Mr Reluctant Billionaire || BWWM

Fifty-seven

Monday morning meets us scrambling to get my belongings to the car. Ma is the only one awake, after a quick greeting and kisses to my cheeks, I hurry down to the car to wait for Brandon. He seems testy, he didn’t kiss or hug me good morning. For now, I am keeping mute, I have no intentions of ruining the memories of yesterday, our lazy day.

Operation Reassure Brandon is still in the works but my head is empty, idea tank dry. How do I convince my husband he deserves the best life has to offer? I tug on the sleeve of the woollen sweater Ma handed to us, my eyes droop and I struggle to stay awake.

The door opens, I shoot up and relax when I see Brandon. “What took you so long?” He flashes a grin that should have appeased me, I scowl. “Why do we have to leave early?”

“Your mother. She wanted to talk to me.”

Sleep disappears from my eyes, my head snaps in his direction and he starts the car. I know Ma no longer holds a grudge against him yet his reply makes me uneasy. “About?”

“She wanted to apologise for slapping me.” I run my fingers over the dashboard, a smile curving my lips. Brandon’s voice lowers. “I almost thought she wanted to hit me again.”

Clutching my stomach, I shake my head. Ma is a pacifist, the slap must have come as a surprise to even her. We pull out of the parking lot, I turn on the radio to a pop song playing, heart swelling with pride at Ma’s actions. My head rests on the window, I wrap my hand around the seatbelt, coughing to get Brandon’s attention and he glances at me.

“What about your parents?” He got along fine with mine. Once the awkward dinner was over, everyone mingled, laughed like old friends reuniting. “You never talk about them.”

The road is empty, the sound from the radio pierces the silence that settles over us. I sneak a glance at him, his lips press into a line and my palms grow clammy. Street lights illuminate our path, making it hard to tell what time of the day it is but a peek at my phone poking out of my pocket shows we have less than twenty minutes until six o’clock.

Uncomfortable by the silence stretching into a suffocating quietude after I shut off the radio, I shift in my seat and say, “You don’t have to talk about them if it annoys you.”

It might have escaped me if I didn’t turn to him at that moment, the slight trembling of his arms right before his palms closed tight over the steering wheel. I itch closer to him, trailing the open skin above his knee. He needs to keep all my shorts, they look better on him. His hand comes over mine to give it a small squeeze, I plant a kiss on his knuckles.

Tension rolls off him in waves, the car slows as we approach a deserted bridge.

“They are fine.” At the sigh that escapes me, he says, “They were not the best parents, El. I cut them off as soon as I got my inheritance.” His tone invokes my interest. “I don’t talk about them because there’s nothing to say.” Holding my gaze, he murmurs, “The end.”

Not the end for me, that has only piqued my curiosity and I intend to get the answers to all my questions. Tilting my body in his direction, I remain calm when the car stops.

“What did they do?” I ask.

“Everything wrong.”

Sometimes, it is easier to get information out of a rock than from my husband. Casting a long glance at his rigid form, I brace myself. “At what age did you get your inheritance?”

To my surprise, he replies in record time, “I became in full control of the company here at twenty-seven. But I already got the hotel in Paris and a few other places before then.”