Page 28 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

As I step out of Hugh’s office, my heart pounds. I put down a payment on the house… My house . After months of dreaming, of saving every penny, it’s finally happening, thanks to this fake arrangement with Oliver.

My phone buzzes in my hand. Speaking of Oliver…

Oliver: Do you have time to teach me how to paint? I want a lesson.

Me: Why? You know your mom could give you professional lessons.

Oliver: She’s busy and I would prefer my wife.

My fingers hover over the screen, my stomach doing a little flip. There's something unexpectedly sweet about him choosing me. Like he actually wants me there.

Oliver: It'll make for good social pics. Warne will see them.

I can almost see him typing that second message quickly, as if he needed to justify the first one to himself as much as to me. Sometimes it’s too easy to forget this is all for show.

Me: Could you come by Tills tonight before my 6pm class starts?

Oliver: I’ll be there. Do you need me to bring anything?

I hesitate, then decide to share my news. It feels important that he knows since he’s the reason it’s happening at all.

Me: No, but I just paid the down payment on the house. It’s really happening.

There’s a brief pause before his reply comes through.

Oliver: Congratulations!

I stare at the word longer than I should, tucking my phone away before I can overthink anything, and then head to work.

The hours crawl by, and before I know it, it’s nearly five in the evening. I’m already at the studio, the light outside starting to shift.

I set up a station and lay out all the tools he might need, checking everything twice. I tap my finger on the edge of the table, wondering if there’s something I’ve forgotten, but a knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts.

I open it to find him standing there in his work uniform.

“Didn’t have time to change,” he answers my silent question as he steps through the door and heads straight to the small easel on the table.

“You better focus if you don’t want to get paint on that suit.” I close the door and watch as he sits down.

“If I’m as careful with the paint as you are with your instructions,” he says with a wry smile, “I’m sure I’ll walk out of here without having to throw away this suit.”

My mouth drops, and a small, pained noise leaves my mouth. “You wouldn’t throw it away.”

He shrugs. “My cleaner has tried before, but the paint won’t come out.”

“I could get it out at home.” My lips slam shut.

We lock eyes, and it’s like an elephant in the room. Home…

“What will I do when you leave?” he says, playfully poking my arm. The thought of walking away from this house, from him, creates an unexpected hollowness in my chest.

“Find my replacement,” I joke, but it dies on my tongue when he speaks.

His expression shifts into something more vulnerable. “You’re irreplaceable.”

Is this still part of our act, or something else? If I let myself believe it’s the latter, it would make leaving so much harder when the time comes.

I pretend his words didn’t make me shudder and focus on the task; otherwise, we’ll run late.

“I’ve chosen a painting for you to save time,” I say, turning to face the setup.

“Is it easy? I need easy,” he says from behind me.

I twist to face him, lifting my eyebrow. “Oliver, when the hell have you taken the easy option?”

He points to the floor. “Now. I need to be good at art.”

“Everyone is good at art.”

He crosses his arms. “Not according to Warne.”

“Art isn’t about perfection; it’s about feeling.” I walk to the canvas I’ve prepared on the easel in the corner of the classroom, where I’ve sketched the outline of a tree similar to the one hanging in his bedroom. He walks over to get a better look. “How does that make you feel?”

“It makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay.” He straightens, and I face him with a small smile.

My heart is trying to jump out of my chest. Not from anxiety or fear, but from the realization that Oliver might be seeing me in a way few people ever have.

“Good.” I clasp my hands together to hold back my excitement.

He exhales heavily, looking around at the brushes. “Tell me where to start.”

I point to the chair. “Take a seat, and I’ll explain.”

He does and so do I. Then, grabbing the pencil, I hand it to him. “I would outline the tree first.”

He takes the pencil, and just as I think he’s going to begin, he lowers it and twists to look at me. “I can’t have you watching me. It's adding too much pressure.”

“Alright, I’ll start setting up for the class. Would that make you more comfortable?” I’ve always hated when people hover while I paint; the pressure and judgment. But another part of me is curious to see his process.

“Yes. Thank you.” He brings the pencil up, and the scratching along the paper has a calming effect on me. I move around every now and then, glancing over to see him. Finding his lips parted, head close to the paper, and his eyebrows pinched. I snap a picture for him before returning to my task.

“Done,” he announces a little while later. I walk over to check it out, and he’s done a pretty good job.

I give him a genuine smile. “Nice. Now it’s time to paint.” I point to the tray full of different colored paint.

“You can stay for this if you want,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.

Of course I want to see, so I quickly take my seat before he changes his mind and watch him dip the brush into the green paint.

I get lost in his strokes, and I don’t know how much time passes, but when he’s done, I feel like I was suddenly woken up from a trance.

The tree is technically not perfect, but there’s heart in it.

I take a picture of his work and then one with him and the painting.

Then he snaps a picture of us with the art to put online for Mr. Warne to see.

“Can I take it home?” He looks at the canvas, then back at me, his eyes searching, as if my answer matters.

I lean my elbow on the table, holding my head in my hand, feeling content in this shared moment. “Yeah, you can. Just be careful for a few hours while it dries.”

“Noted, thanks.”

We lock eyes, and the room feels hotter. His blue gaze burns brighter, neither of us looking away.

“I better finish getting ready,” I breathe out, suddenly aware that the class will arrive soon. I stand, but just as I turn, his fingers curl around my wrist, pulling me back gently so I land in his lap, my heart racing immediately.

Our eyes lock. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my lips. I’m aware of how little time we have before people arrive, but right now, I don’t care.

“Fuck, Karley,” he mutters, as if he’s in pain.

“What?” I whisper.

He grabs my chin and brings his lips to mine, capturing my gasp into his mouth. The first touch sends electricity through me. When his tongue meets mine, tasting of mint, I melt against him.

I slide my hands into his hair and pull him closer.

His hands move to my hips. Things are escalating, and there’s no way to stop myself.

I've wanted him for so long, and it’s even better than any dream I’ve had.

We’re crossing a line we can’t uncross, and it complicates our arrangement in ways I’m not ready to think about.

His mouth controls the pace, which is slow yet strong. I follow it easily.

The chatter of the group outside jerks me out of his lap and into reality. What was I thinking? I almost trip over his leg, trying to straighten myself. I knock a few paintbrushes on the floor, and when I lean down to grab them, my hands fumble picking them up and a brush grazes my cheek.

He chuckles as he rises from the chair. Breathless, I shoot him a look that says shut up .

Flustered, I move to the door and open it, so he can leave and the group can come in.

He follows, and I look at the door frame, hoping to avoid his eyes.

Too scared to see regret in them. My breath hitches when he steps closer, his hand touching my face, bringing my eyes to his.

What I see staring back makes my knees buckle.

A longing fire. One that matches my own.

I realize he kissed me. He initiated it. What does that mean, and where does that leave us?

“Come here,” he says, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the present.

My eyebrows pinch as I step closer to him.

“You have paint here.” His hand grabs the back of my head as his thumb rubs along my cheek. I swallow roughly, his smell cocooning me and making me melt with its familiarity.

My lips are parted, but no words leave them.

He leans forward, capturing my lips in an all too brief kiss, and then winks at me before leaving with his painting.

I watch the second group of the night head out one by one, their laughter lingering in the distance, and with a sigh, I grab a rag and start wiping down the table.

But my mind is miles away, replaying tonight’s kiss with Oliver.

I can’t hold it in any longer; I need to talk to someone.

Pulling out my phone, I dial Evelyn’s number.

She picks up after the first ring. “Hey? I’m at work. What’s up?”

My palm flies to my forehead. “I’m sorry, I can let you go,” I say, though I can hear the desperation in my voice.

“No, it’s okay,” she says quickly. “I’ve got five.”

I take a deep breath, barely able to contain my excitement. “Oliver kissed me.”

There’s a split-second pause. Then she lets out a short laugh. “Karley! I said quick, but don’t skip details. How did this happen?”

I laugh, sinking into the chair Oliver was in just a few hours ago. My hand brushes over the table where his fingers had rested, and a warm thrill runs up my spine. “He asked me to give him a painting lesson. He needs to show the gallery owner he doesn’t just pretend to like art.”

Evelyn chuckles. “I’m a little lost, but keep going. I want to get to the good bit.”

“Well…” I say, my cheeks growing warm, “we were sitting next to each other while he painted, and then…I got up to walk away. That’s when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his lap.”

“Oooh,” she whispers. “And then you kissed him?”

“No, that’s the thing,” I whisper, as if speaking it out loud would somehow lessen the magic. “He kissed me.”

“That’s amazing, Karley. I’m so happy for you.”

“Relax,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but the grin spreading on my face betrays me. “It was just a kiss.”

“Uh-huh. And… how was it?”

I close my eyes as memories flood back, the heat, the intensity, the feel of his lips on mine. How was it?

Hot.

Sensual.

Addictive.

Passionate.

“Everything I hoped for,” I whisper.

“Damn, girl!” She laughs. “Can you imagine if he’d been a sloppy mess? Imagine your crush kissing like a frog?”

I wince, laughing. “Ugh, gross. But he was nothing like that. It was… perfect.”

“So…” she says slyly. “Are you going home to him now? What’s going to happen next?”

My heart pounds at the thought of stepping back into the house, finding him waiting up for me, the possibility of feeling his lips on mine again. Nerves swarm my stomach. “I don’t know.”

“Do what feels comfortable,” she says. “But I better get back to work before I get fired.”

“Thanks for risking your job for me,” I say, my heart full.

“For you, anytime.”

I hang up and finish cleaning, my mind replaying our kiss. As I head out, I quickly call Amber and check in.

Just calm down , I tell myself as I park the car and get out, stomach twisting as I ready myself to go inside. I take steadying breaths with each step closer to the house, then push the door open, half-expecting to see him waiting.

But as I step in, the hallway is dark. No light peeks out from his room, the entire house is silent. My heart sinks, heavy and cold. He’s… gone to bed?

I stand there, my excitement plummeting into something hollow. I replay our kiss once again, every touch, every glance, and wonder if it meant something different to him. Maybe I was just an itch that needs scratching, a moment of weakness, and I was just… there.

Without another thought, I storm upstairs, my footsteps heavy, each step a beat of anger and hurt. I walk into my room, shut the door, and sit on the edge of the bed, too furious to cry.