Southbound

  Southbound

  A Billionaire Romance

  By

  Ellie Danes

  www.EllieDanes.com

  Copyright

  First Edition, January 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Danes

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and situations are the product of the author's imagination.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  License

  This book is available exclusively on Amazon.com. If you found this book for free or from a site other than an Amazon.com country specific website it means the author was not compensated for this book and you have likely obtained this book through an unapproved distribution channel.

  Table of Contents

  Southbound

  Copyright

  Book Description

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  For Super Fans

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  More From Ellie Danes

  Book Description

  Six months until my new-life was going to start.

  It was going to be amazing. Dramatic. Perfect.

  But sh*t happens, and to me, it happened all at once.

  You can’t make this stuff up or read it in a book.

  Two bags, a one-way ticket and a promise to a dying woman.

  I didn’t need anything or anyone else in my life.

  I left it all behind.

  It was either sold, thrown away or abandoned.

  Time to start over.

  Then he showed up and decided to tag along.

  I didn’t need a companion.

  I certainly didn’t need a tour guide or chaperone,

  But Gage Hawkins had a way of growing on me.

  The way he looked at me,

  the way he wanted to take care of me,

  And he seemed to have all of the answers, even before I asked the question.

  But behind those stunning good looks is a secret...

  Chapter One

  Aspen

  I checked my purse a second time to make sure I had my keys before I closed the door to my beat-up old Saturn. The walkway to the front door of my grandmother’s house grabbed my attention. The lavender was starting to look weedy, because grandma hadn’t felt up to tending it when spring had finally come, but the old brick and white of the house itself still looked absolutely beautiful, especially in the afternoon sun.

  Grandma appeared at the door as I made my way up the walk. I waved at her and shifted my big purse on my shoulder. It was heavy from the binder I’d been carrying in it all day, but I didn’t mind that anymore--I’d just gotten some of the best news I’d heard in over a year.

  “What did your advisor say?” Grandma looked almost as anxious as I’d felt this morning when I’d left for work at the magazine. School issues could get my stomach in knots more than anything else.

  “I’m all set to finish by the end of fall semester,” I said with a quick smile, not wanting to keep her in suspense.

  Grandma looked like she had for as long as I’d known her: white-haired, slim, and her wrinkled skin like watered silk instead of the deeper grooves that I’d seen in some elderly people. There were some red spots on her arm that were--as she’d told me--a kind of bruise from some accident she’d had a few days before, one she couldn’t even remember having.

  “That’s wonderful, sweetie!” Grandma hugged me quickly and led me the rest of the way to the front door.

  I’d had mixed feelings about moving in with her when I’d started going to SCSU, but it was super convenient. Branford wasn’t that far from campus, and living with Grandma meant that I didn’t have to pay New Haven rents. I chipped in for groceries and covered half of the bills. That way, Grandma was able to stay living in her own house--and stretch her social security and Grandpa’s pension--a little further.

  She squeezed my hand. “I know you were worried you might not finish on time.”

  “I just have to get this semester done and over with, and next semester--fall semester--I’ll have two classes and my thesis credits, and I can finally, finally be done,” I said, sighing with relief at my academic advisor’s update this afternoon. There had been a question of whether or not I was going to be able to finish my MFA on time--they had changed some of the requirements and were in the process of updating the degree program--so I’d been mentally preparing myself to find out that some of the classes I’d taken the year before wouldn’t count toward my final degree. Instead, Dr. Norton had said that they’d made a decision within the department that the new requirements wouldn’t be enforced on students in my cohort, only those who were starting now.

  “I made you the blackberry cobbler you love,” Grandma said with a little smile. She was almost eighty and still had all her teeth. “I figured if it was good news, we’d celebrate, and if it was bad news, it would be consolation.”

  I laughed at that idea, kicking off my shoes as I stepped through the door. I set my purse down on the side table in the hall. As I went through the familiar motions, I let my mind carry me back to my university goals. I had perfectly planned out the rest of my degree and thesis. I had already chosen my topic and gotten provisional acceptance from the professor I wanted as my thesis advisor. I would finish my thesis workshop course at the end of the semester within a few weeks, and then I would have the summer to start working on things before I went back for the fall semester, when I’d formally work on and complete the thesis.

  “It’s just out of the oven about thirty minutes ago, so it may well be cool enough to eat,” Grandma suggested, as I followed her into the kitchen.

  The whole house smelled like blackberry cobbler and I breathed in the familiar perfume, closing my eyes for a moment.

  “I definitely want some now,” I admitted. “And maybe some coffee?”

  Grandma gave me a look, and I knew she was thinking about whether or not to point out to me that too much caffeine was bad for me, but she didn’t say anything.

  “You know where the pot is,” she said, and I moved in that direction.

  Grandma usually kept the coffee warmed up throughout the day, even though she only let herself have one or two cups. Grandpa had been, like me, an avid coffee drinker, and Grandma had just kept the habit of making sure there was always some around to drink.

  I poured myself a cup and added cream and sugar, then turned around in time to take the little bowl of blackberry cobbler and whipped cream that Grandma had for me. We both sat down at the kitchen table.

  Grandma started in on her own bowl of cobbler. “So, how was work?”

  I shrugged, though I had to admit to myself that I was proud of how well I’d been doing at Crossroads. My editor had told me that morning that if I finished in the fall, they’d have a job for me--a real, full-time position instead of my paid internship.

  “It was about like it always is,” I said, instead of sharing the news from my editor. There was plenty of time for that later. “Sometimes I feel like,
if purgatory exists, it’s made up of reading stories and poems by people who should have the self-awareness to know better.”

  Grandma laughed and I started in on my cobbler and whipped cream. It was just as delicious as always--tart-sweet berries cooked down into syrup, and crisp-chewy topping, rich with butter. I closed my eyes and savored it.

  “Are they still asking when you’re going to bring something in to publish?” Grandma asked.

  I laughed, taking a sip of my coffee.

  “They are, and I probably will over the summer,” I said. I had shown my editor a few pieces I’d written for coursework--a couple of poems, along with a short story for a prose class--and he’d suggested that if nothing else, the short story could be expanded into a novel, or possibly a collection down the line. I’d pointed out that books of short stories were--as we all knew at the magazine--a hard sell. But apparently the notion had stuck in Lou’s head: he’d suggested I try working on a novel or story collection, since he knew some people in the book industry.

  “I think it’d be good for you,” Grandma said. “You’ve always had a talent for communicating, and so many ideas!”

  “Maybe one day when I have a little more to go on,” I told her. “Right now, my life is pretty boring, and you know the rule: write what you know.”

  “You have tons of talent, Aspen,” Grandma said. “I would really like to see you put it to good use--beyond school.”

  “I know,” I said. “One day I just might do it--but for now, I still don’t even know if I have it in me to write a whole book.”

  “Little girl, you have been writing in your journals since you were ten,” she said with a laugh. “You’ve already filled at least five books.”

  “But not with anything interesting,” I countered. “Not like you.”

  “I didn’t have the chance to go to school like you did,” she said, finishing up her half-serving of cobbler. “So, I had to make other choices...have other adventures.”

  “Like meeting Grandpa,” I said with a grin.

  “Exactly like that,” she agreed. She rose to her feet and swayed slightly, closing her eyes for a moment.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, setting down my fork.

  Grandma held up a hand, forestalling me getting up.

  “Just a dizzy spell,” she said after a moment. “Doctor Chalmers said I might get them with that new heart medicine he put me on last month.”

  I frowned, feeling a weird kind of creeping dread trickle through me. “Are you sure?”

  Grandma opened her eyes and picked up her bowl. “I’m positive,” she said. “Now that you’ve gotten work and school out of the way, are you going out with Brad tonight?”

  “I might,” I said, mulling the idea over. “I’m kind of tired after such a long day, though.”

  Grandma took my empty bowl and carried it with her own over to the sink. “You have to make him a priority sometimes. It’s so important to stay in contact with each other.”

  “Well, he isn’t Grandpa,” I pointed out, smiling.

  “No man is who your grandfather was,” Grandma countered. “That doesn’t mean that he can’t be a good boyfriend--and maybe eventually a good husband?” She gave me a significant look.

  “I am not even close to thinking about a husband right now,” I told her. I rose from my seat and felt the early hour I’d woken up at, all the way down to my bones. “I’ll take a hot shower and call him,” I said. There was, I had to admit, something to what Grandma was saying.

  “Just let me know if you’re going out, so I know to put your plate aside,” Grandma said, turning to face the dishes we’d just made. “Or maybe if Brad is busy you could meet up with Catherine.”

  I shook my head at the latter suggestion--Cat, my friend since we’d ended up in the same dorm in undergrad, had joined some dance class in the evenings, so I only saw her on weekends. After helping Grandma dry the dishes, I went to my room.

  This had been my mom’s room when she’d been growing up in the house, and when we’d come to visit throughout my childhood, I usually slept here too. When it had come time for me to go to grad school, Grandma had pointed out that it made far more sense for me to live in her house than for me to pay rent in the city, and I’d taken the room more or less indefinitely.

  I’d repainted at Grandma’s insistence, but other than that, I hadn’t decorated much; I had the same comforter that I’d slept under as a kid. The dresser was the same, even if it was filled with my clothes instead of being a repository for linens that didn’t fit in the main closet.

  I grabbed my towel and a change of clothes and got into the shower, thinking about my grandfather. He’d died when I was young, but I’d grown up with the knowledge of how things had been between him and my grandma. They’d met young, and in such a seemingly magical way--both of them on vacation, a chance encounter that had led to an enduring love. My grandma, like me, had always been a diary-keeper; that was why I’d started writing in journals, myself--I had gotten the idea from her. And as I’d gotten older, I’d read her journals, collected and kept in a little reinforced-wood box in her bedroom. Some of the passages had been spicy, so Grandma didn’t let me read them until I was an adult.

  As I scrubbed myself all over and luxuriated in the hot water, I compared what I knew about Grandma’s relationship with Grandpa with the one I had with Brad. I had no reason--at all--to think that Grandma had edited her journals, so I didn’t doubt that she’d been telling the truth about all the little romantic details. Some of the ways she used to describe Grandpa’s handsome face reminded me of how I looked at Brad sometimes, at his strong cheekbones and muscular body.

  I got out of the shower, smiling to myself at the anecdote about Grandpa showing up at Grandma’s house during one of their early dates not with flowers, but instead with a basket filled with all the treats that people binged on in south Florida: key lime coolers, coconut patties, things like that. She’d told him she was allergic to flowers because she didn’t want to get roses from him if he took her out again--and he’d paid attention and gotten her something better.

  I glanced at my phone and decided to call Brad, even though I wasn’t up for much of anything that night. If nothing else, I hoped we could spend some time together.

  The call went to voicemail and I tried not to feel relieved that I had a good reason to stay in the rest of the evening. Instead of a voicemail, I took a quick picture of myself wrapped up in my towel and sent it to him with a note: Wish you were here...or I was there. I got dressed in my softest pajamas and left my bedroom to ask Grandma if she needed help with anything in the kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  Aspen

  A little less than a month after getting the word that I would be graduating at the end of Fall semester, I managed to get out of class early for once--in the middle of the day instead of late in the afternoon--and it was so beautiful out that I almost couldn’t stand it. Perfect picnic weather, I thought. I had been reading Grandma’s journals all over again, and the night before I’d read an entry from when she and Grandpa had started getting serious, and they’d gone on a picnic together. She’d made the food, and Grandpa had carried the basket and brought some cheap champagne along with some iced tea for them to drink.

  I thought about the journal entry, and about Brad. It had been a while since we’d done anything spontaneous together, and it was such a beautiful day, with spring finally, finally beginning to seem like it had decided to stay. I checked the time on my phone, and thought about what it would take to put together a picnic lunch for me and Brad. He did his studies from home for the most part, now that he was working on his own thesis, so he’d be around. And it was close to our two-year anniversary, so that was as good a reason for a picnic as the beautiful day itself was. Maybe pick up some fried chicken, a few things like that…

  I headed through the crosswalk to the train to take me to New Haven, where there was a good place to pick up what I would need--the fried chicken from a
tiny little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, sides and drinks from a convenience store next door--close to Brad’s apartment.

  I got off the train and hurried to the restaurant for the chicken, then next door while they were cooking it to get the other things we’d need for a great picnic. I smiled to myself while I pulled out the bag I kept in my backpack for picking up groceries and things like that, thinking of how surprised Brad would be when he answered the door to see me standing there, unannounced, with some of his favorite foods. On an impulse, I bought a bunch of daisies from the bodega’s display, feeling silly and romantic.

  My bags and the bouquet of flowers weighed me down as I hauled ass from the restaurant to Brad’s apartment, and then made my way up the stairs--since the elevator for his building was pretty much always broken, I usually just ignored it altogether. I was feeling a bit winded, but still excited as I got up to Brad’s floor and paused to take a breath. I had my own key, so I dug it out of my bag, my heart still beating a little faster in my chest as I unlocked the door.

  “Hey Brad!” I walked through the door, holding up the flowers, and looked around. My boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. I set the bags down and glanced around the front area--the kitchen and dining room and living room. It was strange that Brad wouldn’t be in one of those parts of the apartment where he usually worked on his graphic design business, but maybe he’d decided to take a shower or a nap.

  I started off in that direction and heard something that made me stop in my tracks—movement from the bedroom, the sound of springs from the bed working. Well, if he’s got himself pre-heated, maybe we can have a little fling before we have our picnic, I thought, grinning slightly to myself. I started toward the bedroom and had just about reached the door when I heard another sound—moaning. And it wasn’t Brad’s voice. Well, guys watch porn, I reminded myself, shrugging it off.

  When I got to the door, though, what I saw was definitely not porn. And it was definitely not Brad working himself. He was on the bed, but he was also on top of someone else.