The Billionaire's Flame

Have a Nice Life

“Tell me,” Kieran says as we start to walk. “Why the two jobs?”

I shrug. “Why does anyone have two jobs? I need the money. Which reminds me—thanks for that ridiculously over-the-top tip.”

“It’s very expensive to live in the Bay Area,” he says, as if I don’t already know it. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge the bit about the tip. “Why not move to some other part of the country?”

Boy, have I thought about it. After the fire, I begged Mom to move with me. She was devastated by the loss of Dad, though, and could barely get out of bed. Then she got diagnosed with cancer and, well… we’re still here.

“There are just a few things… keeping me here,” I say, not wanting to get into the sob story of my parentage. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“I mean, why are you here? In Oakland?”

“Oh. Well, my mom still lives here, like she mentioned last night. She’s been going through some stuff lately, so Lindsay and I thought we’d come check on her for a few days—you know, before the baby’s born.”

I wonder what his mother has been going through. She seemed to be in perfectly good health, but you never know. “And you and your sister live in San Francisco?”

He looks rather amused by my question—as if it’s such common knowledge that I must only be asking to be polite. Which, I guess, is sort of true. “Yes. Same neighborhood, different houses.”

Something tells me that the “house” he lives in is more like a castle.

“And you have… a tech company?” I ask him.

Now he really looks surprised. “You don’t know?”

“I heard it was lucrative. I just don’t know the details.”

“Right.” He doesn’t look offended, exactly; just surprised. “Well, yes—I own a tech company called Sharpe Enterprises. Our biggest product is the mobile app called LIY.”

I’ve heard of LIY. It stands for Learn it Yourself, like Do it Yourself. You pay a monthly subscription and supposedly learn real-world skills that are more useful than college.

“Did you go to college?” I ask him.

“No. I was too cocky to go to college. Had to sweat it out working in my share of restaurants for the first year while I got LIY off the ground, but it paid off.”

My mouth falls open. This guy worked in restaurants? That's certainly hard to imagine.

He laughs. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m from the same neighborhood as you, Emerson. I don’t come from money.”

It’s strange, hearing him say my name. Sure, I insist that people call me that these days since “Emmy” comes with painful memories, but people who knew me in high school still call me Emmy, and technically that’s him.

“Right.” I let go of his arm. I’m finally back to normal breathing—at least, back to the degree of normal that I’m able to hit when being in the presence of this ridiculously alluring man.

“Did you go to college?” he asks me.

I laugh.

“Was that a funny question?”

“Sorry—no. I just… no. I didn’t go to college.”

He watches me thoughtfully for several seconds before speaking. “You know, you’d probably benefit from LIY. You’re something of its target audience.”

I grimace. “Broke woman in her twenties working two jobs who never went to college?”

“Intelligent young woman who wasn’t dealt a fair hand.”

I look immediately away from him as the blood rushes to my cheeks. God, that was a nice thing to say. Why is he being so nice?

“I enjoyed your performance last night,” he continues. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention it before you closed us out. If I hadn’t seen you walking to the stage with your guitar on the way out, I wouldn’t have known.”

“I wouldn’t want you to have felt pressured.” I glance curiously up at him. “You left so quickly, I actually assumed you didn’t enjoy the show.”

“You looked busy, was all.” His gaze is piercing into me again. “Was that other guitarist your boyfriend?”

I laugh again. His question genuinely surprised me; I thought he had put together the pieces when he tried to break up the argument between me and Connor. “No—Brady’s not my boyfriend. Connor is. Sort of.”

He holds my gaze. If there’s any disappointment in his eyes, it’s impossible to tell. “Should I know who Connor is?”

“Well, you had an unpleasant encounter with him last night, so probably.”

He comes to a sudden and dramatic stop. “The guy who was manhandling you?”

“I wouldn’t quite call it manhandling,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I’d call it. “But… yeah.”

He looks disgusted. “Jesus, Emerson. That guy was a total sleaze. Why would you date him?”

So many emotions bubble up in me at once, I’m not remotely sure which to go with. Embarrassment, certainly. He’s making me feel like a complete i***t. But also, rage. How dare he make me feel like a complete i***t? He doesn’t even know me.

“I never asked you to step in, you know,” I say, crossing my arms. “Just like I never asked you to walk me home today. I don’t know what kind of f****d-up hero complex you have, but I’m not interested in being your damsel in distress.”

Again, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. I think there’s at least a hint of regret or shame in those gorgeous gray eyes, but there’s hostility, too. Frustration, maybe. “He was hurting you in the middle of a restaurant full of people. If I hadn’t stepped in, someone else would have.”

I doubt that, but it’s beside the point. “He wasn’t hurting me. He just grabbed my arm, is all.”

“Oh, yeah?” He takes a step closer to me. “And those bruises on your face in high school were just from tripping and falling, right?”

I take a step back.

He’s really going to bring that up right now?

“Were yours?” I whisper back.

He parts his lips to answer me, then groans, running a hand through that perfectly barbered hair of his. He won’t answer me. It’s as hard for him to admit it as it was back then. I know because it’s the same way for me.

“Look,” I say, struggling to remain calm. “This obviously isn’t a good idea. I’m perfectly capable of walking myself home. Why don’t you just go on back to your ritzy Silicon Valley life and overcharge impoverished people to learn what they could probably find for free at their local libraries?”

Too harsh, I know. My nasty side tends to come out when I’m feeling threatened.

He hasn’t been spoken to like that in a long time, I can tell. I can almost see the rage bubbling up in him.

But all he says is a soft, defeated “Have a nice life, Emerson” before taking his leave of me.

I guess I deserved that.