I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance) (4 page)

"You've got to have your tech people do something about this," I said. "Everyone I've ever emailed in my entire life is in my contacts list. It's the most annoying goddamn thing."

"Did you turn off the auto-contact setting?" he called, over the sound of the sink running.

"I shouldn't have to," I yelled back. "Nobody wants this feature. Why is it default? Why do I need a contact entry for some shady online job posting I replied to six years ago? In my phone? It's a throwaway email address. It makes no sense."

"You need to turn off the auto-contact setting," he replied, patiently. "Some people like to keep track of everyone they email."

"Well, I can do that, by looking in my sent mail. Besides, that doesn't help me get rid of all the junk contacts that are already in there." I sat up, suddenly feeling very invested in this fight. Usually, technology problems made me feel like the most impotent moron on the entire planet, but it had just now occurred to me that I finally had the audience to change something. "I looked online. Lots of other people are complaining about it."

"People will complain about anything," he said. "The ones who like it aren't going to take the time to post about it online; they're the silent majority."

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you." I didn't phrase it like a question, because it wasn't.

He smiled, plopping down on the sofa next to me with a drink in his hand. "That's my job," he said.

I eyed him sidelong. "No, I didn't want anything, that's fine, thanks."

"Maybe you should get some rest," he suggested, gently. How could he be in such a good mood after traveling for six hours? I thought of all the tech conferences he had to go to, all the flights to the opposite side of the world - and it started to make a little more sense.

"I can't sleep," I said, leaning my head back on the cushion. I was tired, sure, but I was keyed-up from all the hustle and bustle. Being around large groups of people exhausted me like nothing else, especially when they were all exactly as stressed as I was. I had no idea how Daniel managed to maintain that preternatural level of calm all the time, but I both loved and hated him for it.

"I'm sorry you haven't heard back from any of the galleries yet," he said, cutting to the heart of the matter as usual. "I'm sure they'll get to you. If you want, I can make some phone calls…"

"No," I said, firmly. We'd had this discussion before. I didn't want my art on display somewhere because I was Daniel Thorne's wife. People were going to think that anyway - I didn't want there to be a single grain of truth to it. I needed to be able to tell myself that it was all based on my own merit as an artist.

"All right," he said. "That's very noble of you, but you know most people who get placed in galleries these days have connections. You wouldn't be doing anything that a thousand people before you haven't done."

"Doesn't matter," I said, through a yawn. "It's for me. I don't want to be one of those artists."

He shook his head, letting himself slump further into the sofa. "Well, I'm sure one of them will come to their senses eventually," he said. "It's only a matter of time."

"Sure," I said. I hated it when he took that "public relations" tone with me, telling me what I wanted to hear. But it wasn't worth fighting over.

The wait was killing me. I hadn't been able to draw anything new since I'd done my submissions; I was waiting on pins and needles, even though I knew, realistically, that I was buried under piles of unsolicited portfolios. The whole thing was an exercise in futility anyway. What did a gallery placement mean, anyway? One person's opinion. Maybe I'd sell my work, but so what? It wasn't like we needed the money. Selling one of my drawings was a dream of mine when I was a kid, but now that I no longer lived paycheck to paycheck and prayed my lights wouldn't get shut off, it just didn't have quite the same appeal.

Just my luck - when I finally grew enough courage to actually pursue a career as an artist, it didn't matter anymore.

***

"Can I get you something to drink?" Daniel drifted over to the sofa, absentmindedly pushing a few coffee table books a few inches to the left as he sat down. "Espresso? Water? Scotch and soda?" He switched on a smile, and the interviewer smiled back, then ducked her head down a little and pushed her hair behind her ear.

I turned back to my plate of leftover lo mein, letting my fork slip from my fingers and clatter against the plate a little more loudly than was absolutely necessary.

"No, thank you," said the interviewer, taking a seat at the sofa across from him and smoothing her skirt very carefully. She had a sort of soft, ingénue way about her that made me feel just slightly nauseous.
 

"I was just kidding about the scotch," Daniel said, still smiling like he was in an ad for a dentist's office. "Are you even old enough to drink?"

She was giggling. "Of course! But it's a little too early for that, I think." I was surprised I could hear her over the sound of my own teeth grinding together.

This was only the third or fourth time that Daniel had allowed himself to be profiled in his own home, but it should have been old hat by now. I still felt invaded each time - especially when they sent these young girls who looked like they should be modeling for Abercrombie & Fitch instead of interviewing a tech mogul.

Okay, that was unfair. And I wasn't a jealous person - really. It was just that the pattern had become so obvious that it was absolutely tiresome. Every single one of them had the same mannerisms, the same soft laugh, the same charmingly naïve questions. And then, when I'd finally go and read the damn thing, I'd notice how they liberally reworded or sometimes completely changed the questions in order to shed his answers in a completely different light. It was a sickening process, really. I could understand why Daniel had avoided the whole thing for so long. Even now, he refused to look at the finished products and he'd shush me loudly if I ever tried to bring up the topic. He was certainly smarter than I was, just avoiding it entirely - but I couldn't understand where he got the will power.

This particular interview didn't go on too long, despite the girl stammering and hesitating over every question. When it was finally, blessedly over, and he saw her to the door, I let out an audible sigh just after the lock clicked back into place.

"I know," he said, shuffling in my general direction, sounding as weary as I felt. "I know - but that's it, for a while at least. I'm not saying yes to another one for at least a few months."

"That's what you said last month," I grumbled, rubbing my temples. "But you just can't resist the opportunity to talk about yourself."

"It's a whole new demographic," he said, completely ignoring my jab. "It's one thing to be profiled in another financial journal for middle-aged WASPs, but this was an opportunity to put myself in front of the people who will hold all the buying power for the next fifty-to-sixty odd years. They don't just want a device, they want a lifestyle - and they want a figurehead behind it, someone they can believe in and emulate."

I squinted at him. "You know you're not being interviewed
right now
, don't you?"

"Oh, God. Where am I?" he said, dryly. "I think I might actually have that scotch and soda - care to join me?"

"It's noon," I said. "You're going insane."

"The word is 'eccentric,'" he said, with the first genuine smile I'd seen from him all morning.

"Yeah, okay," I replied, picking up my plate and bringing it over to the sink. He caught me halfway through my journey with his arm around my waist, hugging me close to him and slowly breathing in the smell of my hair. I smiled, and relaxed against him, still holding the plate. "But if you start stacking tissue boxes I'm having you committed."

We didn't have any plans for the rest of the afternoon, so I wandered into my studio after a while and sat there with a pencil in my hand, waiting. For what, I didn't know. I knew enough from my years as a professional designer that I couldn't sit around and wait for inspiration to hit me on the side of the head, like a brick. I had to work for it. But every time I tried to make a single stroke, I would stop, thinking about how a gallery owner might judge it - when they looked at it, what would they see? Would they ever, in a million years, consider putting it on display? As I tried to form shapes in my mind, I could hear my inner critic poking holes in every idea that I had. Knowing that my work was out there, waiting to be weighed and measured and probably found wanting - it was just too distracting.

After filling several pages with meaningless doodles, only to be crumpled up and thrown in the garbage, I tossed everything aside with a massive sigh and went back out to the living room. Daniel had the TV on, which was odd enough in and of itself. I actually still wasn't sure why he owned one; I'd seen him watching it maybe three times during the entire tenure of our marriage, and he never actually seemed to be
watching
it. So that was the other odd thing - on this particular occasion, his eyes were glued to the screen with rapt attention.

He didn't even seem to notice when I sat down next to him. I honed in on the screen. It was footage of something running down an assembly line in a factory. I leaned forward, trying to figure out exactly what it was that could have fascinated him so.
 

The narrator was droning on, something about circuits, and then in the next shot, I realized that it was Daniel's latest phone design.

"Wow," I said. "A how-it's-made PBS feature at two in the afternoon. You can't pay for this kind of marketing."
 

He was frowning a little. "They didn't even try to get in touch with me," he said. "I would have filmed something for it."

"Please tell me this isn't actually bothering you."

He was drumming his fingers on his leg, as if he were playing an invisible piano. "I don't know if you realize how strange it is to watch this," he said. "Half of what they're saying isn't even right."

"I guess I don't." I didn't bother reminding him that the people who were judging my creative work weren't talking about it on TV; I just had to guess at what they were thinking. After a while longer, sitting there in silence, I realized he wasn't going to tear his eyes away until the show was over, and I went to putter around in the kitchen, looking for something to cobble together into a dinner. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cooked a proper meal at home, and it seemed like something that might take my mind off of everything.

We didn't have much in the way of ingredients, so I told Daniel I was running to the store - at which he absently nodded - and made my way out into the sunshine.

There was still a slight chill in the air, as if spring hadn't quite made up its mind to get started. But it was beautiful, and after a long, grey winter, there was nothing quite like a spring breeze, even if it was a tad too brisk.

I closed my eyes for a moment at a crosswalk, soaking in the sun's warmth. I wasn't sure how so much of the year had already slipped by me. It was hard to believe it was already April, with the little flowers already blooming through the cracks in the sidewalk. When I reached my destination, I almost hated to step inside. But the bell rang cheerfully as I pushed the door open, and Louie, the aging hippie behind the counter, greeted me with a smile.

"I saved you a copy," he said, holding up last week's Forbes, whose cover teased an article called THE SECRET TO DANIEL THORNE'S SUCCESS . "No charge."

"Thanks," I said. "But no thanks. For the sake of my sanity, I really need to stop looking at that stuff."

"Sure, if you wanna be reasonable about it," Louie grumbled. "What do you want now?"

"I feel like cooking something for dinner that's going to take a few hours," I said. "Comfort food. Something that'll make the whole place smell good."

"Pot roast? I got some grass-fed beef that just came in from upstate. Fresh as it gets."

Instantly, I was transported back to Sunday afternoons of my childhood, remembering the herby, savory smells that would waft out of the oven when my mother opened it to check on our special dinner. It was pretty much the only meal she ever put any effort into - lovingly patting the chuck roast down with fresh herbs, laying it on a bed of onions and carrots and potatoes from the farmer's market, all swimming in rich red wine.
 

Yes. Perfect.

I picked out the biggest chuck roast I could find, beautifully marbled with fat. Cooking it wouldn't be a problem. I knew that Daniel had a ceramic Dutch oven pot that weighed about fifty pounds, because I'd dusted around it a few times when I was bored. He'd had a cleaning service before me, but I insisted he fire them so I had something to do when I didn't have drawing or yoga or one of the other dozen things I'd signed up for to occupy my time. After I'd picked out the herbs and vegetables and paid Louie and petted his tiny Yorkie that sat vigilantly on the counter, watching every transaction with eagle eyes, I ran to the liquor store across the street for a bottle of dry red from the Finger Lakes - one big enough for cooking
and
for drinking.

There was someone already at the register when I went up, so I started toying with my phone as I waited, tuning out the conversation since it didn't concern me. But after I'd skimmed a few emails I started to sense it had been an awfully long time, so I perked my ears back up and watched the scene unfolding in front of me.