Page 46 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

WILLOW

" A unt Willow! Watch this!"

I look up from the potato salad I'm mixing to see my seven-year-old niece Lizzy performing a wobbly cartwheel across the patchy grass of my parents' backyard. Her little sister Emma immediately attempts to copy her, resulting in more of a sideways tumble than a proper cartwheel.

"Amazing!" I cheer, setting down the wooden spoon to applaud. "Olympic gymnasts in training!"

The girls beam with pride before racing off to join their cousins, who are engaged in what appears to be a particularly chaotic game of tag around the ancient oak tree that’s stood in the backyard for generations.

The squeals and laughter of children fill the air, a soundtrack to the Harper family gathering that's as familiar as the smell of my dad's burgers sizzling on the grill.

I glance around the backyard, taking in the scene.

My father stands at his beloved charcoal grill, spatula in one hand, beer in the other, deep in conversation with my brother Cole.

My sisters Summer and Maya are setting up the mismatched collection of folding tables and lawn chairs that have served our family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

Harper—yes, Harper Harper—is arranging paper plates and plastic utensils while trying to keep her toddler son from eating the napkins.

It's chaotic and loud and perfect. Almost.

I pull my phone from my pocket, checking it for what must be the twentieth time this afternoon. No new messages since Damien's brief reply hours ago: Thanks for letting me know you arrived safely. In meetings now. Talk later.

I try not to feel disappointed. He's working. Solving a crisis. Doing exactly what someone in his position needs to do. I understand that, truly. But understanding doesn't stop the hollow feeling in my chest.

"Still nothing from Mr. Big Shot?"

I look up to find my sister Summer watching me, a knowing look on her face. At thirty-six, she's the oldest of us siblings and has always possessed an uncanny ability to read my mind.

"He's busy," I say, tucking my phone away. "Important business emergency."

"Uh-huh." Summer hands me a stack of napkins. "Hence the sad puppy eyes you've been sporting since you arrived."

"I do not have sad puppy eyes," I protest.

"You absolutely do." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "It's okay to be disappointed, you know. You were excited about bringing him here."

I sigh, adding more paper napkins to the old wooden holder because it gives me something to do with my hands. "I just wanted you all to meet him. And him to meet you. I thought it would be... I don't know. Significant."

"It would have been," Summer agrees. "But there will be other chances. Unless..." She studies my face. "You don't think there will be?"

"I don't know." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Damien’s world is so different from mine. From this." I gesture around us at the modest gathering.

Our parents' house isn't much—a weathered two-story farmhouse that's seen better days, with aging, mismatched furniture and appliances that are held together more by my dad's determination than anything else.

The backyard is large but plain, bordered by wild raspberry bushes and my mother's struggling vegetable garden.

It's worlds away from Damien's Park Avenue townhouse with its gleaming surfaces and designer everything.

"Different doesn't necessarily mean incompatible," Summer points out.

Before I can respond, our mother emerges from the back door, balancing a tray of condiments. "Willow, honey, could you go grab the green salad from the fridge? Your father's about to start serving the burgers."

"Sure, Mom." I set down the napkins and head inside, grateful for the task.

The kitchen is warm and smells of fresh-baked cookies. It's the heart of my parents' home, where we've gathered for countless meals and conversations over the years. The painted cabinets are outdated, the gold Formica countertops worn, but there's a comfort here that no luxury condo could match.

I open the ancient refrigerator and retrieve the large bowl of salad.

As I turn to head back outside, my gaze falls on a framed photo hanging on the wall—all six of us kids piled onto the living room couch, laughing at something long forgotten.

We were poor growing up, and there were plenty of times we struggled, but we shared a lot of happy days too. My parents made sure of that.

I wonder what Damien would make of all this. Would he see the beauty in our chaotic family gatherings, or would he feel out of place among the paper plates and plastic forks?

The sound of a vehicle outside on the gravel driveway drifts in through the open windows, drawing my attention.

Probably my youngest brother Cole's new girlfriend, the one he's been texting all morning.

I set the salad on the counter and peer out the kitchen window, curious to see what she looks like.

Instead, I see a sleek black town car pulling onto our long driveway.

My heart stops, then restarts at double speed.

It can't be.

But then the vehicle stops, the back door opens, and Damien steps out.

He's wearing a suit, and even from this distance, I can see how out of place he looks against the backdrop of our rural homestead. He says something to the driver, then straightens his shoulders and starts walking toward the house.

I nearly knock over a kitchen chair in my rush to get outside.

By the time I push through the screen door, my family has noticed our visitor too. Conversations halt, heads turn, and everyone watches as handsome, dark-haired Damien Langley approaches. I stand frozen on the back porch, unable to believe he's actually here.

He stops when he sees me, and for a moment, we just stare at each other across the yard.

"Is that him?" my mother whispers loudly from somewhere to my right .

I can't answer. Can't do anything but watch as Damien resumes walking, his pace quickening until he's standing at the foot of the porch steps, looking up at me.

"Willow," he says, my name both a statement and a question.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" I manage to ask. "I thought you had a crisis to handle in Florida."

"I did." He climbs the steps until we're face to face. "And then I realized I was handling the wrong one."

From the corner of my eye, I can see my entire family watching with avid interest. My father has abandoned his grill to stand beside my mother, spatula still in hand. My siblings are all frozen mid-task, and even the children have paused their games to stare.

"But Guardian Productions—" I begin.

"Can wait," he finishes. A small smile quirks the corners of his mouth. "Some things are more important."

The sincerity in his voice makes my heart skip. "Damien?—"

"I've never broken a promise before," he cuts in, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not once in my entire life. My word has always been something I could stand behind. Until today, when I promised to be here with you, and then I let business take precedence."

I swallow hard. "It's okay. I understand."

"It's not okay." He takes my hands in his, seemingly oblivious to our audience. "And I don't want you to understand. I want you to expect more. To demand more."

"Damien, you don't have to?—"

“Yes, I do.” His deep voice is firm with resolve. "I love you, Willow."

The words hang in the air between us. Behind me, I hear my mother's sharp intake of breath .

"I love you," he repeats, more firmly this time.

"I think I have since you made me stop for that damn kitten in the middle of traffic.

And it terrifies me, because loving you means acknowledging that my perfectly ordered life was missing something vital.

That all the success and money and power mean nothing if I'm not sharing them with someone who matters. With you."

Tears blur my vision. "Damien, I’m?—"

"I'll throw out my planner," he continues earnestly. "Delete my scheduling app. Burn my calendar. Whatever it takes to prove to you that you come first. That you will always come first."

A laugh bubbles up through my tears. "Don't you dare."

He blinks, confusion crossing his face. "What?"

"Don't throw out your planner," I clarify, squeezing his hands. "Don't delete your app or burn your calendar. I don't want you to change who you are."

"You don't?"

"No, Damien. I love you just the way you are."

He blinks like he wasn’t expecting me to say it. To forgive him. “I missed you as soon as I hung up the phone this morning. The whole damn time I was in that meeting in Florida, the only place I wanted to be was right here, with you.”

Tears sting the back of my throat, and a soaring joy fills my chest, so overwhelming it’s a wonder my feet are still on the ground. “And now, here you are. You came back.”

He nods solemnly. “For you, Willow. For us.”

I glance over my shoulder at my family, who are watching this exchange with expressions ranging from shock to delight. "Um, I should probably introduce you..."

"In a minute," he says, pulling me closer. "First, I need to do this. "

His mouth finds mine in a kiss that makes my toes curl in my sandals. It's tender and passionate all at once, a promise and a declaration. When we finally break apart, I'm breathless.

"Willow," he murmurs against my lips, "I was afraid I’d blown it. I worried that I’d be too late to say I’m sorry, to try to make up to you for even considering letting you down today."

"Never," I whisper back. "I was afraid you'd woke up and realized I don't fit into your world."

"You are my world." His hands cup my face. "Or at least, the part that matters most."

"So what happens now?" I ask.

"Now?" He smiles, that rare, genuine smile I've come to treasure. "Now we figure it out together. Day by day."

"That sounds suspiciously unscheduled," I tease.

"I'm learning to be flexible," he replies with a wink.

A throat clears loudly behind us. We turn to find my father now standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

"So," Dad says, eyeing Damien, "you must be the big city boyfriend."

Damien straightens and offers his hand, slipping back into his CEO posture, though he keeps one arm firmly around my waist. "Damien Langley, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Hmm." My father studies him for a long moment, then cracks a smile and reaches for his hand. "Well, Damien Langley, I hope you like your burgers medium, because that's how they're coming off my grill."

"Medium is perfect, sir."

"Call me Jack," my dad says, turning back toward the grill. "And grab a beer from the cooler. Sounds like you've had quite a day."

Just like that, the spell is broken. My mother bustles forward to introduce herself, followed by a wave of siblings and nieces and nephews, all talking at once. I watch as Damien is enveloped by my family, fielding questions and handshakes with surprising ease.

"Looks like I was right," Summer sidles up next to me, bumping my shoulder. "I guess different doesn't mean incompatible after all."

I smile, watching as my youngest niece shyly offers Damien a slightly crushed dandelion, which he accepts with all the solemnity of being presented with a medal. "No," I agree with my sister. "I guess it doesn't."

As if sensing my gaze, Damien looks up and catches my eye across the yard. The love in his expression is so clear, so undeniable, that it takes my breath away.

Different worlds, maybe. But the same heart.

And in the end, that's all that matters.