The One Who Got Away (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (6 page)

“You want me to go out like this?” I asked incredulously. I’d avoided mirrors and my reflection for the past few hours, in part because I didn’t want to terrify myself on top of everything else. I wasn’t ready to face the woman in the mirror. The woman that promised that the next time I saw Lincoln Carraway, I’d tell him to fuck off, not almost jump his bones in an elevator.

Ashton dropped the bottle back in the bin with a clang. “Who cares? You’ve showered recently, and you’re not on the hunt for a date.”

Well, since I already looked like I belonged slumped on a bar stool, ordering my umpteenth piña colada, I dragged myself to Ashton’s car. I wasn’t even offended when she rolled down the windows and passed me a tin can of Altoids along with her travel stash of body spray.

I knew she was dying to ask me questions, the first one being why I didn’t tell Lincoln to stick the job where the sun didn’t shine, but she let the radio do the talking. The drone of the DJs and commercials was like white noise and after I doused myself in warm vanilla sugar and popped a mint, I leaned back against the headrest and shut my eyes.

The sangria had me all warm and loose, ready to snuggle and catch some Zs. Hell, escaping in some dream sounded pretty good right about now, but my mind wouldn’t rest. Ordering myself not to think about Lincoln just cemented his face to the back of my eyelids. I knew every inch of that man, and five years had only enhanced how delicious he was.

“No dating, no men,” I groaned, scrubbing a hand down my face, trying to cut those thoughts off at the knee. “And no Lincoln Carraway.”

“On that we’re agreed,” Ashton said darkly, her lips a glossy snarl. “I thought he was toxic back then, and clearly he hasn’t lost his touch. You’re day drinking for crissakes.”

I ignored the dig at my sobriety, or the lack thereof, because I was still stuck on the whole ‘he hasn’t lost his touch’ thing. That would have been too much to ask, that time be cruel to the one man who was cruel to me. If nothing else, he was even sexier than I remembered. His hair was longer, just the right length that it turned him into a force to be reckoned with. His eyes were more brilliant, the gray the color of electricity. All those All-American good looks, the sharp jaw, the perfect angled nose, the lips that turned a smile into pure sex, were just heightened with time. And his touch...it was enough to send me back to church because I needed some spiritual help to keep me from doing something truly foolish. Like forgetting the past and focusing on the pulse racing, knees quaking, panties dripping-

“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”

Even if I wasn’t in some lust-induced haze and the volume on the radio hadn’t dropped to zero, Ashton’s disdain would have snapped me right out of it. It was a whip that sliced through the air and stung when it hit flesh.

I popped open an eye. “Of course not.”

“Liar,” she hissed, whipping her SUV into a parking space.

My questions a few moments ago were for myself (Why are you setting yourself up to be hurt again?) and for Lincoln (Why did it take you five years to get your shit together?). When I looked at my best friend, choking the life out of her steering wheel, her face as red and pinched as a newborn baby moments before the screaming began, I had a question for her.

“Why are you so dialed up about this, Ash?”

I half expected her to snap that she wasn’t dialed up, then to blush even deeper and drop her volume and get to the root of why this was bothering her so much. Instead, she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned her annoyance on me full blast.

“Why aren’t you
more
dialed up?” she fired back. “One smile from Lincoln Carraway and you forget what he did? You’ve forgotten how he ruined you? How he ruined you so wholly, so completely, that you couldn’t even step a foot back in North Carolina for five years while everything he touched turned to gold and he had a different socialite on his arm every week?”

Anger flared in my chest as I faced her head on. “You think I’m not dialed up? That I haven’t been torn up from the moment he turned around and locked his eyes on mine? That the smile that used to flip my heart upside down didn’t rip my heart right out of my chest?!”

I knew I was shouting, knew that she was just being fiercely loyal, but no one, not even Ashton, knew the number the breakup had done on me.

I was no nun, I didn’t stop having urges. I’d fucked, I’d even tried dating, but anytime it got serious, anytime they got too close, I shut it down. I knew heartbreak and I had no intention of ever letting a man do that to me again.

Yet here you are, ready to let bygones be bygones...

Ashton let go of the steering wheel, but her bitterness still edged her words as she turned off the car. “I’m just looking out for you, Cat. You know that, right?”

We weren’t the friendship bracelet type, but we’d almost gotten matching tattoos before I chickened out. But I didn’t need any of that. I could hear it. I could feel it. She had my back back then, fielding emails, helping me pack. She had my back over the years when I’d call her up in the dead of night, crying over some picture I’d seen of him. She had my back now, trying to knock some sense into me before I made a terrible mistake and gave Lincoln a second chance to break my heart again.

I hung my head and let out a jagged sigh. “I know.” I tilted my chin slightly, my next word peevish. “Truce?”

She cracked a grin. “Truce.”

We climbed out of the car, arm in arm like we weren’t yelling at each other a few minutes ago. The Bar was as unassuming as its name, a hole in the wall tucked in between a barber shop and a real estate agency. The wood paneled walls were covered with posters from epic musical events like Woodstock to Beyoncé’s I am World Tour.

The rectangular bar stretched from just inside the glass door to the back door that opened to an indoor atrium. Slung on bar stools and surrounding tables that were squeezed into the remaining precious square feet, the patrons of The Bar were as eclectic as the music posters on the wall. They ranged from hipster types in suspenders and bowler hats and tattoos, students using laptops and textbooks as coasters, and working stiffs still in their work uniforms, the lines of a long day etched into their tired faces.

Ashton tugged me over to the bar, an opening sandwiched between two frat guys in N.C. State garb, on what I was sure was round #4 from their volume level and the fact that they got more beer on the floor than in their mouths. There were two thirty-somethings on the other side, giggling like schoolgirls whenever the bartender looked their way. Any other night and I would have gotten the appeal. He had midnight-colored hair and even darker eyes and golden skin. His black V-neck and jeans broadcasted a toned, powerful body, but I just nodded at him with nothing in mind other than a drink, as soon as he could get to it.

“Now
that’s
a man worth lusting after.”

I gripped the edge of the bar, sure that this was the real reason Ashton wanted to go out for drinks. She wanted to play matchmaker.

Ashton crooked her finger and the bartender froze like he got some sort of jolt, mid pour, mid-conversation, and whipped his head in our direction. His hair was a little longer than Lincoln’s, but it was a little too tailored to do anything for me. It was too deliberately messy.

He nodded at us and finished pouring the drink, then hustled in our direction. The women to our right let out a sigh in unison when he grinned and two dimples winked in his cheeks.

“Well hello there, stranger,” he teased.

I leaned back, my arms locked like I was ready to plunge down and do a push up. Or push away from the bar. ‘Stranger’ was right. I glared at Ashton, but all I got was her side profile and a definite change in the air around her. There was this giddy, anxious energy that surrounded her like a perfume. Her voice was a few octaves higher than usual.

“Hi Josh,” she breathed like she couldn’t catch her breath at all. When he looked at her like she was the only one in the bar, like hers was the face that would get him through his shift, I realized I had it all wrong.

She liked this guy, and from the way he could barely get his sentence out, he liked her too.

“Two, er, uh nights in a row. Things must be hopping at Meredith College.” Even in the dim light, the redness that rushed to his cheeks was plain as day.

“Damn straight,” Ashton piped, scooting closer and leaning on the bar. The neckline that was respectable back in the Admissions Office dipped dangerously low. If it was a test, Josh passed with flying colors because he didn’t steal a look.

I almost cleared my throat, but Ashton nudged me with her shoulder, introducing me to him.

“This is my best friend, Catherine.” She nodded in his direction like he was just some guy. “Catherine, Josh.”

Even if I hadn’t noticed the chemistry between the two of them, the fact that she was making eye contact with me was proof that this guy wasn’t just ‘Josh.’ I could have made her turn even more crimson, but we had called a truce.

“Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand, a sly grin playing on my lips.

He gave my hand a hearty shake with a sly grin of his own. “Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about Catherine the Great.”

I pulled my head back slowly, turning accusatorially toward my friend. Her face was scrunched up like she got caught red-handed.

“Josh!” she admonished, hurling a cocktail napkin at him.

He took the bullet, the napkin hitting him square in the chest before it fluttered to the ground. “Only good things!” he insisted. “Like how you left your hometown and moved to a place where you knew no one to start all over.” He crossed his colorful arms against his chest, the ink rippling and dashing beneath his shirtsleeves. If I knew Ash, those were just the beginning and most of his body was covered in tattoos. “Mad props to you.”

Now
I
was blushing, in part because taking a compliment was a skill I never really acquired...and because I didn’t just pick up and move to a place to start over. I ran from NC five years ago. There was nothing commendable about running.

“Thanks,” I murmured, knowing the music would gobble the word right up.

The rest of the bar demanded attention, so Ashton gave the dimpled bartender our drink order and dodged the darts the women beside us threw our way. Their conversation dropped in volume as they nursed their margaritas and accepted that they wouldn’t be going home with Josh tonight.

I thought I was doing a better job of hiding how vulnerable I was feeling, a stranger reminding me of how weak I’d been (and still was), but I wasn’t nearly as good an actress as I thought. Ashton leaned in, her voice loud enough that I could hear it over the music, but low enough that I didn’t have to cringe because she was shouting.

“Are you okay?”

Not really.

“I didn’t give him any details,” she assured me. “Leaving
was
really brave. And bad ass,” she added.

Both were adjectives she’d used before, and they fell as flat as they did when she said them the first time. “Thanks,” I repeated weakly. I glanced at her and stretched my smile from ear to ear. “Really.”

She twisted her mouth to one side, her shoulders slumping. An awkward silence passed between the two of us, neither of us wanting to be the one to break it.

She scooted off the stool and shook her head until her blue tinged locks were as wild as mine. ‘I Love Rock and Roll’ punched from the speakers on the wall. When the women beside us let out some whoops of approval and worked their way to the tiny space near the front for dancing, I went ahead and got my excuse ready in case Ashton was planning to pull me to the dance floor.

“I’m headed to the bathroom.” Her ebony eyebrows arched, the left one jiggling. It was an invitation, girl code for ‘Let’s go to the bathroom and chat and keep each other company.’

“I’ll watch our seats. And maybe steal a couple of sips of your drink.” I threw in the last bit to help the decline go down a little easier.

Her smile was a solemn one, but she nodded her head and made her way through the crowd, pointed toward the atrium. When she got to the end of the bar, where Josh was, she flashed him a smile that was all teeth.

The thing that flared in the pit of my stomach as I watched them wasn’t jealousy. I was happy that she was happy. Seeing them, the freshness, the newness of falling in love, just took me back to when things were fresh and new with Lincoln. When I became like all the other girls I rolled my eyes at who drew hearts in the margins of their notebooks. I counted down the minutes until I could break free and see him. When his smile would sprint across the hall and hit me right in the chest, and damn if Catherine Wilkes, the gothiest girl at Rhoades High (who wasn’t a goth at all), didn’t smile right back.

I was lost in memories, ruefully staring at the bar, when the stool beside me squealed and a jean-clad leg that definitely didn’t belong to Ashton slipped in beside me. The leg was too muscular, too authoritative to be anything other than some dude who was coming in for the kill.

I lifted my eyelids, my rejection letter already signed, sealed, and delivered.

“Look-” I choked on the word when my eyes trailed up and I saw a familiar leather jacket, and a glimpse of a blue shirt that I knew was soft to the touch.

I nearly fell off my stool when I hit Lincoln’s sly grin.

“Funny running into you here,” he breathed, the husky timbre of his voice stroking me like he was close. Closer than beside me. Close enough that his lips were inches from my neck. Close enough that when he breathed, I melted.

I blinked, my neck cranked in his direction. I realized I wasn’t fantasizing that Lincoln was all up in my personal space, about to kiss my neck or worse. He was literally right there.

I leapt from the stool, heat gathering between my thighs. The knowledge that he still had that effect on me made anger storm to my cheeks as I snatched my jean jacket tighter around my body.

“There is nothing sexy about stalking!” I snapped.

He spun around to face me, still smiling, still sexy as hell on the stool. I glared at him, all charm and style, like he was starring in some ad for some overpriced liquor. He swept his thick fingers through his chocolate strands. Naturally, they fell right back where they were supposed to.