The Billionaire's Matchmaker(2)

T.J. took a step closer. She swallowed hard. Reminded herself to breathe.

Maybe she was just hormonal, because she’d never reacted to him quite like that before, or maybe it was just that he had filled out, in a lot of ways and in all the right places. Or maybe it was because he had this confidence, a demeanor that said he owned this little space of the world, and that was intoxicating as hell.

“We should get some dinner, get caught up,” he said.

His proposal sent a trickle of temptation through her veins. “I…I can’t. I’m leaving for California tomorrow. A cross-country art journey kind of thing.” Journey was an understatement. This road trip was a chance at an art show that could take her career to the next level.

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. Maybe next time.”

“Our timing was never right, was it?” he said.

She shrugged. “We were two different people then.”

“Sometimes opposites attract—”

“And sometimes they repel. That I remember from chemistry class.” And from past history with T.J. He might be sexy as hell now, but she would bet dollars to gigabytes that he was still as technology focused as ever—even more so since it was his livelihood.

She was no longer the girl who’d talked him into skinny dipping in Geraldine Martin’s pool. Or the one who had convinced him to make them fake IDs so they could go bar hopping during junior year.

She was finally on the right track, rather than getting derailed by bad decisions. And she had no plans to entangle her world with T.J.’s, not after the way he had let her down years ago.

“Is that all you remember from chemistry class?” he asked.

No, she also remembered his patience in explaining the complex theories. The way he’d answered her every question, never making her feel stupid for not understanding chemistry. The hours he’d spent after school helping her study. How she’d begun to notice him and wonder about him, and want more time with him. But then when he had finally asked her to go out with him, she’d panicked and told him it would be better if they just stayed friends. Was that why he had let her down years later?

“That was all a long time ago,” she said finally. “Anyway, I need to get to my meeting with Mr. Bonaparte.”

She started to brush past him, but he put a hand on her arm. Just a whisper of a touch, but it jolted her. “Are you going by yourself to California?”

“I put up an ad, looking for a co-pilot. You know, someone to split the driving and the cost.” Babbling again. For Pete’s sake, what was wrong with her? Since when did a touch on her arm turn her into a chattering fool? She nodded toward the door. “Anyway, I better get to my appointment with Mr. Bonaparte.”

T.J.’s gaze held hers for a long time, as if he wanted to say something else. Then he slipped on his sunglasses again and gave her a nod. “Maybe another time.”

She almost agreed—a polite, auto response—then she stopped herself. Years ago, T.J. used to be her good friend, the person who had helped her survive puberty and high school and her mother’s constant chaos. But after T.J. left for college and Gabby stayed behind in Chandler’s Cove, they had lost contact and their friendship. She’d sent him a couple of emails, left him a voicemail when she’d needed him more than ever, and there’d been…nothing in return.

He completely ignored her efforts at staying in touch.

That had hurt. T.J. had been the one person she’d truly, completely trusted, the only one who knew the real Gabby. And when her life had crumbled and she’d needed him most—


No response. Nothing.

“No, T.J. I don’t think so,” she said. “You’ve never been much for staying in touch, and I’m not about to chase you for a return phone call.”

“Gabby, I need to explain about—“

She put up a hand. “It’s over, in the past. And so are we.”

A taxi pulled into the drive and honked. T.J. waved at the car then turned back to her. “I have to go, but I will be in touch. I promise.”

She just nodded and turned away. She waited until she heard the crunch of the taxi’s tires on the drive before she let out a long breath and refocused on the door of the mansion and her most important goal right now.

Her career. Mr. Bonaparte’s message, sent via his butler, could be her big break, and she intended to nail it down before she left town. This could be her chance to finally break into the competitive high-ticket art world. With Mr. Bonaparte’s connections, she could be designing pieces for corporations, other billionaires, maybe even city planners. She’d be taken seriously finally, rather than seen as a flighty, flaky artist who had made a mockery out of her career.

The criticism the art critic had written in the Tribune last year still burned in her mind. Even now, she kept the article in her wallet, a daily reminder to try harder, reach further. Not to let people down. She’d ruined that Chandler’s Cove mural, thumbed her nose at the people who had hired her to beautify the town, and that giant mistake haunted her still.

She climbed the smooth granite stairs of the Bonaparte mansion and rang the doorbell. A muffled gong boomed a low bass melody inside the house. A moment later, the door opened, and Cyrus, the elderly butler, peered down his pointy nose at her. The white-haired man wore the sour, exhausted look of overworked mortician. “Ah, Miss Wilson.”