Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance (75 page)

He might do anything next – burn it all down, sell it, give it away, or build it up until he owned every damn thing on the planet, who knew?

What he did do next just about gave me a heart attack.

Three weeks to the day after I rushed out of Mom’s front door into the storm, I came back in that door with Devon at my side.

He loomed over my shoulder, actually, being disgustingly tall and gorgeous while wearing an ivory black three-piece Caraceni suit from Milan that I’d tried to tell him was way the hell over the top for one of Mom’s informal Saturday dinners – complete with sapphire cufflinks and a matching tie of Belgian silk, seriously?

He held a pan of the finest lasagna known to man or woman in the crook of one immaculate arm – growing up around cooks teaches you a thing or two about preparing pasta, as it turns out – while in his other hand he carried a bottle of wine that was probably worth as much as the entire contents of the house.

And while I may not have been dressed for dinner at a four-star restaurant or anything, I will proudly say that I brought a covered plate of the best cheddar biscuits on Planet Earth, along with two loaves of fresh-baked bread because low-carb diets come from the devil.

Once she relieved us of our contributions to the meal, Mom greeted us with a giant, two-person-spanning hug, then pulled back to eye Devon up and down. He flashed her his best panties-dropping smile, I punched him in the ribs just on general principles, and after Mom was done looking at the guy as if she were starving and he was a sirloin steak dripping with juices, she turned to me with one raised eyebrow.

“Ashley, you mean everything to me and I love you, but so help me, the second your back is turned I am going to be all over that man – I will rock his world as it has never been rocked before, the earth will move to the tune of about 8.0 on the Richter scale, and I may just have to ask you to leave and come back sometime next week, all right?”

I pasted on the best offended look I could fake while trying to keep from laughing, and threw in a patented Ashley Eye Roll for good measure. “Mom, do you think you could wait to plunder my boyfriend’s body until after dessert, at least?”

“Honey, his body
will
be my dessert, and you can just go get your own.”

Devon chimed in with his Mr. Calm and Reasonable voice. “Please, Ms. Daniels, I hardly think it will be necessary to send my lovely Ashley away. After all, with a bit of persuasion, I’m sure she’ll be willing to join us for a night of three-way passion, our bodies combining into one writhing, sweat-drenched mass of pleasure as together we reach heights of orgasmic bliss beyond anything that –”

The fact that he stopped talking at that point might have had something to do with the elbow I poked into his stomach, but it’s hard to say for sure.

I was sure I loved that crazy man right down to the ground, though.

The three of us crowded around Mom’s kitchen table for almost two hours. We enjoyed steak so rare it almost mooed, chicken fettuccine with Mom’s secret addictive sauce, fried onions, stuffed yams, Devon’s amazing lasagna, baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives and those little bacony bits, and butter-dipped spears of broccoli appearing in the role of ‘token green stuff.’

I had a little bit of the wine, Mom had a little bit more of the really excellent wine, and Devon went overboard crazy by indulging in one glass after another of, drum roll, sweetened ice tea with lemon, because some people just don’t know how to party.

We ate, we talked about everything, and we ate some more. I took a second helping of apple sauce so that no one could accuse me of not eating healthy, sort of, and I asked Mom when the heck she was going to give in to my attempts to move her into a better place.

She sighed, said I had better things to spend my money on than moving her into some huge palatial home that would be a pain in the ass to clean, and when did I plan on moving out of my own microscopic apartment, hmmm?

Devon spooned up a generous portion of steaming mashed potatoes, drenched it in gravy, and observed that if Mom and I would simply move into his filthy huge mansion, then we could all live out his three-way sex fantasy every night. 

I scooched my chair right up against his so I could give him a solid kick in the shins, he just grinned and looked at me with his wicked bedroom eyes, right in front of Mom – and somehow, I never moved my chair away again. I stuck my tongue out at him for being exasperating, I reached over to help myself to this and that off his plate, and I ended up nestling against his side like some goofy lovestruck teenager.

I felt goofy. I also felt great, and Mom, being all understanding and class, pretended not to notice my severe silliness. Meanwhile, Devon just sat there being all tall and regal and overdressed, letting me lean into him while he smiled a quiet, secret little smile.

I didn’t trust that smile, no way – and I would have called him on it, but just then Mom decided it would make swell dinner conversation to start peppering Devon with nosy, lurid questions about, I swear to God, the sexual habits of all those actresses and models and whatever he’d been with in his pre-Ashley days.

Yes, really – she popped those elbows of hers up onto the table, propped her chin on her hands, and she just couldn’t get enough of hearing all the naughty little details, even though I threw a biscuit at her.

I also punched Devon in the arm, repeatedly, because he was more than happy to tell her which actresses liked to be tied up, who screamed and who wanted it six times a day, which models insisted on getting some in their dressing rooms, and which deviant positions and perverted toys were most popular with the rich and shameless.

He was like her own personal issue of the National Enquirer, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kill the adorable bastard or just laugh until I collapsed onto the floor in a heaving puddle of giggles.

Somewhere in there, we polished off the major part of the food. I was stuffed to the gills, Mom looked a bit sleepy and managed a discreet burp, and despite being as huge and calorie-intensive as he was, even Devon reached his limit. But there’s no excuse for ditching on dessert, and so we waddled into the living room to talk some more – hopefully not about insatiable Hollywood sex kittens – while dinner settled enough to make room for Mom’s world-class cinnamon apple pie.

Devon turned from gleefully nasty to charming, as he sat on Mom’s threadbare couch and I half-dozed against his arm. He told us the few stories from his childhood that were funny and sweet instead of ghastly and terrifying, while Mom curled up in her favorite recliner and gobbled the information down like candy, even though it was G-rated. She laughed, asked questions, and drank in his every word.

I listened too, I laughed and asked my own questions, and I was so damn happy. I was safe and warm with the two people I loved most in the world, and how could life get any better?

I found out when Devon announced that apple pie time had arrived.

“Ashley, I rather think that before your lovely mother reciprocates with stories of all your most embarrassing childhood moments – ”

“Mom, NO. Do not get into any of that stuff, please, I’m –”

“ – we should first enjoy some of her delicious fresh-baked cinnamon apple pie, which I believe should be ready just about now, correct?”

“Yeah, great, pie – but Mom, don’t. Just don’t, particularly not that one about how I threw up on the clown at my fourth birthday party, you always tell everybody that –”

“Ooh, honey, that is a good one – thanks for reminding me. Mr. Killane, did you know that Ashley has this weird fear reaction around clowns? I couldn’t believe it at the time, but right in the middle of everybody singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ she just up and –”

“What a magnificent story this promises to be – I’m sure I’ll want to repeat it to everyone I know, and I know quite a lot of people. But before you begin, perhaps Ashley might consent to retrieve that pie and bring it to us here, so we can all enjoy a bracing jolt of sugar as you tell the tale?”

I lurched to my feet with a sigh. How can you love somebody and want to shoot them in the same moment? “Fine, I’ll get the pie – but Mom, I’m begging you, not THAT story.”

I heard her giggle as I headed down the hall and turned the corner into the kitchen. Man, I was so doomed …

The pie sat cooling on the counter, sending seductive sugary sweetness steaming into the air – believe me, you can gain five pounds just smelling one of Mom’s pies. I popped it onto a tray, added three plates and some forks, and then set the whole thing down again while I looked for a knife.

Devon’s voice echoed from the living room. “Ashley?”

“Hang on, you big lug, I’m looking for a knife – be there in a second.”

I found the right knife, but didn’t this situation also demand whipped cream?

Devon spoke up again. “Ashley, there’s something I want to ask you.”

What was that strangled yelping noise? Mom?

“Devon, I swear, if you’re ravishing my mom right in the middle of her own living room – ”

“Ashley, honey, could you get back in here?”

“Geez, Mom, two seconds.” Why was her voice so high all of a sudden, and where the hell did she keep the whipped cream?

Now her voice shot up into a mousy squeak. “Baby, you need to come back in here right now.”

I found the can of whipped cream hiding behind the Crisco.

“Coming, you’re only seconds away from embarrassing me with that damn story, I swear.”

I picked up the tray with the pie and cutlery, and balanced it against my side with my right arm. In my left hand, I held high the can of whipped cream. As I marched back down the hall, I decided I was not above spraying both of them with it if it would keep the infamous Ashley-pukes-on-the-clown story from being told.

I stopped in the doorway of the living room.

I stared.

My right arm fell to my side, nerveless and shaking. Mom’s best cinnamon apple pie crashed to the floor, tray and silverware and all. Spiced apple filling and a perfect, feather-light browned crust splattered all over the carpet.

I stared some more.

After due consideration, I decided that my left arm didn’t work anymore either. The can of whipped cream thumped to the hallway floor and rolled away. I listened to it clink to a stop against the wall.

Devon was down on one knee.

In the middle of Mom’s living room, right next to her scarred old coffee table, Devon was down on one knee, holding a small black box opened to display a big diamond ring.

He stared deep inside me with those blue-violet eyes, eyes full of devotion, courage, and love beyond all measure.

“Ashley, you led me into a whole new world. You did not just save my life, but you showed me my life was worth saving. In every moment you give me all that I could ever want to live for, and I love you with all that I am. Ashley, will you marry me?”

I don’t remember walking or running or flying across the living room. I just remember falling into his arms for the second time in three weeks, and saying one word.

“Yes.”

And that’s how I ended up here.

That’s how I went from being five minutes late for work to standing alone in this small room at Saint Mary of the Angels, looking into a full-length mirror at the improbable sight of me, Ashley Daniels, in a wedding gown.

I don’t know that I recognize myself. The genius who designed this dress somehow managed to make my curves look flowing and elegant, draping me in folds of silk and satin that hug my body like a lover’s arms … like Devon’s arms.

He’s out there, waiting.

Out the door behind me, down a short side hallway, around a turn, through the doors of the main chapel and at the end of the aisle in front of the altar, Devon is waiting for me. He’s waiting for me, and he’s waiting to begin a life he could never have imagined having.

Me either.

Everyone’s waiting.

Mom’s waiting, front row and center, and I’m sure she’s crying her eyes out. I don’t think she’s stopped crying since that day in her living room, when I ruined a great pie and said ‘yes’ to the man I love more than life. I got Mrs. Hadfield to sit next to her, so Mom will have a strong shoulder to hang onto – although when I last saw Devon’s tough-as-nails housekeeper, she looked more than a little sniffly herself. The rest of his household staff is filling out the front pews, of course, since they’re more of a family to him than the Killanes ever were or could be.

Speaking of those assholes, I hope they’re watching all this, on bolted-to-the-wall TVs somewhere deep in the bowels of a federal prison, watching and wondering just where they went wrong. Aunt Emily the Evil One was right, guys – he was way too smart for all of you.

Too smart, too strong, too loving and brave to end up anywhere but here.

It’s almost time.

Lots of people are waiting and watching, and they’re keeping the security guys hopping. Jimmy has been stuck to me like glue all day – he’s outside the door behind me right now, and I just know that giant Samoan is staring his heart out at anybody who dares to enter the hallway. And a couple of hours ago, when Oprah herself thought she’d just stroll up to me with a microphone for an unscheduled interview? Well, I wouldn’t have minded talking to her, but nope – one withering stare and an actual raised eyebrow from Jimmy, and that woman jumped back with a muttered apology about an extremely urgent appointment she had somewhere else.

And now it is time.

The church’s bronze bells are ringing out twelve noon, and when that twelfth and last note sounds, I need to be standing outside the main chapel’s towering oak doors, waiting for them to swing open. Then it’s a long walk down the aisle, and after one gold ring and two “I do’s”, I’ll be Ashley Killane.

I don’t know what will happen after that, but I can’t wait to find out.

Sorry, but I have to get going, and right now – I refuse to be even five seconds late for this.