Page 82 of Tied Up in Riches
“Oh. Umm. Okay.” I draw out the last word. He takes my hand, glances around, then leads me to the side of the room, out of earshot of any of the people prepping for the show. “Is everything alright?” I’m starting to worry.
He takes a deep breath. Pauses. Loops the tie over the top of the random clothes rack next to us. I follow the movement, then look back to where he grabs my hands again and runs his thumbs over my knuckles. I’ve never seen him like this. I haven’t known him that long, but still.
“Brooke.”
“Yes?” I tip my head slightly.
“I don’t think it’s a secret anymore that I have real feelings for you.”
I shake my head slow and confused. “I’ve been starting to get that impression . . .”
“I . . .” He takes a breath. Damn. What is so serious right now? “After I tell you, please know that even if you feel like I lied to you, nothing else I have said to you is a lie. Especially when it comes to how I feel about you. And the only reason I haven’t told you this yet is because I feel so strongly, and I wanted you to give us a shot before you made up your mind.”
“What is it? You’re scaring me.” Panic squeezes my heart.
His breath is so deep, his chest nearly heaves in front of me. “You know how you hate the people at the club because you think their money makes them entitled snobs?” He says the last two words as if there are air quotes around them.”
“Uh-huh . . .”“Well, I might have as much money as them.” He grimaces. “I’m actually pretty sure I have more.”
“What?”
“I have a lot of money,” he paraphrases.
“Umm.” My thoughts are swirling. This isn’t what I expected. I don’t know what I expected. My thoughts flashed through a dozen possibilities, but this wasn’t one of them. “Like, what kind of rich are we talking about?”
“I guess it depends on who you ask.”
“How much money?”
“A lot.”
“What’s your net worth?” The question feels completely inappropriate coming out of my mouth, and I feel guilty when he cringes. Yet, I can’t seem to stop myself. “A couple million?”
He stares back, his thumbs freezing against my knuckles. My hands are clammy now. “A little more than that . . .”
“Tell me, please.”
He glances at the tie, then back to me and takes a deep breath. “When I was fifteen, I coded my first app. It wasn’t anything fancy. But I figured it out on my own. And it worked. I showed Dean. He slapped me on the back and said, ‘You’re going to be worth a billion dollars someday. Don’t forget about me when that happens.’”
My eyes widen, my hands tensing in his.
“I brushed him off, but he pushed back a bit. He said, ‘Fine, when you’re rich, I’m making you a tie covered with that picture of us that Sophie always makes fun of. And you have to wear it in public as my I told you so.’ It became an inside joke. When I sold my first app. After I made my first investment. When I bought the bar. At the time it felt like it would only ever be a joke. But the numbers kept going up . . . and if Emma and Charlotte’s company takes off the way most do after airing on national television . . .”
“You’re going to be a billionaire.” I can’t wrap my head around this. How is this even real?
“Yeah.” He looks upset.
“Hey, are you Marcus?” We both turn to find a cameraman with a headset approaching us.
“Yes,” he answers, dropping my hands.
“We’ve got to get you ready. Can you come with me?”
He looks to me, as if for permission. “Yeah, of course. Go. Good luck.”
He hesitates, then brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Please don’t leave,” he pleads, kisses my forehead and walks past me.
I stand there for a few minutes, at least, feeling motion sick. Off balanced. Unsettled. What am I supposed to think? Every single thought I’ve ever had about an entire group of people is being challenged, countered, and attacked right now. I can’t untangle this tug-of-war rope on my own. Turning, I scan the room until my eyes land on Maci. She’s leaning against a table covered in snacks, and I make my way to her.