The American Billionaire

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Pippa

-Hopelessly devoted to you-

Whoa! Mason’s Bar is buzzing tonight. The relentless pounding of bass from the loudspeakers is the type that gets into your bones and encourages even the shyest of people to nod along with it.

But no sweat smell here. It’s classy aftershave, overpriced beer, and something sweet that reminds me of coconut body butter.

The chic amber lights catch on the mirrors behind the bar and throw sparks of gold across the tables lining the edge of the dance floor.

Here's where I come in.

Perched on a stool with my two best friends. On the table is our next round of cocktails and about eight too many empty tequila shots neatly lined up.

“Ready, steady, go,” Sandra yells, hitting the edge of her fist on the table.

I lick a mini hill of salt off the back of my hand, knock back a shot, slam the glass onto the sticky wood, and suck on a lemon wedge.

Sandra whoops as I squeeze both eyes and wince at the sourness.

“Way to go, Pippa,” she approves. “Come on, Lucy, your turn.”

“Nah, nah, not me.” Lucy shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she nurses her pink gin. “You two are going to regret this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a problem for Future Pippa,” I say, and do another shot, this time swiping a lime wedge and sinking my teeth into it. The acidity makes me shiver, but I grin anyway. “Tonight is all about Present Pippa, and that gal is on a mission.”

Sandra leans in closer, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her lips. Her short blonde hair falls over one eye, and she pushes it back and whispers conspiratorially, “What kind of a mission?”

“A mission to have fun,” I declare, throwing my arms out like I’m making an announcement to the entire room. “Pure, unadulterated fun.”

Sandra giggles and clinks her glass against mine, and we both swallow down mouthfuls of our Mai Tais.

“Finally,” she says with a big sigh. “This is exactly the energy I want from you. No more moping, no more crying into your wine about George-bloody-Parker.”

Lucy glares at her as I freeze mid-sip of my cocktail. She said his name like it was a curse word, sharp and dismissive. My stomach flips. As always, the mere sound of his name still does things to me. Many times, I’ve wished it didn’t, but it does. It still does.

“Speaking of George,” I say, ignoring the fact that both of my friends are rolling their eyes derisively.

I know I talk about him too much, especially when I am having a drink, but I can’t help it.

When someone is constantly on your mind, it’s hard not to talk about them.

Especially when I think he might be here tonight.

The thought makes me look around surreptitiously.

At the far side of the bar, a tall man in a dark jacket leans against the wall, his posture relaxed and confident.

He’s got the same bearing as George, standing there with one hand in his pocket, the other one cradling a pint.

I gasp. “Oh my God! Is that him?”

Lucy groans. “Pippa, you have got to stop doing this.”

Sandra squints and follows my gaze before bursting out in laughter. “No way. He’s not even close. That guy’s at least fifty. He’s got grey hair. And a beer belly. He’s probably still a better date than George, though.”

I blink, the room swimming a little from the tequila.

She’s right. It’s not George. Of course it’s not.

I guess he wouldn’t be caught dead in Mason’s on a Saturday night, not anymore.

Not when he knows I frequent the place. Still, I can’t stop my heart from sinking when I see that she’s right. So much for the ‘having fun’ thing.

“False alarm,” I mutter, forcing a laugh that comes out thinner than I’d like it to.

Sandra slaps my arm playfully. “Girl, you’ve got George goggles. You’re seeing him everywhere. That man could be a lamppost, and you’d convince yourself it was him.”

Lucy sets her drink down with deliberate care, like she’s bracing herself to ruin the mood. “Pippa, we’ve talked about this. You need to move on. He’s not coming back.”

I stir my cocktail with the little black straw, watching the crushed ice swirl. “But we were good together. Weren’t we?”

“You tell us. You’re the one who dated him,” Lucy says unhelpfully.

“No,” Sandra says, looking at her witheringly.

Lucy shrugs. “What? She asked.”

My words tumble out before I can stop them.

“Well, you must know, we were good together. I know we were. Actually, we were perfect for each other. He was solid. Dependable. Like, I don’t know, like home.

You know that feeling when you walk through the door after a long day, kick your shoes off, and everything just feels right? ”

Lucy sighs. “Pippa …” she starts, but I don’t let her cut me off.

“And yes,” I say, rushing on, because I know where she’s going with that sigh. “Maybe the sex was a little … well, plain.”

Sandra nearly chokes on her mojito. I barely even notice the waiter bringing us fresh cocktails.

“Plain?” Lucy repeats.

“Vanilla,” I admit, my cheeks heating up a little bit as I fiddle with the stem of my glass.

“But sex isn’t everything – in fact, if I’m being honest, I think it’s highly overrated.

I could very comfortably live with vanilla.

I like vanilla. I’ve got vanilla ice cream in the freezer.

Vanilla is reliable. You know exactly what you’re getting, and it’s very soothing.

Safe. And George was safe. He is my soulmate. ”

“Did you just use ‘is’?” Sandra demands with a frown.

I shrink back. Oh dear, this conversation is going south very quickly.

Lucy gives me a look. The soft, patient one she reserves for when she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like. “If he is your soulmate, Pips, he wouldn’t have blocked your number.”

“What do you expect the poor guy to do when he can’t get his ex to stop ruining his sleep with hundreds of texts?” Sandra asks sarcastically.

The words sting more than they should. I feel them like a bruise under my ribs. “I only did that one time,” I protest.

Sandra and Lucy both jerk their heads back.

“Ok, maybe a few times,” I concede. “But I was drunk and I just … I wanted to hear his voice. Is that really so bad?”

Sandra winces. “Pippa Fairfax, you texted him an essay at three in the morning. Begging him to get back together.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Oh God, don’t remind me.”

“And what about that time you texted at six a.m. to ask if he remembered the time when the two of you made shepherd’s pie together,” Lucy reminds helpfully.

I peek through my fingers, mortified. “Don’t.”

She sips her gin calmly. “What? I’m just keeping the record truthful.”

Sandra leans back in her chair, shaking her head. “Honestly, Pips, he’s not worth it. I love you to death, but George? He was boring. Nice, yeah, but oh God, so freaking boring. The human equivalent of cold toast with even a scrape of butter.”

“Dry toast is underrated,” I mumble into my cocktail.

“Only when you’re starving,” Sandra shoots back.

I glare at her, but there’s no real heat behind it. She means well. They both do. Still, my chest aches.

To me, George wasn’t boring. Not at all.

He was steady. And calm. Beautifully calm.

A rarity in this day and age. The kind of man you could build a life with.

Maybe being with him didn’t make me feel like fireworks were exploding all around me, but everything doesn’t have to be explosive …

all the time. Anyway, explosions burn out.

Explosions hurt people. George was consistent, and in the long run, isn’t that better?

I take another long sip of my drink, the alcohol loosening my tongue further.

“You don’t get it. He was perfect for me.”

Lucy taps her nails against her glass, her expression flat. “Let’s be honest here, Pips. The man dumped you and made it very clear that he’s not interested in trying again. The more you hang onto this fairly worthless man, the worse you’re going to feel.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Sandra cuts in, waving her hand. “Ok, enough doom and gloom. This is supposed to be a fun night, remember?” She slides another shot towards me. “Drink. And stop saying his name like it’s some sacred hymn. George is the most boring name ever invented.”

“There are Kings named George,” I mutter defensively.

“Oh, for God’s sake, just give it a rest, and drink,” Sandra orders.

I down the shot. It’s strong and bright red, and tastes like cinnamon. It also makes my head spin a little. Good. It should make me forget George. I hate that I can’t stop talking about him. I know I am boring my friends. Hell, I am boring myself, but I just can’t help it.

“But don’t you think people give up too easily these days?” I ask as my glass hits the table. “Relationships take work. Maybe once he realizes how special what we had was, he’ll come back and want to work at it. After all, he’s dependable. Do you know how rare that is?”

Lucy groans into her drink. “Dear God, here we go again.”

Sandra leans in, her grin mischievous. “You just miss his dependable what? Bank account? Netflix password?”

“We had separate bank accounts,” I correct crossly. “If you really must know, I miss his cuddles. And his laugh. And the way he always remembered to put the kettle on when he knew I was coming over.”

Sandra fake swoons. “Oh, stop. You’ll make me fall in love with him myself.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “For God’s sake, Sandra. Don’t encourage her.”

But Sandra just giggles and tosses back another shot. “What? I’m just saying, dependable kettle-boiling is a rare quality in a man.”

I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Exactly. You get it,” I say, purposely ignoring her mocking tone.

“No,” Lucy cuts in firmly. “She doesn’t. And neither do you. Pips, he wasn’t your soul mate. He was your safety net. And now he’s gone, and you’re dangling, and it’s uncomfortable, but you’ll live. In fact, you’ll thrive.”

I slump against the back of my chair, pouting like a child. “I don’t want to thrive. I want George.”

Sandra and Lucy exchange a look over my head. That silent best friend conversation that I know too well. Then Sandra downs her shot, puts the glass down on the table, and claps her hands.

“Right,” she says, her tone brisk, decisive. “We’re done with Sad Pippa. New rule: no more talking about George tonight.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off by handing me another shot, which I swallow down.

“Nope. Not another word. In fact,” she says with a smirk, her blue eyes glittering with mischief. “We’re going to play a little game.”