Page 5 of Billionaire's Bookworm

True to form, she threw her hands up with an indignant huff. “Fine! Be stubborn,” she snapped before spinning on her stilettos and marching off, leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, the relief marred by a familiar pang of irritation. I should’ve known better than to attend tonight. But if I hadn’t shown my face, Amy would’ve had a full-blown meltdown—for Mom’s sake, of course. Not that her schemes surprised me, but a man could hope for an evening free from matchmaking.

Ha. Wishful thinking.

Draining the last of the awful champagne, I placed the empty flute on a passing server’s tray. As the orchestra swelled and laughter bubbled around me, I made an abrupt decision.

I’m done here.

Pulling out my phone, I sent a quick text before weaving through the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. The night air hit me like a refreshing slap as I stepped outside, leaving behind the cacophony of the gala.

My driver, the ever-faithful Rodney Stibbins, waited like a guardian angel with my car idling at the curb—a blissful sanctuary on wheels.

“Evening, Mr. James,” he said with a nod, opening the door for me.

“Let’s get out of here, Rodney,” I murmured, sliding into the cool leather seat.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

As we pulled away from the grand hotel, the city lights blurred past like streaks of neon, mirroring the restless thoughts swirling in my mind. I loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of my tuxedo shirt, inhaling deeply. The lingering scent of stale champagne and pretentiousness began to fade, replaced by the subtle aroma of leather and freedom.

I’d had enough of these high-society circuses. Each event was another performance, another mask to wear, and I was growing weary of the charade. The feelings only grew worse every damn year. I made appearances to placate my family, but enough was enough. I was too old to keep dancing to Dad’s tune. Thankfully, I’d built my own fortune. I wasn’t reliant on the family empire, which meant I didn’t have to play the puppet.

He could make Amy the overseer of James Industries. She’d be happy to marry whoever she was instructed to, like a good little soldier.

It wasn’t that I was opposed to marriage, exactly. I just refused to tie myself to someone with whom I shared nothing beyond a hefty bank account balance. Marriage should be a relationship, not a merger. Call me a romantic—or a fool—but I wanted to actually like the woman I’d spend the rest of my life with.

Rodney navigated through the thinning traffic with practiced ease, the cityscape gradually giving way to the open highway. I cracked the window, welcoming the crisp night air tinged with the faint scent of the ocean. The rhythmic hum of the tires on asphalt was a soothing counterpoint to the chaos I’d left behind.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to my beach house in Seashell Cove—a sanctuary of solitude and simplicity I’d retreated to more times than I could count. Here, I could shed the trappings of expectation and just be.

“Will you need anything else tonight, sir?” Rodney asked as he opened the door.

“No, but thank you,” I replied, giving him a grateful nod. “Get some rest.”

“Very good, sir.”

As he drove away, I stood for a moment, absorbing the tranquil melody of waves caressing the shore. The moon cast a silvery glow over the rolling sea, stars winking in a velvet sky. The rhythmic crash of the surf was a balm to my frayed nerves.

Inside, I shed the suffocating layers of high society for a well-worn pair of athletic shorts and a comfortable T-shirt. Grabbing a bottle of aged bourbon from the cabinet, I poured a generous measure into a glass, savoring the warm, oaky aroma that promised solace.

Barefoot, I wandered onto the deck overlooking the beach. The wooden planks were cool beneath my feet, grounding me as I leaned against the railing. The ocean stretched out before me—a vast, untamed expanse that made the night’s earlier theatrics seem insignificant.

Lifting the glass to my lips, I took a slow sip, letting the bourbon’s smoky heat spread through my veins. The tension in my shoulders began to ease, the rhythmic lullaby of the waves coaxing me into a state of calm.

My phone buzzed, shattering the tranquility. I glanced at the screen—my assistant. Ignoring it was tempting, but duty rarely waited.

“Yes?” I answered, trying to keep the irritation from my voice.

“Mr. James, I apologize for the late hour, but there are some urgent matters requiring your attention,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“Does it involve someone’s untimely demise?” I asked dryly.

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Is the company on fire? Hostile takeover? Alien invasion?”

“N-no, sir.”

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