One Night with a Billionaire

“It took me forever to get that guy to go away,” Star said, shaking her head. “He seemed nice, though. Cute, too. He’s a Cancer, you know. They’re very supportive.”

Count on Star to have someone show up at her door and get their star sign. “That’s great.”

“He’d be a great match for you since you’re a Pisces,” she commented.

“Not interested,” Kylie said again. She was a terrible liar, but hey.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him, too,” Star said.

Kylie’s heart skipped a beat and she forced herself to move to the couch and sit down calmly. “What did he say to that?”

Star shrugged her dainty shoulders. “He mumbled something about a band or singers or something and left.”

A fierce pain stabbed Kylie in the heart. A singer? Was he deciding to finally choose Daphne instead of Kylie, who offered nothing in a relationship? Had he finally given up, figuring she wasn’t worth it? God, why did it hurt so much to think about that? She wanted to run out the door after him.

That whole “burden” thing kept stopping her, though.

Numb, Kylie curled up on her end of Star’s couch and hugged one of the throw pillows. She could get through this. She could. She’d had her heart broken once. It would mend again, right? She just needed time.

Even as she told herself that, fresh tears appeared.

Star gave her a stricken look. “Why don’t I get us some Ben & Jerry’s?” She didn’t do well with touchy-feely emotional moments.

“Thanks.” Kylie gave her a wan smile and swiped under her eyes again. She was such a mess.

The doorbell rang.

Alarmed, Kylie stared at it from her spot on the couch. “Star?”

“Just a minute,” Star called from the kitchen. “I dropped the chocolate syrup on the floor.”

Shit. Kylie contemplated leaving the door unanswered, but the doorbell rang again.

“Can you get that?” Star called.

Well, she kind of had to now, didn’t she? Kylie went to the door, padding on bare feet, and peered out the peephole. A child was there. She squelched a flash of disappointment that it wasn’t Cade and opened the door. “Can I help you?”

The boy standing there was dressed in a striped shirt and shorts, and had curly blond hair that reminded her too much of Cade. He gave her an angelic smile, his hands behind his back. “Are you Kylie?”

“Ummmm. Maybe?”

He grinned. “I’m s’posed to tell you to take this.” He produced a flat box from behind his back, tied with a big white bow. “And that if you don’t take it, the orphanage I’m from won’t get any money.”

Kylie’s eyes narrowed. Her heart thumped. “Is that so?”

The little boy gave a slow nod and offered Kylie the box. And even though she knew she shouldn’t take it, she couldn’t help herself. With trembling fingers, she accepted it and pulled on the fluffy ribbon while the little boy scampered away.

Inside the box was a waffle, and a note.

Her choked sob turned into a laugh. A waffle. Typical Cade. The sight of it made her heart ache, and she thought back to those silly, wonderful late-night dinners. She picked up the card and flipped it open, holding her breath.

Just so you know, I have a marching band out here waiting to play “Pretty Woman” if you don’t come out to the parking lot in two minutes. And more orphans ready to come to your door. I’m not playing around this time. We need to talk, and I’m prepared to use billionaire guerrilla tactics if necessary.

—Cade

Exasperated, she dropped the note back into the box and shut the lid. She didn’t know what to do. Common sense told her to go out and talk to Cade like an adult. To explain to him exactly how she felt, and why she couldn’t be with him. That she didn’t want to drag him down with her money troubles and become a burden, someone he had to take care of and rescue from herself constantly.

But the small, wounded part of her wanted to retreat inside and pretend she never got the note. To call his bluff and make him realize she couldn’t be pushed around.

As she hesitated, strains of music rose from the parking lot of the apartment complex. It sounded like . . . trombones. Or a tuba. Her jaw dropping, Kylie headed for the parking lot. He . . . he really hadn’t hired a band had he?

As she turned the corner, an entire marching band dressed in uniform with plumed hats burst into the chorus of “Pretty Woman.”

Sure enough, he had. And instead of being furious or embarrassed, she couldn’t stop laughing. It was sweet, she had to admit. And no one could really stay mad at a marching band, could they?