Chapter 22 Gus

When Julia is still sleeping soundly by my side the next morning, I assume it's a dream. Some fever dream that taunts me with the one thing I want, but can't have because I'm too hung up on my past.

But then I reach out and let my fingertips trail along the line of her spine. I trace goosebumps, and faint, wispy hairs, and silky skin. My soft touch makes her stir, but she doesn't awaken.

She's real. This is real.

The sight is otherworldly, but wonderful. Julia is wrapped around me, long hair spilling over my chest. One hand rests on my stomach; the other is tucked below my shoulder blade. Her hold is proprietary—and I like it a hell of a lot.

I never get to watch her sleep. I usually make the grave mistake of falling asleep first, but I can't help that she puts me at ease. She always has, from the first time we shared a bed in London. Even when I wanted to hate her and wanted to make her regret rejecting me, she still calmed me with her presence.

I've never felt this way before.

After ten minutes, I decide that waking up before Julia is great, but not my cup of tea. I'm itching for her to wake up too. When she finally blinks her eyes open and smiles broadly even though I'm the first thing she sees, I can't help but grin.

Yeah, I'm done for.

We fuck twice. Once in the bed and once in the shower—efficient both times because Julia is hungry. I make a call to the front desk, and they set a world record for delivery. It makes her so happy, she removes her robe and eats her Greek yogurt naked while I sit there and enjoy the view. It's the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had.

After, we take a long stroll through Vienna, window shopping (quite literally—at one point, Julia looks at the window display at a store and proceeds to buy everything in the window) and drinking coffee on the go. We split a piece of strudel from a touristy bakery, hastily decide to buy a better strudel at Café Landtmann, and immediately regret eating so much strudel.

As we linger in Café Landtmann, we talk about our college days, our best and worst encounters with other tech CEOs, and engage in a hearty debate about the best type of French fry (I say steak, she says crispy—because she's a psychopath). Julia's laugh covers every inch of her face, pretty and full and so rich that I can't believe I spent so much time upsetting her.

And yet I still wonder how far this can go. The nagging in my spine, the sting of old wounds, continues to plague me. Like she possesses a sixth sense, Julia places her hand on mine.

"Are you ready to talk about it?" she asks me.

My eyes stay on my coffee. "Talk about what?"

"The woman who hurt you," she clarifies. "I wish you had told me sooner. I would have…"

When she trails off, I inhale and shake my head. "Don't pity me."

"But I do."

"Please don't," I snap, wishing I could soften my tone—but Constance does this to me. "I mean it. The reason I didn't want to tell you was because—"

"Because you loved someone who ended up hurting you?" she questions, and the words sting me. "What's embarrassing about that?"

"It's more than that."

"So tell me. I've had breakups before and I know they suck. You went on a coke bender. Big deal. So many people have. It doesn't make me think less of you."

I inhale, steeling myself. "I spiraled, Julia," I finally admit, forcing the words out. "I didn't just get sad about the breakup. I spiraled. It was scary. Terrifying. If I hadn't written down half the shit I did when I was coked out, I would have no idea what happened for days on end."

For once, she has nothing to say. But her eyes linger on me, big and sympathetic and without judgment.

"I'm obsessive," I go on, waiting for her to falter. "When I get something into my head, I'm obsessed with it. Coding. Algorithms. Ideas for businesses. Building the cabin. I've forced myself to be obsessed with those parts of my life because anything else would be unhealthy. I don't eat, I don't sleep, I don't do anything but work."

"August."

"Is that what you want?" I go on, feeling my neck heat. "You want me to be obsessed with you? Because it may sound fun at first, Julia, but you're going to hate it eventually. You're going to want me to give you space, and I'm not going to be able to do it. I'm going to need you all the fucking time. You're going to want to leave, and I won't want to let you. It's not healthy. It's not fair to you."

"Take a breath," she advises before she moves her hand to my arm. "Take a breath and tell me her name."

It takes me a moment to comprehend her request. Even then, I don't understand.

"The woman who hurt you. What was her name?" she presses.

"Constance. Constance Ripley."

"Perfect," Julia declares. She takes out her phone. "Distinctive."

She focuses on her phone, typing and swiping, until she flips it around so I can see it. "Is this her?"

Sure enough, the image on the screen is Constance. I haven't looked at a picture of her in twenty years, but I'd never forget her face. It's an image of her, a man, and two young children posed in front of a Christmas tree.

"That's her. How did you find her?"

"Her Instagram is public. Now look again, does she look happy?"

I nod.

"I agree. Here's another picture. Does she look like she likes her husband?"

This one is her and her husband showing off a revolting looking homemade pizza—but they both seem elated.

"I think so."

"I agree again. Looks like he's a dentist out in…Bristol. Okay, one more. What do you think of this?"

The last image she shows me is Constance holding up a green and pink scarf, with a caption underneath that reads, Finally finished something! She's grinning from ear to ear.

"She looks really proud of her scarf," I admit flatly before I make eye contact with Julia.

"Right. Constance Ripley is living a tremendously happy life in Bristol with her dentist husband. She knits, she spends time with her kids, she makes pizza, she decorates for Christmas, and—from what I can tell—she has a pet cockatoo." Julia raises a shoulder. "Seems to me like her life is perfectly fine, even after being the dreaded object of your obsession."

"Julia—"

She drops her phone on the table and folds her arms, reclining casually. "You can be obsessed with me, August. It's fine."

Before she can finish speaking, I start shaking my head. "Julia, I nearly tanked a fifty-billion-dollar deal because I wanted to sleep with you. That isn't healthy."

"Even if I had declined, you still would have sold the company," she replies, shrugging. "We both know it. You pretend to be much more callous than you are. As if you would have deprived Brent and the rest of the people who work for you."

She's right. It still doesn't make what I did okay.

"I basically forced you into the deal because I was borderline obsessed with you. I was creepy as shit about it. The night I met you, I looked you up online and saved maybe thirty or forty pictures of you on my phone—"

"August," she interjects, "Gus. I get it. You're obsessed with me. I don't blame you. I'm intimidatingly beautiful and undoubtedly the best sex you'll ever have." Her smirk is frustratingly nonchalant.

"How are you so calm about this?" I demand. "You should be running for the airport right now."

She shakes her head again. "I don't scare easily. Plus, the night I met you, I googled the shit out of you too. And after that, I listened to six podcasts. And read three books about you. And read three years' worth of FundRight's 10-Ks—"

Holy fuck.

She's mid-sentence when I can't take it anymore. I tug her into my arms and kiss her hard, breathlessly, before saying, "That's the hottest shit I've ever heard in my life."

Kiss-dazed, Julia giggles. "There's a thin line between admiring and stalking, and I've crossed it so many times I may as well be doing double dutch."

There are so many things I want to say to her while I watch her lean back in her seat and tilt her head thoughtfully. None can capture how much she means to me—how much I want her.

"August, are you still writing a book?" she suddenly asks, as if a lightbulb has just clicked on over her head.

Nod.

Julia waves her hand. "Don't bother. A business book written by you won't sell."

I temper my reaction. If I heard a comment like that from anyone else, heads would roll. "You do know I'm one of the richest men in the world…"

"I wasn't aware," she replies, not missing a beat. "But you're a genius, August. An obsessive genius. You were born that way. You can't advise anyone to be born a genius."

"Plenty of geniuses don't become billionaires," I remind her.

"Look, I know people," she explains. "I know what pushes their buttons and fascinates them. Nobody is going to be interested in a virtuoso, MIT valedictorian talking down from his high horse. You need to write a memoir. Plenty of geniuses don't become billionaires, but you're not a billionaire simply because you're smart. You're a billionaire because you grew up with nothing and decided you wanted everything. You're a billionaire because a girl broke your heart. Write about it. That's what people are going to read."

I don't know what to say in response. I stare at her silently, perusing the steadfast expression on her face.

A memoir.

The logic behind her words is undeniable—but more importantly, all logic aside, her words are heartfelt. Sincere.

When I used to look at her, all I saw were the distractions. Her body. Her beauty. Her raw sex appeal. But now that I know her, really know her, I recognize she's so much more than anyone gives her credit for.

Julia is insightful, mature, considerate, and even savvy. But best of all, she's mine. And all this time, I've been downplaying what I feel for her. Not anymore.

Never again.

I love her.

I love her more than I've ever loved anyone. And for once, the idea doesn't terrify me.

"I should check on Jay," Julia mentions.

We pause in the hallway, my hand on the keycard, about to unlock my door. My eyes travel over her, taking in the earnestness in her expression. She's serious.

We just closed out our day with another memorable dinner in Vienna, and I'm approximately three minutes away from carrying out an elaborate plan to make her come at least three times with three distinct parts of my body—and she wants to talk to Jay?

"What for?" I try to sound inquisitive, but I know there's a tinge of disgust detectible in my tone because Julia lets out a long exhale.

"He's my friend."

I'm tempted to ask her if we're talking about the same Jay. Surely she can't be talking about the overgrown man-baby who pitched a fit all because I had the audacity to show up when invited. And yeah, I'd be pissed off too if a handsome, obscenely rich motherfucker crashed my vacation with a borderline perfect woman, but I wouldn't be a little bitch about it.

"Julia, last night he stormed off like a petulant child," I remind her. "Why do you have to check on him? He should be apologizing to you. Profusely."

"I'm loyal," she explains, raising both shoulders—and yeah, I know she is. "If loyalty doesn't matter to you, tell me now because it's the most important thing to me."

Today was the best day I've had in years. Waking up in bed together, exploring Vienna, and talking through the bleakest and most repressed memories I have…. It sounds corny, but it meant everything to me. She means everything to me. Putting Jay back into the equation is a step in the wrong direction.

"He's here for your money," I finally say, wishing I didn't sound so damn exasperated. Frustration diminishes the impact of what I'm trying to tell her—and she needs to hear this.

As I expected, Julia's face contorts into a deep frown. When she doesn't respond, I realize I may have crossed a line. It's the last thing I wanted. After losing countless friends in college because I was content to spend every waking minute with Constance, I'd never do the same to Julia by isolating her.

"Your money," I explain again, imploring her to understand that my motives aren't selfish. "I know you care about him, but your money is all he cares about. You're too involved to notice, but I've been watching him. It's obvious to me."

Expression still tight, she raises her shoulders. "Jay is one of my best friends. I'm happy to spend my money on him," she snaps.

"Sure. Spend your money on anything you want. You have too much of it anyway. But don't spend it on someone who doesn't even care about you."

Her tight expression somehow darkens. She crosses her arms over her chest, and for once she seems to be at a loss for words. "Are you jealous?" she finally questions, raising an irritated eyebrow. "You're jealous that I—"

"That you've fucked him?" I interject, my expression dark to match hers. "That you've let him touch you? I've done all those things. I'm not jealous. I don't get jealous of anyone."

"Then what's your problem?"

"I told you. He uses you," I repeat, stating it like it's a fact.

"And you don't? You don't act like my body is up for trading and bargaining?" she counters.

"No. Hell no. We're not going to fight about the deal anymore. Everything I've done with you—everything I've given to you or said to you—is because I care about you. I've chosen you. You don't think I have options? Look at me, Julia. Of course I have options."

Julia is silent, like she's only now realizing that even a recluse likes to get around.

"You don't think I was twenty-eight once?" I continue, taking a step closer to her. "I've fucked so many women I can't even keep track. But you're the one I want. And screw it: Even if you don't want me—which would kill me, by the way—I won't stand by while someone mistreats you. I'm not jealous. I just care."

And I just love the shit out of you, Julia Ridgeway.

"You're not jealous," she murmurs, expression softening. It's not a question.

"Get rid of him," I continue, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm practically begging you. I would never get in the way of your life or your friends, but it's painful for me to have to see you with him. Please."

I've laid my soul bare in the most desperate, last-ditch attempt I've ever made in my life. I doubt she realizes it.

She reaches out and places her hand in mind. "He's my friend. I'm going to check on him, and then I'm going to come right back here. I promise."

Alone and frustrated, I enter the suite and shut the door with my back. This is what I feared. She probably thinks I'm afraid of her leaving, not that Jay is a shitbag. My hang-ups and my pathetic past are going to distract her from what's real.

I want to take it back. I want to rewind to a day ago when Julia thought I was carved from pure marble, nothing soft in me whatsoever. I don't want her to think of me as a man who isolated himself from the world all because he was dumped by a woman who now spends her time making bad homemade pizzas and knitting.

When she returns to the room fifteen minutes later, I'm seated wearily at the end of the bed with my shirt half undone, hair a mess, simmering in regret. Our eyes meet.

Immediately, I know something is wrong.

Her face doesn't brighten when she sees me. She looks bewildered and practically dazed as she joins me on the end of the bed. At once, all my agonizing seems trivial. Julia needs me.

"What happened?" I rest my hand on her thigh and stroke.

She glances at me, reluctance on her face. Eventually, she lowers her lips to speak, but hesitates. The silence between us persists for at least half a minute while she contends with a newfound reluctance to say what's on her mind.

My hand continues to stroke her leg, and finally she breathes out and says to me, "Jay told me he's in love with me."

Fuck.