Romancing the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #5)(24)
Author: Jessica Clare

“Can we start over?” He extended his hand to her. “Hi. I’m Jonathan Lyons. I make cars and have pissloads of money and I’m apparently pretty shitty at reading people.”

Her mouth quirked with amusement and she placed her hand in his. “Violet DeWitt. Schoolteacher and known to hold a grudge—no matter how petty—for a very long time.”

He gave her a soulful look with those dark eyes of his. “I don’t think you’re being petty, Violet.”

“I know. And I don’t think we can start over fresh. There’s just too much between us to ever clear the waters.” She looked down at her hand in his, but he was still holding it. It occurred to her that she should really pull away.

But she didn’t.

“Violet,” he said in a low voice, gazing down at their joined hands. “When I lost you ten years ago, I lost my best friend. All romantic entanglements aside, I really, really miss her.”

That stupid knot was back in her throat. “I know how you feel.”

“Can we start over, then? As friends? Whatever we had in the past can’t be forgotten, but I know that you’ve moved on and you’re not interested in me. As much as that hurts, I can live with that. But I’d really like to be your friend again, Violet. Please. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you.”

Can’t I? she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she mulled over his offer. Friendship, nothing more. Partners in solving the mystery of her father’s envelopes, and then she’d go back to her life minus one really big chip on her shoulder.

Could she do it?

She could.

Ever since she’d lashed out at Jonathan and sent him to his drinking binge, she felt . . . not exactly cleansed, but the wound she’d let fester inside her for so long had been cauterized with the confession. Seeing his response had made her realize that perhaps he wasn’t the evil, horrible villain she’d made him out to be. That Jonathan was just as human as she was after all this time.

And she couldn’t hate him anymore.

So she squeezed his hand, still locked in hers. “Friends. I think I can do that.”

The smile he gave her was brilliant, intense, and so Jonathan that it made her ache all over again. “I don’t suppose friends carry headache meds for my hangover?”

Violet gave him a smile. “You only get it if you promise not to drink anymore.” Her smile faded and she squeezed his hand again. “You really had me worried, you know. Just because I’ve been angry at you doesn’t mean I wanted to see you hurt yourself.”

“I know,” he said, staring down at their joined hands. He reached out with his free hand and traced a finger along the back of her hand, gliding over her knuckles. “I just . . . didn’t want to think for a while. It hurt too much.”

His fingertip brushed over her skin, sending tickling sensations through her body. She knew she should drag her hand away, but she couldn’t seem to make herself do it. So she squeezed his hand again. “You weren’t the only one hurt, you know.”

Again, he gave her that wounded-animal look that seemed to gut her. “I know, Violet. God, I know. That’s part of what’s eating me up inside.”

And what could she say to that? She pulled her hand from his—trying not to think about the feel of his fingertips on her skin, grazing delicate patterns there—and gestured at her suitcase. “So . . . are we going to start our madcap little journey again?”

“I’m ready if you are.”

“Um.” She considered his disheveled, hungover appearance. “Please tell me you’re going to let someone else fly the plane this time?”

He laughed. “For you, I can do that.”

She smiled.

—

A few hours later, they were buckling themselves into seats inside the private jet that Jonathan had chartered. Violet had taken one of the seats in the back of the plane, and Cade, Jonathan saw, took a seat in the front, most likely so he could give Jonathan and Violet some privacy to chat.

He decided maybe he wouldn’t kill Cade after all.

Jonathan slid into a seat across from Violet, pleased when she didn’t flinch or frown as he did so. Instead, she gave him a tentative smile and he returned it.

It was a fresh start. He was so f**king relieved that they were trying again that he didn’t even care that they’d vowed to be just friends. He’d take any piece of Violet he could get in his life. If he was friend-zoned permanently, then he’d live with that, just as long as she wasn’t glaring at him with hatred any longer.

Violet fastened her seat belt and tightened it. “Can I just say how happy I am that you’re not flying this plane?”

He tried not to gaze overlong at the way she smoothed her clothes and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Instead, he pulled out his phone and pretended to read something on the screen. “I’ve had hundreds of hours in the cockpit, Violet. I’m a good pilot.”

“Yes, but it feels weird to me to have someone I know driving it. You’re more fallible than a nameless, faceless expert.”

He smiled faintly. More fallible? “Because I’m human in your eyes?”

She looked startled, her gaze flicking to his. “I . . . guess so.”

Judging from the look on her face and the blush staining her cheeks, she didn’t like to think of him as human. He supposed it was easier for her to think of him as a monster, a jerk who’d left her and their baby high and dry. His gut clenched at the thought, and he felt the urge to vomit.

She had every right to think of him as the world’s biggest ass**le. Now he just had to prove to her that he was a regular man. A regular man who needed to hide the fact that he was still madly, ferociously in love with a woman who wanted nothing more than a tentative friendship.

But he’d do any amount of playacting to keep Violet at his side.

“So where are we going now?” Violet asked him, her hands clasped in her lap, her gaze focusing on him again. “You haven’t said.”

He drank in the sight of her, admiring her lush form, the way her dark hair brushed against her jaw until she tucked it back behind one of those ears that stuck out a little more than she liked. Her lovely dark brown eyes with the long lashes. Her small frame that seemed to be composed entirely of rounded curves that he could stare at for hours on end and never grow tired of.

“Jonathan?” She snapped her fingers at him. “Hello?”