Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (55 page)

“Expansion meeting with Trevillo Nelson,” Qwesie replies, slowly, as if he’s talking to a kid.

“Shit,” Noah curses, “I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Qwesie appears shocked by this. “Mate, you never forget anything. Ever. Your memory is so annoyingly sharp it sucks the fun out of everything.”

“Obviously, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Noah grits out, gesturing to me.

Qwesie studies me, hand to his chin. “Yeah, I can see how this fire-tongue chit could be a lot on your mouth—er, I mean, mind. But hey, if she’s too much to handle, I’d be happy to lend a hand with…”

He trails off when he notices Noah’s glare. “
Watch it
,” he admonishes.

Qwesie’s palms raise in surrender, though his grin contradicts the gesture. “Well, excuse me for trying to be a helpful chap.”   

Noah’s gaze slides down to me, his fingers touching the side of my neck. “Remember your birthday gift?”

“The concert?”

He nods. “Tickets were completely sold out, and in order to get us our own section, I had to agree to meeting with Trevillo Nelson.”

“The billionaire nympho?”

His gaze narrows at me. “What do you know about Trev?”

“Except that he’s drop dead, torture-your-libido, melt-your-panties-right-off-you hot?” I shrug. “Eh. Nothing.”

Now he’s flat-out glowering at me, green as a dollar bill, and I have to restrain from bursting out laughing. “That settles it,” he decrees, “You won’t be meeting him, or any of his brothers, until my baby’s in your belly.”

“Awwww,” comes Qwesie’s voice. “He’s so green you could spend him.”

Ignoring him, Noah tells me, “Anyway, I can’t flake on this meeting, so I’ll have to bow out of dinner.

“No problem.” But then I flash him an impish smile. “As long as you promise to take a selfie with him and forward it to me before you start talking business.”

This request leaves Noah appalled. “Lotty, I’m not taking a selfie. What am I, nineteen?”

“If I don’t get a selfie in ten minutes, I’m going to barge in there and tell everyone I walked in on you taking a hand-job from Q.”

“Oooh,
yes,
” Qwesie bounces with a grin, rubbing his hands together. “This sounds fun.”

“He wasn’t giving me a hand-job,” he snaps. “He’s just a kid in a man’s body.”

“Not from my vantage point,” I argue. “And doesn’t that make you, like, a pedophile? You know, liking little boys in grown men’s body?”

“I was
so
giving him a hand-job,” Qwesie supports. “He told me to talk like a six-year-old and call him ‘Poppa.’”

I giggle, and Noah’s fingers rise to his temples, massaging. He then jabs a firm finger at me. “I am
not
taking a selfie.” Before stalking off in the direction of The Lounge.

Fighting back a laugh, I call after him, “Gay pedophile it is, then!”

Qwesie, before turning to follow Noah, winks at me.

Grinning, winning, I continue on to Parallel 7.

I walk into the private dining room and my heart explodes at the sight of Graham. The last time I saw him was at Mom’s funeral. He emailed me on numerous occasions since, but I replied only once in a while to assure him I’m alright. Never told him about Noah, about Andrew, about anything, except that I’m still breathing.

I’m hoping Gloriel hasn’t spilled to them about Andrew, because I don’t intend on having that conversation with them, at least not until the court meetings starts.

Graham Cooley—six feet two, perfectly gelled blonde hair, identical blue eyes, and a million-dollar smile that melts hearts—pushes up from chair, rounds the long dining table, meets me in three long strides and picks me up in a massive bear hug. “Lotty,” he sighs in my hair, emotion thick in his voice. “It’s really you. You
are
alive and well. I hate you so much for hiding from me. I hate you so much.”

“I love you, too, Gray Ham.” I giggle as he spins me.

Putting me down, cupping my face in his hands, he scans me from head-to-toe as if checking to ascertain I’m in good health, and then he presses a hard kiss to my forehead and hugs me some more. Tight. “Mom’s worrying you didn’t want to come down to see us. But I told her if I had to wait five hours to see you, I would.” He pulls back, stares down at me. “It’s really cruel what you did, you know. Shutting me out.”

Embarrassed, I avert my eyes. “Graham, you don’t understand…I was going through a lot, my life was a mess—still is, actually—and I just didn’t want you worrying about me so much. But I think about you every day, I swear it.”

Giving me another once over, he tsks, seeming impressed. “Well, you’re starting to look like your old self again. You’ve gained weight, you’re hair isn’t greasy, and you look, well, happy.” He pauses. “Comparing to the last time I saw you, I mean.”

I eye Gloriel who’s seated at the table across from Sarah. She’s looking somewhat emotional. “That’s because Mrs. Van Der Wells over there doesn’t know how to take
no
for an answer. She’s been playing fairy godmother. So, thank her.” I take care not to mention Noah, and the look Gloriel gives me tells me she appreciates that. She’s not on board with others knowing our relationship as yet, and, for once, we’re on the same page.

Leaving Graham’s embrace, I walk down the length of the table to Sarah. She stands as I approach. Sarah’s never been anything but kind to me, but the expression she’s wearing right now reads reflective and uncertain. Like she doesn’t know what to make of everything, what to say.

Mom’s death. Dad’s death. My wandering. My constant refusal to her offers of help. My hiding, distancing… Her standoffish reticence is understandable. But it’s not what I want from her, from a woman whose smile and touch are nothing but warm and inspiring. Always.

Sarah Jensen-Wilbur stands around six feet in heels, with bobbed brown hair and a svelte frame. Not a curvaceous vixen like Mom was, or even nearly as gorgeous. Her beauty is muted, subtle. Her style is modest, demure. Her voice quiet, unobtrusive. The total opposite of Mom.

Her eyes follow me, gauging. To ease her dubitable emotions, I circle my arms around her, enveloping her into a hug. At this, I feel her slender frame relax in my embrace, arms hugging me back.

“Thank you for being good to me, Sarah,” I whisper in her ear. “Inside and out. Thank you for never shunning me on account my mother. I’m sorry…I’m sorry we broke up your family.”

“Hey, hey,” she draws back and cups my face, tender brown eyes settling on mine. “You didn’t do anything. Besides, I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted to. You wouldn’t let me.” She laughs. Then sobers. “Forgive my honesty, sweetie, I know she’s your mother, but she wasn’t a good person. Yet you’ve grown to be nothing
at all
like her. That’s why we adore you, your brother and I. Keep on being the loving, honest person you are, Charlotte. It’s the only way to be.”

I don’t choke up. I’m too grown for that. Nope, fighting back tears isn’t the reason I’m blinking so rapidly, it’s…an eyelash. Yeah, that’s it: an eyelash is stuck in my eye.

My phone buzzes in my purse, perfect timing to save me from this emotional moment. Saved by the buzz. 

A message from Noah. As I open it, a grin splits my face.

Noah
:
You’re lucky I love you
…

Attached, is a selfie of him and Trevillo Nelson. Trevillo is biting his lips, looking like the billions of dollars that he is worth, but Noah just looks annoyed. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I wholeheartedly believe that, because Trevillo is drop-dead hot, but seeing them side-by-side, my man is
way
hotter—even visibly miserable and annoyed. Dammit, but I want to go find him and grind on that beautiful face until I shatter to smithereens.

Instead, I quickly type back:
Told you I’d make you pay for smacking my ass earlier
…

His immediate reply is a red-faced smiley.

Someone clears their throat, which has me sweeping my head up, only to find six curious eyeballs on me.

Keeping my grin intact, not in the least ashamed of being crazy in love, I slip my phone back inside my purse and ask, “So, what’s for dinner?”

Dinner is great. We talk, we laugh, we catch up. But by the start of dessert, the serious “
you tell her—No you tell her—No YOU tell her
” glances being exchanged between the three make me realize this is not just a “Lotty is in town, lets catch up over dinner” kind of dinner. Something is afoot.

“Alright, guys, spit it out,” I finally snap, setting my fork down and pushing my soufflé aside. “Seriously. Whatever it is. Let me hear it.”

Graham raises a brow at his mother, and she sighs, setting her fork down, too.

Leaning back in my chair, I wait for it.

“Sixteen years ago,” Sarah begins, “your father came to visit me. He was burdened, overwhelmed, paranoid. In one breath, he confessed all he was involved in, dumping it all at my feet. He was in deep with some big, prestigious names and couldn’t back out as much he wanted to. He got in bed with these people and there was no getting out. He said he knew that one day it would all come crashing down, and he wanted, when that day came, to go down knowing his kids would be alright.”

Oh God
. My eyes flick to Gloriel, and her words from weeks ago float through my memory:
There are things you don’t know, things you can’t know…yet.

My gut dips, because I know
.
I know what this dinner is about.

“Well,” Sarah continues, “you know I was born into money, with a trust fund more than your father’s net-worth at the time. He knew if he got caught, that you and Graham would lose your trust funds, and they would find any living or close relatives he had and scour their accounts for evidence that they’re banking cash for him.

“I, however, am wealthier than him, had money
before
him. It would take a lot to prove every billion isn’t mine. So…you get what he wanted me to do.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, but then just as quickly removes them, folding them in her lap, straightening her posture. Inbred decorum and propriety shining through. “I told him I wanted nothing to do with his dirty money, of course. But he knew me. He knew I loved him more than life and I’d never tell a soul what he told me, let alone allow his kids to suffer for his mistakes. As a result, every year, on June third, my birthday, he deposited four million dollars into my bank account. One million as my birthday present, and the rest split between you and your brother.

“Graham was allowed access to his fund at eighteen. But you, because he didn’t trust your mother, he instructed me not to allow you access to your fund until you turn twenty-one.” 

I’m quiet for a mighty long time as I process all she tells me, not quite sure how to react. What to think. Should I be glad about this? Or should I feel sad that I’ll have to turn it down?

“
Okay
.” I drag this word out. “So, basically what you’re saying is, I have twenty-four million
embezzled
dollars waiting for me to turn twenty-one and claim it?” 

More
annoying
exchange of glances. 

Sarah speaks again, “Like I said, the main reason he wanted to wait was because of your mother…”

“But now that my evil, wicked, mark-of-the-beast, anti-Christ, maleficent mother is dead and rotting—thank hell for that, sings the universe—I can claim my embezzled twenty-four mil?”

Expelling a defeated sigh, Sarah leans back in her chair and mutters to Gloriel, “I told you. I told you she wouldn’t want it.”

“You know, Gloriel,” I grit out, my chair screeching as I push back and stand. “You really ought to
listen
sometimes.”  

Undeterred, she shoots back, “It’s true, you’re nothing like your mother. But you are
everything
like your father. Proud, stubborn, and unwilling to accept help from anyone. Always wanting to prove to people how much of a man he was, how strong he was.” She makes a pitiful expression. “Look where that got him.”