The ten-minute wait for Brandon soon extends to thirty, my feet drum into the floor and I clench my phone in sweaty palms, waiting for a message to explain his lateness. Tree branches hang above me, providing relief from the heat but my underarm still perspires.
Curly hair’s card is still on the bench, the name written in Calligraphic letters at the top is David. After much contemplation, I snatch it and put it into my bag. I can rip it later.
A Google search of the name David whispered to me reveals nothing but an image of Brandon and a girl who looks less than five years old. Tapping on the link leads me to a site temporarily down, I hiss. Okay, this David guy is an unserious hustler. He will need to give me more than a name the almighty Google can not identify if he wants my help.
Brandon’s car, a black BMW, slows to a stop in front of me, I slide to the passenger side before he has the chance to get out, closing the door with more force than necessary.
“Elna.”
Throwing my bag on the backseat, I fasten my seatbelt. “Just drive.”
He doesn’t. I turn on the radio, he shuts it off. Still, I don’t glance his way. Folding my arms, my fingers sink into my palms and I hiss. The time on the dashboard sends new waves of anger rippling through me, I dig my nails into my palms and chew my lips.
Arriving one hour after our phone call, no explanations and he expects me to smile or throw myself at him. I scoff. Removing my sandals, I dump them in the back. For a brief moment, I toy with the idea of using the short heel to make a dent on his forehead. That way, he will know never to arrive late again. The thoughts send shivers down my spine, I rebuke myself for thinking that way. What is wrong with me and this recent violence?
“I told you I will be late,” he mutters when I continue staring out the window like there’s anything more interesting than the bunch of students coming out of the library. “Elna.”
To prove him wrong, I reach for my phone and he seizes that chance to uproot me from my seat to his laps. And all hell breaks loose. I slap, try to claw his eyes out but he grabs my wrists and my body vibrates with anger. He levels me a stern glare, I yank my hands from his grip to slap him. How dare him? After keeping me waiting, he still feigns anger.
“Elna,” he says, eyes locked with mine. The barely concealed anger in his eyes doesn’t leak to his voice, I try to slap him again but his grip on my wrists stops me. Holding my hands behind me, he frowns. “Why are you so mad at me? Did something happen?”
Pain travels to my shoulders, my mouth opens and closes before I can form a reasonable reply. “Yes, something happened.” I wince. “You. You happened. You kept me waiting here without...” I never finish my statement because tears roll from my eyes. “You.”
A look of panic crosses Brandon’s face, he releases my hands to wipe the tears leaking to my cheeks, launching into an explanation I don’t care for. Who keeps their wife waiting?
“You didn’t send me any text,” I cut him off and plug my fingers into my ears to avoid hearing his sorry excuses. My eyes follow his movement to his phone. “It didn’t deliver.”
Pointing at the messages on his phone, I say, “It didn’t deliver. See it. You should have checked.” His eyes linger on the screen, understanding dawns on him and he flashes me a contrite smile. I rub the spot I hit, massaging his reddened cheek. “Does it hurt?”
He chuckles, covers my small hand with his. “No. You hit like a lady.”
My head snaps to his face. “I’m a lady.” He nods with a pensive look like I said something profound and I can’t help giggling. “Sorry for hitting you. I was upset, I thought you forgot.”
YOU ARE READING
Mr Reluctant Billionaire || BWWM
Romance"I cannot love you, Elna." Grinding my waist against his groin, I cup his face and say, "Then fuck me." * * * When Elna's father first suggests an arranged marriage between her and Brandon Stark--the hot British billionaire--she is reluctant to go...
