Page 37 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

“I have an idea. Let’s go out,” he says, sitting up with me still in his arms. I twist in his embrace, my brow furrowed in confusion. Here I was, thinking I was about to fall asleep, but the excitement in his eyes tells me there’s something else going on.

“What idea? Where are we going?” I ask, watching him closely.

“Come on, let’s get ready. I have a surprise for you.” He tugs my hands gently, his excitement infectious.

“What am I wearing?” I ask, a little amused by his sudden energy.

“That’s my girl.” He grins. “Anything you're comfortable walking around in.”

I slide the blankets off, my feet brushing against the cool wooden floor as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Before I can step out of the room, his voice stops me.

“We need to move your clothes in here.”

I freeze, turning toward him with a raised eyebrow. “You have no room for them.”

I don’t own much, never have. But Oliver? He has everything. A wardrobe full of suits, shoes, and shirts. All perfectly pressed and folded. His life is organized in a way mine never was. I saw it myself when I explored the house.

“I’ll make room.”

“It’s only upstairs.” I shrug, not thinking much of it.

He steps toward me, his hands resting gently on my waist as he gazes down at me, his eyes both soft and intense. “I want to make sure you're all the way in. No half foot out the door, waiting to run when our arrangement is up.”

My lips part, but I can’t find the words. He’s right. He’s completely right. Something flutters in my chest: surprise, hope, fear. I hadn’t expected this from him.

“If you make room, I’ll move my stuff,” I offer, despite the swelling in my chest. “Is that proof enough?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His thumbs brush slow circles against my sides, grounding me. “It’s a start. But I need more than just your stuff here. I need you here.”

The words hang between us, heavier than I expect.

“So, what are you asking for?” I whisper.

“I’m asking if this is real for you,” he says, swallowing roughly. “I want to know if you’re willing to date?”

Feeling the gravity of his words pulling me closer, it’s hard to take a full breath. “This is real for me too,” I whisper back, my chest tight with everything I feel. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here… with you.”

The confession leaves me feeling strangely exposed.

His breath catches slightly, and then he pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine. “Then let’s stop pretending this is temporary. Let’s not just be convenient for each other. Let’s be real. Whatever you want to call it, just as long as it’s us.”

I nod, my heart racing. “Okay. Us.”

It feels terrifying and freeing all at once. But mostly? It feels right. A shadow of worry crosses my mind as I think about Declan and what he would think about this. Would he see this as a betrayal or understand that something real has grown between us?

I rise onto my toes, my lips meeting him in a kiss that’s both tender and eager. “Are you sure you want to leave?”

A deep laugh rumbles from his chest as his hands tighten around my waist, pulling me closer. I can feel the beat of his heart against mine, steady and comforting. “You make me want to never leave. But I promise to date you first.”

“And you have to do it right now?” I laugh, feeling the heat between us, but also the sweetness of the moment.

“Yes.” He grins, nodding. “Now go get ready. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

I huff playfully, turning away as I head up the stairs.

As I climb, I feel like I’m floating. I pull on a pair of blue jeans, slip into my Chucks, tug a long-sleeve white top over my head, and then a light blue sweater for warmth.

Grabbing my purse, I head back down. I don’t bother with makeup and my hair’s looking surprisingly good today, so I leave it as it is.

When I reach the kitchen, Oliver’s tapping on his phone, but he stops as soon as I walk in, his eyes lighting up with a smile. “Ready?”

I nod, excitement bubbling inside me. “Where are we going? It’s eight o'clock at night.”

He flashes me a mischievous grin and opens the front door for me. I walk outside and climb inside the waiting car, trying to suppress my curiosity. I’ve always been the type to demand answers immediately, but there’s something sweet about letting him surprise me.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he teases, squeezing my hand.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, but the smile on my face betrays my excitement.

“We’re at stop one anyway,” he says, his voice full of anticipation.

The car comes to a stop. I glance out the window, my breath catching in my throat. We’re parked in front of Hudson Yards Vessel, the striking, honeycomb-like structure of bronze-colored steel and concrete glowing under the city lights.

“Are we going to climb the stairs?” I ask, trying to calculate how many flights it has. Sixteen stories… This could be a workout.

“No.” He chuckles. “We’re doing an art scavenger hunt.”

I blink. “Are you kidding?”

He shakes his head, a warm smile spreading across his face. “No. I want to make up for lost time, make new happy memories with you.”

My heart swells with gratitude as I lean in and kiss him.

“Okay, photo time,” he says, snapping a shot of the Vessel from an angle, the light playing off the metal. Then he pulls me into a selfie, our bodies close, my head resting on his chest as we hug each other tight.

“Where to next?” I ask.

“I promise we’re almost there.” His hand slips into mine as we walk down the sidewalk.

We stroll side by side, my heart racing with each step, until we reach the High Line. It’s over a mile-long elevated park that runs from Hudson Yards to the Meatpacking District, and as we wander along, I am in awe of the rotating art installations.

We pause in front of a large sculpture, and I ask a passerby to take our photo. As we stand there, the sound of an interactive audio installation suddenly bursts to life.

“That scared the daylights out of me.” I laugh, my heart still pounding.

“Look over there,” he says, motioning toward a vibrant video art display on a nearby building. The colors pulse and shift across the screen, almost alive in the night, glowing against the dark backdrop of the city.

“The next stop is Chelsea to explore the galleries,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I know they’re closed at this time of night, but we can peer in the windows. The lighting hits the artwork differently at night. Which one do you want to check out?” he asks.

He doesn’t even need to list them. I already know the major ones, and out of them all, there's one I’ve been dying to see.

“Gagosian Gallery.”

“Good choice. Ten minutes, and we’ll be there,” he replies, a content smile on his face.

True to his word, we’re there in no time.

I stand in front of the large glass windows of the gallery, peering inside.

The oversized sculptures and bold contemporary pieces are illuminated in the most stunning way, glowing softly in the dark night.

It’s as if the gallery was made to be seen at night.

The oversized orange Balloon Dog by Jeff Koons immediately grabs my attention. I stand beside Oliver, staring up at it, completely captivated by its playful, childlike nature.

“It really taps into that feeling of innocence, doesn’t it?” I say softly. “Like it’s meant to remind us of the simple joy of a kid with a balloon at a birthday party.”

I remember the surprise birthday party Amber and Wren threw me when they found out I’d never had one. They hired a balloon artist, and the dog was white, but seeing this massive orange version of it now makes me smile, bringing back all the happiness from that moment.

“Yeah, exactly,” Oliver says, his eyes soft. “I wonder if kids still love balloons like that? Do people still hire balloon artists?”

“No idea.” I laugh. “But I love how they’ve set it up so we can see it at night.”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he says, his arm brushing mine as we stand there.

“What about your gallery?” I ask, nudging him gently.

“You know what? That’s a brilliant idea.”

He pulls out his phone, snapping a quick photo of the Balloon Dog, then turns it toward us for a selfie.

After a few more moments spent admiring the art, Oliver checks his watch. “We need to keep moving,” he says, his tone light but urgent.

It’s just after nine, and before I can ask where we’re heading next, he speaks again.

“This is the best date ever.”

“How many dates have you been on?” I tease, my stomach twisting nervously as I try to ignore the unease crawling inside me.

“You answer first,” he says, clearly amused.

“No, I asked first,” I reply quickly. “I don’t care, Oliver. I promise. You’re with me now.”

He looks down at the concrete, thinking for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. “None since I was in my twenties. But none of them were like this.”

I smack his arm playfully. “Sure, sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, pulling me to a stop in front of the gallery. His hand runs through my hair, soft and tender. “I’ve never had this kind of connection before.”

I know exactly what he means. The way my heart races whenever he’s near, the way I can’t stop smiling when he looks at me, or how my stomach flutters when he kisses me. I’ve never experienced anything like this either.

We walk toward the Meatpacking District, where vibrant street art is splashed across every surface.

We stop to snap photos of three different pieces, but one mural in particular catches my eye.

The Love Letter Mural by James Goldcrown.

It’s a massive, spray-painted heart, full of intricate patterns and rich colors.

“At night, the colors really pop against the buildings.” I’ve been here before but never seen it like this. The city lights make it seem alive. I feel the love radiating from the piece, almost like it’s speaking to me.