Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance Read online

  LINE

  Alpha Billionaire Romance

  By

  Colleen Charles

  Table of Contents

  LINE

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  BONUS STORY - WASTED HEAT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Foreword

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  But such a man could hardly be sensible

  And you know I could never love a man who is out of his wits.

  – Elizabeth Bennet

  Chapter 1

  Lydia

  Damn it. Late again. An annoying habit of mine and one I knew drove Poppy O’Toole a little crazy. I’d insisted on having brunch at eleven a.m. sharp, knowing that my best friend and editor never rolled her lazy but curvy butt out of bed prior to ten on weekends. Even though I considered her one of my go–to people, besties were allowed some annoying habits.

  I followed the waiter through the restaurant, a lopsided smile plastered on my face. His longish hair curled over the back of his shirt, and he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. From the looks of him, he was a high school student who was probably angry at having to work a job on the weekend. His stabbing gesture inferred I should have a seat in a secluded booth.

  I looked over the menu to give me something to do, even though it wasn’t necessary. I already knew what I wanted. I was a woman who knew her own mind. Always had. And I always got what I wanted just the way I wanted it. Brunch, and brunch at this place safely nestled in Tribeca, was like a bestie ritual.

  King’s was known for their quiche Lorraine, and I loved it. Add some golden brown, crispy hash browns with just the right hint of butter and spices, and it made for a nirvana of late breakfast fabulosity. I smiled at the busboy as he poured me a glass of water.

  “Lydia Singleton.” I heard Poppy call my name, even as she approached from behind the bus boy.

  “Poppy O’Toole,” I sing–songed back, raising one hand in greeting. We made sure to see each other every week, and the seven days that passed between brunches felt like an eternity. Some texts were usually fired back during the week, but neither of us had time for long phone calls, preferring to catch up face to face.

  Poppy sat down across from me, folded her long body into the booth, and pushed her just past shoulder length hair from her face. Her intense hazel eyes inspected me as she sat down, reaching a manicured hand out at the same time to snag a menu. Order first. Personal second. Business third.

  “How have you been?” I asked.

  Poppy – my daring, enchanting, brilliant, bold, all the things I coveted and wasn’t – friend, would have stories. Tons and tons of delicious and inspirational stories. And she didn’t disappoint.

  “So, get this,” Poppy said as she pulled her iPhone from her creamy beige tote while lifting her glass to her lips at the same time, “somebody actually tried to publish a novel about vampires and werewolves at war. I had to check a calendar because I didn’t know if we had gone back in time, like it was fucking 2008 or something. Isn’t that wild?”

  Most things were wild or crazy or simply insane, at least to Poppy. She spoke and dressed in a way that was reminiscent of old Hollywood glamor. Large sunglasses, perfect hairdo, bright red lips. Had she been sitting alone in this restaurant, incoming patrons might think they’d traveled back in time. I shook my head. She also managed to talk so quickly, going through two or three points in a span of one breath. I was used to her verbal detours since we’d been friends for ages, since right after I published my first book. Poppy was truly my only real friend in the city.

  “Did you give it a shot?” I asked.

  “No way,” Poppy said with her trademark chiming laugh.

  She didn’t just speak in an explosive geyser of words. She spoke at a volume louder than normal, drawing stares of appreciation or envy, and sometimes outright annoyance, to our table. A young waiter walked back to take our order, and Poppy leaned in, batting her false eyelashes, and flirting as if she were a cougar on the prowl, giving him both of our orders.

  Once he retreated, she sighed and looked at me. “Okay, I can’t take it anymore.”

  Our plates wouldn’t arrive for a few minutes, so we used the time to chat and caffeinate. Once we got going, we could spend the better part of three hours at the table. The wait staff didn’t mind because our lingering meant a big, fat tip. More than they’d make if our table turned over to another diner.

  “What?” I asked, eyes twinkling with excitement. This was all part of the preamble. I plastered a wicked smile on my face because I knew exactly what she wanted. A stage, and a rapt audience of one.

  “The new idea,” Poppy said in a rush while clapping her hands. “Oh, I’m so excited!”

  I inhaled and exhaled. An idea had popped into my mind like an epiphany not too long ago, and every time I remembered that sublime moment, shivers traveled up my arms. It was perfect, a blend of modern times and Jane Austen regency. Me. On the page. Trademark Lydia Singleton. Even more thrilling, I knew my readers would love it as much as I did. And that meant sales and the resulting cash. Good for me and good for Poppy.

  “It’s about a woman who moves from New York City to London and falls in love with an earl,” I said, feeling an involuntary smile spread on my face as I said so. Lydia’s face didn’t reveal any of her thoughts.

  “Hmm…”

  “I have to admit; it’s very old school, but still new, still now,” I went on before she could really get off on a tangent, “and I think I can stretch it out to a trilogy.”


  Poppy nodded, finally giving her approval along with a brilliant smile. Her expressions could light up a room. And when she was mad… her face could clear it. I could think of tons of story ideas, and I had, but it never really, truly felt real until I talked to Poppy and received her stamp of approval.

  “I love it,” Poppy declared. “Very Bridget Jones meets Sense and Sensibility. I hope you’ll have fun writing it. Because when you have fun writing a book, it’s gold. Pure one thousand dollars an ounce gold. Or maybe platinum.” She gave me a wink and then chewed her bottom lip, smearing her crimson lipstick across her vibrant teeth.

  Usually, I secluded myself away in Aurora, my tiny New York hometown, to write, but I returned her excitement with my other piece of good news.

  “I’m staying here,” I announced.

  Poppy’s eyebrows rose. “In the city?” she asked, leaning forward. “You’ve never stayed in the city to write. What happened to the noise, the hustle and bustle, the numerous distractions?” As she spoke, she put the back of her hand to her forehead and feigned passing out.

  “I’ve sublet this tiny little apartment in Manhattan,” I explained, laughing at her drama. “It has a tremendous view of the skyline. I’m going to test the difference between the inspiration I feel at home and here.”

  “And you’re only telling me now?” Poppy nearly shouted, smacking her lips after a gulp of her latte. “Lydia Singleton, I thought we were friends.”

  I held up a conciliatory hand. “I just signed the papers and moved my things in last week. I knew I’d be seeing you today, so I thought I would wait and tell you in person.”

  Poppy shook her head. The waiter stopped by our table to pour more coffee. Our conversation paused as he did so. Once he left, Poppy leaned forward.

  “So, I can set up some book signings? This is going to be so much fun!” Poppy had her phone in her hands, already typing a note to her assistant to set them up. I nodded, although the action wasn’t needed. Poppy had already sped past me again.

  “I would love to do some signings,” I said, “we should probably work something out then, at least so I can meet the goals.”

  “You’re very wise, Lydia Singleton.” Poppy’s nod sent her glorious mane of hair bobbing around her face.

  We spent the next hour eating quiche, moaning over the scrumptious fare, and drawing a calendar on a paper napkin. Poppy sipped her vanilla latte as she worked out almost every day of my life for the next few months. I loved my books, they were like my children born from my brain as opposed to my loins, and I loved meeting my fans. A change of pace would be exciting. I enjoyed being in the city, and my current publicity tour had brought me into the city for the next few months. Alas, the plan reeked of perfection.

  “There,” Poppy said and gave a huge fist pump into the air above my head. She put down her pen, obnoxiously bright magenta with glitter, the only one she could find in the deep depths of her bag. “And maybe you’ll find someone while you’re here. The one. Your heroines are always so lucky. They always manage to find true love. They always manage to find someone who cares about them. Sees them. Makes them come on the first try.”

  “It’s fiction. They have to,” I joked. Even though I was the novelist, Poppy was the dreamer. “Vaginal orgasms are the norm on the page even though they’re more elusive in real life.”

  “Do you mean to tell me, Lydia Singleton, that a man has never found your g–spot?” The beginnings of a smile tugged Poppy’s lips upward and her eyes danced with mirth.

  “I seem to date chronic underperformers,” I replied with a long–suffering sigh. It seemed sex was a popular topic of conversation, and I just didn’t have anything to contribute. It had been so long I wondered if my vagina had grown rusty.

  “Maybe you should include a map inside the front cover of your next book. A visual. The pussy road map.” As Poppy gushed, she got more and more excited about her idea. “It could be huge! Like a public service for the sisterhood. Oh, I can already see you on Oprah. Maybe it could be a book club selection.”

  I drowned out her spastic speech for a few blissful moments as I considered the possibility of that kind of fame and fortune. No. Not for me. I was happy with my little sliver of the publishing pie. Even though I wrote the most fantastic panty–melting scenes and possessed oodles of literary experience, in spite of all of this passion and love I’d created, I had none.

  “There’s something else,” I said, interrupting her tirade.

  In the few moments I’d gifted to myself, she’d already fantasy booked me on Jimmy Kimmel and as a celebrity host of Saturday Night Live. Something else loomed in my consciousness that I hadn’t thought to bring up until now. Poppy put her phone down and leaned in.

  “I’ve been getting these… letters. Fan letters from a man here in NYC.” Poppy raised her eyebrows, automatically interested. I’d said the magic word that opened the gate to Poppy’s undivided attention. Man.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  I pulled the most recent letter from my worn tote bag, not in nearly as pristine condition as Poppy’s, and handed it to her. She took it, her hazel eyes getting wider and wider as she read.

  “I can’t believe a man actually put pen to paper instead of communicating electronically. How chivalrous, how gentlemanly, how… romantic! He has such a way with words.” Poppy clutched the worn paper to her ample chest and sighed as she fluttered her eyes closed.

  I cringed. “Don’t get so excited. He’s an actor, currently starring in this Pride and Prejudice adaptation off–Broadway.”

  I had to write him back but wasn’t sure what to say. The first letter had come to my home in Aurora, shocking me. Who got mail like that anymore, let alone fan mail? All my fans were female and tended to troll my social media accounts to interact with each other as well as me, their favorite author.

  This guy’s hand–written notes were the first old–school fan mail I’d ever received in my career. I’d tried to ignore him until curiosity reached my brain and wormed its way inside. Since my first handwritten response back to him, the letter writer, Tristan Markham, had turned it into a habit and our correspondence now occurred weekly.

  I had to admit to myself that Poppy was right about the romantic part, and I blushed when I thought about it. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed.

  “You’re blushing!” Poppy practically shouted, rubbing her hands together with glee. “Oh, you like this old–fashioned man. How titillating! And his play… where off–Broadway? You know the location can make all the difference. Many off–Broadway theaters are just as prestigious.”

  “He said in his letters that he’s hopeful for a move.” In the past couple of months, I’d learned more about the inner politics of stage acting than I ever thought I would know. Poppy handed the letter back to me.

  “We should go see it,” Poppy said with wide eyes, already concocting her next plan and probably strategizing on how she could turn it into free publicity. “I’m sure I could get tickets for us. Even a matinée if we have to. I have connections, you know. I could pull some strings.”

  “No,” I said, slipping the letter back into my bag. The letters amounted to my first thrilling school–girl fantasy crush in years. I didn’t want to burst that bubble yet because I was drawing inspiration from the feelings. “That would be so obvious. He’d know. I thought I would just write him again. I haven’t written since I moved into the sublet.”

  “Lydia, this is true romance. This is what we’ve been waiting for. The thing that could launch you into the stratosphere. You have it. Grab it by both hands, girlfriend.”

  I chewed my bottom lip. “I’m still not sure he isn’t some crazed stalker fan, and he might be. It’s a big possibility.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “Or he could be the love of your life, and you have the beginning of your relationship in letters. How much more Pride and Prejudice can you get? ‘If I loved you less, I could talk about it more,’” she quoted.

  “
That’s Emma,” I corrected her, unable to help myself. I prided myself on my expertise of all quotes Austen. In stressful situations, I often spouted many of her literary passages off the top of my head, embarrassing myself in mixed company.

  “Oh, same thing,” Poppy rushed in to poo–poo my course correction. “They are, don’t try to fight me on that. They all use letters to communicate as they did back in their century. That’s the point I’m making.”

  “We’ve only been corresponding for a couple of months,” I lifted a shoulder, “if that. I’m not sure I could even call it a crush.”

  But I could feel myself falling down the rabbit hole of fantasy more and more after every letter. It was the way he wrote prose, so perfectly. It was almost as if we’d known each other our entire lives, and he was sweeping me away with all of his thoughts, his goals, and dreams. I knew he was lovely, intelligent, and kind. I knew I could be attracted to him on personality alone without even seeing him. And how ugly could an actor be?

  “You should meet him,” Poppy said as if reading my thoughts. Damn. She always did that. She stopped, speared me with her knowing look like she knew best. “Is he the reason you’re staying in the city? He is, isn’t he? You’re going to stalk him off–Broadway!”

  I shook my head, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. It was a part of the reason, but not the whole reason.

  It wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

  Total, complete and utter bullshit, my inner critic left a scathing review.

  “I really do have some publicity things to attend to,” I said.

  Since I was a self–published author, and constant and consistent publicity kept my brand alive, if I let my foot off the gas pedal for even one day, success tried to plummet downward into a spiral that headed straight off the cliff. I had just recently found success and wanted to keep the momentum going as long as possible. My success and my career as a writer meant everything to me. Everything.

  “At least consider going to see his show,” Poppy said, “what harm could there be in that? No one will even question you staring at the stage… at him. It’s expected. You can look your fill and then make a decision as to whether or not you want to meet the guy.”