Billion Dollar Stranger - Stephanie Brother Page 0,33

handwritten note from where I tossed it to my desk. The handwriting is neat and precise, the words written with care, not in anger. That somehow makes it all worse.

Nicole returned the roses I sent her. After anticipating she'd call me after my gesture, it's a huge disappointment that she didn't. I guess in another way, I've been right about her all along. She doesn't want flowers or chocolates.

Aaron

I'm too tired to play games. When I met you, I needed something simple, but this is getting complicated and bruising me in the process. Can we part saying it was fun (mostly!) and leave it at that? I hope you find someone willing to be what you want. I can't call you or see you without hurting myself further, so I hope you understand why I'm returning your flowers (they would only go to waste if I kept them) and replying to your note with a note of my own.

Nicole

I spend a long time standing at the floor-to-ceiling window in my office, studying Nicole's elegant handwriting and analyzing the words she's written, realizing that the sadness I saw in her eyes on the first night wasn't a figment of my imagination. Nicole is nursing wounds, and it seems that our interlude has exacerbated them.

I like one-night stands because I prefer not to get involved in things like this. We all have baggage, some more than others, but that baggage doesn't have to get wheeled into the kind of seduction I like. Pleasure doesn't have to come at a cost if you play it right.

I've been good at playing it right for a while, but with Nicole, I wasn't so successful.

I know it's not fair of me to feel angry with her for leaving without giving me the chance to make things right in person. I still don't know whether she believes that I was unaware he was watching us fuck. But behind my anger is a nagging sense of regret that she's gone. I miss her sense of humor, her elegance, and her smile. I've only known her for a short time, but she's managed to find a way of worming under the protective shell I've constructed since Adrianna. It's uncomfortable to feel out of control. The last time I let someone close to my heart, I walked away with it shattered, and I haven't trusted anyone since.

Some wounds are so deep it's possible to believe that you will never get over them, and I'll admit that I still think that of mine.

Only, I seem to trust Nicole. I've witnessed manipulation at its most calculated, and this doesn't feel anything like that. She's run away for her own self- preservation. I'm confident she isn't playing games with me by fleeing merely so that I'll give chase. I saw the pain in her eyes before she knew who I was, and it's real.

And I want to take it away from her. To see the light in her eyes unclouded by the past.

Admitting that to myself is tough. Acknowledging how I feel means that I have to do something about it. I'm not someone who lives well with regrets in any form. They tend to leach into everything.

I should know because my one regret has been shaping my interactions with women for over half a decade.

But what to do?

Maybe, if I can see her again, and we can talk, it'll be enough. If I could apologize and speak to her about what is hurting her, then I wouldn't have this gnawing feeling inside.

It's a simple plan.

I ask my chief of security to run a search for Nicole's UK address and send her more roses and a bottle of whiskey, knowing that they will rile her, but hoping she'll also smile. I want to leave my mark, so she knows as soon as she arrives home that I'm still thinking about her. I want her to know that her leaving without saying a proper goodbye wasn't the end of it. Then I tell Sandrine to ready my private jet and tell Goodwin, my personal shopper, to deliver a suitcase to the airport by lunchtime, containing everything I would need for a two-day trip.

I'm going to England.

17

NICOLE

I take a taxi from the airport, watching the gray of London pass by, missing vibrant Atlanta. The road is lined with parked cars, so the driver pulls over before the entrance to my apartment.

It isn’t until I’m on foot and approaching my door that I see what’s been