The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

53

Weston

She glances at the big-ass oven—the sleek, professional one, perfect for a baker to use at home, the one I'd had installed yesterday... Whew! She hates my money, but fuck, if it doesn't have its advantages. I've never given the money a second thought, to be fair. Perhaps, it’s what comes from being born into wealth... And my career as a heart surgeon? Let's just say, it pays well. And I had invested with the Seven. We had chosen our ventures carefully, especially FOK media which had been a passion project and an investment, which is already paying dividends. So, fuck if I am going to apologize for the money that was mine by birth and which I had helped multiply through my hard work. I get where she's coming from though. She wants to strike out on her own... And I am not stopping her. I’m simply removing obstacles from her way, giving her the best chance of success. Doesn't she realize that? Why can't she accept the fact that everything that is mine is hers? If I could serve up the world on a platter to her, I'd do it. I stiffen. Do I think that? All that emo shit that I'd been sure was not for me...? Clearly, I'm rolling in that shit, thanks to Ms. Chocolate Cookie... Hell, I've even accepted the presence of chocolate in my life, and Christmas, and all that shit that has never mattered before? I want it all...with her. That's it. I need help—need to figure out how to solve this conundrum that I have worked myself into.

I pull out my phone, pace the floor of my bedroom, as I dial Damian's number.

"Motherfucker!" he says as his greeting.

"Merry fucking Christmas to you too, asshole," I reply.

"Yeah, yeah, same to you with knobs on." He yawns, "What are you doing on the phone with me? I thought you'd be shacked up with your bride in the penthouse."

"Jesus, I'm not married man. Far from it."

"Why aren't you?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Straight question, man." He yawns again. "Why don't you put a ring on her finger, put the two of you out of your misery, and let the rest of us get some sleep, huh?"

"Whoa, whoa." I cough. "You're not mincing any words here. What's up? You got a woman there you're eager to get back to?"

"What do you think?" He chuckles.

Yeah, he's with someone.

"Look I need your advice," I mutter.

"I gave it to you already. Don't expect me to make your decisions for you."

"Christ," I mutter, "what's prompted this level of candidness."

"Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit, bro." I hear him move around. "Maybe I am tired of watching you screw up over and over again." His footsteps thud on the wooden floor, then the rustle of clothes reaches me. "Hold on." I hear the sound of muffled voices, then he comes back on the call. "So, where were we?"

"You sent her away, huh?" I ask.

"Bros before hoes and all that... " he replies, "Also, she's not the one, so..." I sense him raise his shoulders.

"How do you know that she isn't?"

"When you know, you know," he says, "and you do know, you just don't want to accept it."

"You're full of platitudes," I grumble.

"And you're full of shit," he retorts. "Why the hell don't you have a conversation with her?"

"I've tried, believe me."

"Have you, though?"

"What?"

"Told her how you feel. Have you done that?"

"I told her I love her."

There's silence, then he says, "How did you say it?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, did you say it like you meant it?"

"Of course," I think... "only she didn't say it back."

"She didn't?"

"Nope." I begin to pace, "Maybe she doesn't feel the same way. I mean, I'm not the easiest when it comes to matters of the heart."

He bursts out laughing, "Says the heart surgeon."

"Har, har." I continue, "It's because I am so intimately conversant with that particular organ that I am wary of it."

"Have you thought of the possibility that maybe she doesn't love you?"

"What do you think, I'm stupid?"

"Do I need to answer that question?"

"Don't bother." My stomach ties itself in knots. "She probably doesn't, man, and that's fine. Perhaps in time, she'll develop feelings for me."

"Who are you and what have you done to Dr Asshole Kincaid?"

Heat flushes my neck, "Fuck off, man. If you have something to say, say it."

"You're pussy-whipped."

"You have no idea." I squeeze the bridge of my nose, "It's why I offered to triple the money I'd agreed to pay her—"

"What?" he explodes. "You did what?"

"You heard me," I mumble. A hollow feeling coils in my chest. I squeeze the bridge of my nose, "Fuck, I shouldn't have done that, huh?"

"The opposite, man. You need to take the money out of the equation."

"What do you mean?"

"Change the tone of the relationship."

"How?"

"Replace it with something...that means more to you than money... Offer that up to her... Something that you'd never have imagined giving to anyone else, or giving up for someone else." He pauses, "It could also be something that's ingrained in you... perhaps a habit which you’d change for her?"

I blink. "That...that's profound, bro."

"Sometimes I surprise myself." He laughs. "It's easier to be objective when it comes to other's problems, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I blow out a breath. "I have to do this, right?"

"You bet," he replies, "it’s time you left behind the boy who was kidnapped for good."