Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1) (3 page)

Tomorrow morning was something I looked forward to also. Probably even more than Patrick. But only time would tell.

“You know, you really didn’t have to drive me,” I said, enjoying the feel of the leather seat beneath me all the same. Public transit would never be able to measure up to this.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick said. “You’re the one doing me the favor.”

“By making you get up early and drive across the city?” I threw my head back and laughed. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“At computers only, I assure you. Everything else, definitely not.”

I took advantage of the mixture of his casual driving attitude and attentiveness toward the road to examine him. He hadn’t bothered shaving, and a fine grit of stubble covered his face like sandpaper. I wondered, involuntarily, what it would feel like to rub my cheek against his. If it would hurt.

His green eyes took on a lighter shade in the diffused gray of dawn, turning them almost sea foam. I wondered if he’d ever noticed that before.

I couldn’t help but think back to last night, to our faces drawing together as if invisible puppet strings pulled them. What had caused us to do that? Whatever it was had made me sweep on a layer of mascara this morning before he picked me up, in hopes of something I couldn’t give a name to.

Patrick laughed suddenly and glanced at me. “You’re supposed to assure me that I’m smart in other things, Loren, geez.”

“Ignorant
and
insecure,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Mr. Paulson, just how did you make your money again?”

“You wound me,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Thank God—here’s the bridge.”

We parked at the base of it, and I immediately got out of the car, breathless, forgetting that Patrick was with me.

The bridge looked surreal, protruding from the dense fog like some kind of ancient beast, slung low from the sky to take us all. It was the bridge like I’d never seen it before. I supposed I’d been lucky enough to always come across it in fair weather. I could hardly even discern its color in the dimness, and even the water below was a dark steel.

I started snapping photos immediately, cursing myself that I hadn’t the foresight to lie about needing a department camera. These weren’t going to come out as well as I hoped, but the important thing was that I was here, witnessing this, trying to understand the reality of the bridge.

Some people I’d come across talked about this place in quiet, hesitant tones, and now I was starting to understand why. This was the bridge that haunted some people’s dreams, the one shrouded in ghosts. The one that beckoned you to be done with it.

I lowered my camera and shuddered.

“Loren?”

I jumped, finally remembering that Patrick was the one who’d brought me here, and flushed at just how absorbed I’d been. I bet I was making a stupid face; I tended to bite my lower lip when I was trying to concentrate.

“Sorry,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. My laughter didn’t ring out like it usually did. The fog muffled it…strangled it.

“Are you chilly?” he asked. “Here.” He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders.

“That’s really not necessary,” I said, making a move to hand it back to him before I realized that it smelled like him—piney and fresh and good.
Oh, no.
That was staying right where it was, still warmed by his body. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“I’m hot-blooded,” he said, smiling. “And I’ll be just fine. Getting some good photos?”

I looked back at the bridge, still foreign, foreboding. “I wish I had one of the school’s cameras instead of mine,” I said, continuing to shoot all the same. Who knew? I might get lucky.

“Well, can I give you something?”

I looked over my shoulder, then turned, as Patrick walked to the back of the car, popping open the trunk. When he removed a large, black camera bag, I gasped.

“I didn’t know you were interested in photography,” I said, nearly snatching it from him and unzipping it.

“I was, but I’m not, really,” he said almost sheepishly. “I thought it might be a good hobby. You make it look so easy, and I love the stuff you do, but I guess I never got the poetry of it.”

“This is a really nice camera,” I said, hefting it.

“Fully charged,” Patrick said, as I screwed on a lens. “All yours.”

“I’ll give it right back,” I promised, quickly scrolling to the setting to get the shots I really wanted.

“There’s no need to,” he said, making me pause. “It’s all yours.”

“For now,” I said slowly, trying to understand.

“Loren, I’m hopeless at photography,” he said. “If you don’t take it, it’ll go to waste. It’ll just sit on a shelf, unused, and I’d hate that for it. I want it to be used to take amazing photos, and you’re the one who could give it a good home.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, holding the device gingerly.

“You probably shouldn’t say anything,” he said, pointing at the bridge. “You probably should just shoot.”

I turned and my breath caught in my throat. The fog was still there, but with the sun trying to come up and establish itself in the sky, it lit all of the lingering water vapor in the air with a pale gold gloss, like fine silk. The bridge was casting off its foreboding cloak and emerging in its gown, promising hope to everyone afraid of it. Of themselves.

I took photos from every angle I could imagine, documenting the moment the fog broke and the sun’s rays enveloped the entire structure and recolored the scene in jewel tones—the ruby of the bridge, the sapphire of the water. Everything was in vivid flame, as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, illuminating the world below. I was just a witness, taking photo after photo, getting my shoes wet at the water’s edge, not caring about anything except for this amazing privilege, and the fantastic shots I was capturing.

I tripped over a mound I hadn’t taken notice of and nearly fell; a strong hand on my elbow was the only thing that kept me upright.

“Careful,” Patrick rumbled, and something about his closeness made me shudder, intensely self-aware. I once again gave thanks that Shawn hadn’t been able to drive me to the bridge today, that Patrick had insisted on taking me himself, and on the fact that I’d even had the good fortune to meet Patrick in the first place. Just being around him, alone, was amazing.

I continued to shoot until the sun was well overhead. When traffic had increased audibly on the bridge above, I forced myself to be present to the act of shooting photos. The camera itself helped magnificently. It was hard not to be present for the awesome power I wielded with it.

There was a scuffling noise behind me, and I whirled around just in time to see Patrick stumble on a bit of gravel. I laughed outright; I wasn’t the only one who was clumsy, apparently, but he’d surprised me. I’d once again forgotten that he was here, even though he was trying to gift me with the nicest camera I’d ever held.

“I can’t accept this,” I said, holding it out to him.

“I will be offended if you don’t take it,” he said, his arms at his sides, his palms upward, imploring. “Loren, I’ve never seen anything like that before, and I work with people passionate about what they’re doing. When you’re shooting photos, you give yourself over completely to the moment. You were in full squat for more than five minutes. I timed you. And your legs didn’t so much as shake.”

I didn’t know how to respond to the fact that Patrick had watched me like a hawk during this entire thing.

“You are the truest artist I’ve ever known,” he said. “You immerse yourself in beauty. You walk in it. You see it in the ugliest of things. When we first got here, I wish you could’ve seen your face. The bridge wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t that wonder of the world everyone takes pictures of. It was alive. Writhing. And yet you took photos and took photos, and I know without looking that they’re going to be amazing. Amazing, just like you. That camera stays with you, and that’s final. You’re going to do amazing things with it.”

I meant to thank him, to say something offhandedly that would distract from the nicest compliment I’d ever received, to be witty, and to diffuse what I felt in this moment, with the light so bright it was hard not to squint.

Instead, I took Patrick by the front of the shirt, angled my face up, and kissed him, slow and languid, attraction a roiling thing in my chest, nuzzling his cheek for a moment to feel that grit of stubble, then kissing him again. He tasted like the orange juice he must’ve chugged before picking me up; he smelled like the jacket that still clung to me even though the air was warming.

I broke the kiss and looked into those green eyes until he tangled a hand in my hair and kissed me again. Our bodies together, coupled with the jacket over my shoulders, made sweat prickle on my forehead, our shared heat rising and rising, and his hot mouth on mine.

I gasped when Patrick’s lips left mine, my chest heaving like I’d been running somewhere.

We looked at each other for a long time, then he lowered his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “What can you possibly be sorry for?”

“For…that. That…was a mistake.”

“I kissed you first.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you again,” he said, raking a hand through his short hair. I noticed, in a glint of light, that one of my long, blond hairs was still intertwined with his fingers.

“I liked it,” I said, my face flushing. “I wanted to kiss you, so I did, and I liked it.”

“I should get you back to your apartment,” he said, looking at the bridge. “I don’t know how long we’ve been out here. Time sort of seemed to stop.”

It was an effective description, but a puzzling one. How could he regret that kiss? That kiss had been everything. I’d felt it to the very tips of my toes, and I had more than a passing suspicion that he had, too.

There was something here, something I didn’t quite understand. What I did understand, however, was what I’d felt for him. That was real.

We rode in silence, all the way back to my apartment, with me clutching the camera in my lap, trying to figure out what to say. It wasn’t until we were already there that I took a chance, my heart pounding.

“Patrick…,” I trailed off, and then I forced myself to open my mouth again before I lost my nerve. “You can come inside…um…inside my apartment. If you want.”

“I can’t.” He didn’t look at me; he kept his eyes straight forward, concentrating on the road ahead of him even though we were parked in front of my complex.

I swallowed hard and took him by the chin, forcing him to look at me. “You can,” I said slowly. “I want you to.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to,” he said, those green eyes downcast. “But the truth is, I can’t, Loren. I’m sorry.”

“You can,” I said with such force that he met my gaze. “We’re two consenting adults, Patrick, who are obviously attracted to each other. There’s not one damn reason you can’t come inside my apartment so we can explore that fact.”

“One damn reason is that I need to be at a meeting in Palo Alto in an hour.”

I flushed. “I’m sorry. I’m holding you up. I’ll get out.” I shrugged off his jacket, which had remained over my shoulders for the entire ride. I was embarrassed. Gutted.

“Loren.” His voice made me pause, my fingers in the door handle, my other hand clutching the camera he’d given me—despite the fact that it hung securely around my neck on its strap. “I really, really do want to come inside,” he said almost wistfully.

“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, throwing the door open and nearly hitting a pedestrian with it. “You don’t have to make excuses. Thanks again for the camera.”

I forced myself to march down the sidewalk, under the walkways that crossed above me and threw me into shade. I forced myself not to turn back, even when I didn’t hear the rising purr of the engine that signaled Patrick was racing off to make his Palo Alto meeting in time. He probably wouldn’t, not with traffic, and definitely not if he stopped at the house to throw on a suit. I could imagine the way he would explain it to his distinguished colleagues, each richer than the next: “Sorry, boys, but some young thing was throwing herself at me…worse than a mosquito.”

He hadn’t wanted to come inside my apartment, I realized, fumbling with my keys before jamming the correct one into the door. He hadn’t wanted to kiss me, either, but that had happened. I was more than throwing myself at him. I was forcing myself upon him. He didn’t want me. He was only being nice because I was his son’s best friend.

It made sense, really. I flicked on the light before slamming the door behind me. Why would Patrick, when he could have anyone he wanted in the entire world, want to be with me? I hadn’t graduated college yet; I didn’t have a job; I couldn’t pick my real parents out of a lineup; and I couldn’t pay for anything beyond my transit pass and the occasional takeout.

He’d told me he wanted to come inside out of pity. He hadn’t wanted to hurt my feelings, which made it sting even more.

I comforted myself by picking a few clothing items off the carpet and couch, tossing them in the hamper for the next time I did laundry. See? If Patrick had come inside, he would’ve seen what a slob I could be. It would probably be a huge turnoff for someone who could more than afford his own maid.