When he finally draws away, his eyes are glassy. “This is the most thoughtful gesture anybody has ever done for me. Thank you. I cannot believe you remembered something so insignificant.”
The truth slips out before my filter can catch it. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”
The confession hangs there, sticky and exposed. I quickly shove the hot dog at him.
“Anyway! Let’s inhale this street meat, and then we’re hitting every ride until one of us pukes or passes out. That’s the authentic carnival experience.”