Chapter 4 Oliver

I looked over at the gorgeous woman sitting in my passenger seat. A couple of hours ago, she was a face on TV. Now, she was in my car and thanking me for helping her escape the group of rowdy photographers stalking her. She was stunning.

Even while escaping the paparazzi, she did it with grace. The woman had the look of someone with money, but there was also something humble about her.

Her black hair was sleek with a slight wave. Her skin had an olive tone, alluding to some exotic bloodlines. I imagined she had dark eyes. I wished I could see for myself, but the dark sunglasses shielded them from me.

She was wearing a sleek pantsuit with black heels. It was something I would expect a high-powered attorney to wear into court. It demanded respect and projected strength. The heels added a little height to her petite frame.

I wasn't entirely sure what she did. Was she born into money? I had no idea.

"Seriously, thank you for getting me out of there," she said. "I suppose you know who I am, but can we pretend you don't?"

I laughed and nodded. "Sure. I'm Oliver Grier."

"I'm Rachel Lore. It's nice to meet you, Oliver."

"Now that I officially know who you are, can I ask you a question?"

She groaned and looked down at her hands. I imagined she was often hounded with dumb questions as well as intrusions on her personal life. "You can ask, but I don't promise to answer."

"Fair enough," I said and took another turn down a road that was a little sketchy, but I didn't plan on stopping to ask for directions. "Was it worth it?"

"Was what worth it?"

"The relationship with that Brock guy?" I asked. "Was it worth it?"

She made a very unladylike snorting sound. "No. Not even a little bit. I don't like regrets. I live my life under the guise I will never have regrets, but I have to say, I'm having some serious regrets about that decision. Like my dad says, regrets are like closing the barn door after the horses escaped. I'm shit out of luck when it comes to changing what happened. It happened. Period."

Her down-to-earth comment surprised me. "I only know what I saw for about thirty

seconds today," I said. "Were you guys married? Engaged?"

"No. Definitely not. We weren't even really together. I mean, we were, but we never saw each other. It wasn't serious. These rumors about a ring and a pending wedding are a joke. I barely spoke to him. I travel a lot for work, and he was on tour. The picture they keep splashing all over was one of the few times we were together. It was taken during the first month when we were in the honeymoon phase. No one is talking about the fact there are no other pictures of us together."

"Was it one of those fake relationships to boost his career?" I asked. "Or is he trying to fight rumors he's gay?"

She laughed softly. "I don't know if that was his intention, but I didn't get the feeling he was gay. I do believe the first part is what it turned into. We became Rabro, and the idea of the relationship became its own entity. I felt like I was an actor in a play. It wasn't my reallife. Brock and I weren't real anymore. In the beginning, it was fun, and I did think there was a real chance for a relationship with him. He isn't a bad guy. At least, he didn't use to be. I don't know what was real or what was a play to boost his celebrity status because he wanted to sell more concert tickets."

"When did you break up?" I asked. "I'm sure that's public knowledge, but I honestly don't pay a lot of attention to stuff like that."

"Technically, the breakup only happened last week," she explained.

"Technically?"

"We had not seen each other in eight weeks," she said. "We exchanged a few texts here and there, and we did FaceTime on occasion, but nothing like a relationship. We were in different time zones. When I was in meetings, he was doing sound checks or press. It was chaotic. It wasn't really a relationship."

"They say you broke his heart," I teased.

"He would need to have a heart in order for me to break it," she scoffed. "Brock isn't a bad guy, but he's not the guy in the songs he sings. He doesn't bring roses in the middle of the night. He doesn't hold doors open and gush over his girlfriend's beauty. It was all a show.

He's playing the sympathy card to get more free press. He's all about being bigger than

Bieber."

"I don't know his music, but I think I know his type," I said. "What's a Bieber?" Her sweet laughter filled the small space inside my car. "It's a he, not a what. He is or was a huge star. Brock wants to be bigger than Michael Jackson or Madonna. He thinks he's this master musician. I'll tell you a little secret; he doesn't even write his own music."

"He's going to have to date more women and get dumped if he wants to achieve MJ status. I've never heard of the dude. I might have heard him on the radio or maybe even seen his picture, but I really don't pay attention to that stuff."

"You don't know his music?" she questioned with her perfect nose scrunched under the glasses with the Chanel logo on the side. Another clue to her wealth.

I shook my head with my eyes on the road. "No. Is he pop? Country?"

"He's pop," she said with a laugh. "I guess you're not his target audience." "No, not so much. I'm more of a nineties alternative guy. I don't pay a lot of attention to the auto-tuned and manufactured pop-tarts put out today."

She laughed again. "I don't blame you. I'm more of a country girl myself."

"Do you have cowboy boots?" I joked.

"I do. I have a lot of cowboy boots. You really don't know who I am, do you?"

I almost felt guilty that I didn't know who she was. I knew of her, but I wasn't big on the social pages. In fact, I tried to avoid those things because I didn't want to see anything about my half-brothers. The Bancroft family was big on the social scene in the city. I stole another look at my passenger. I bet she knew them or had rubbed elbows with them.

"I'm sorry, I don't," I said. "Family money?"

"Not even close," she laughed. "I own a few companies. I'm a self-made woman. Mostly. I won the lottery a few years ago and invested it. Turns out those investments worked out well for me."

"No kidding?" I said with surprise. "I assumed you grew up with a silver spoon."

"Dead serious. My dad is a retired electrician. I grew up middle-class. I didn't come from money. I went to two years of community college."

"Huh," I said.

"You're surprised?" she asked.

"I saw the clip of you earlier, and I guess I formed an opinion. I'm sorry for that. I know better than to judge a book by its cover."

"What surprises you?" she pushed.

I had a feeling she was testing me. I was a little worried about how this would come out if I said the wrong thing. "I think I've seen you on the news once or twice," I said. "You came off as this prim and proper woman who was educated at an Ivy League school. You looked like someone who went to finishing school. I expected you to be stuck-up and entitled."

"Are you saying I'm not smart, prim, and proper?" she asked with a laugh. "I'm not sure if

I'm insulted or complimented."

"I'm not insulting you. It's refreshing to meet someone that isn't afraid to ignore public

opinion. You obviously don't care."

"I care a little, but people don't know me or what happened between Brock and me," she said. "I'm not going to worry about what people think about my love life. I'm not dating them."

"Good attitude," I said. "So, as much as I'm enjoying this little ride, I'm assuming you

actually want to go somewhere."

"I do, duh," she laughed. "I'm so used to people just delivering me to where I'm supposed to be. I'm going to my dad's."

She gave me the address, which I had a vague idea of where it was. She was a conundrum. She reminded me a lot of me and Thomas. We were wealthy but still the poor kids that had grown up with nothing.

"Thank you for this," she said. "You are a little crazy to pick up a random woman in traffic, especially one being chased by crazy people."

"I think you're the crazy one," I told her. "You're a young, beautiful woman who hopped into a complete stranger's car. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to get into a car with a stranger?"

"Yes, and when my dad hears what I did, he's going to lay into me," she said. "But he will also be proud of my bravery."

"Bravery?" I teased. "So, you were a little afraid to get in the car?"

"It was you or them," she said. "I went with the lesser of two evils."

"My mom will be so proud," I joked.

"Seriously, you saved my ass, and now there will only be half as many pictures of me on social media," she said. "And no one will be able to follow me to my dad's place. It's my one hideout. The house is buried under an LLC that no one associates with me."

"Smart thinking."

"I owe you one," she said.

"No, you don't. This is not a big deal. You were a damsel in distress, and I got to step up

and be the savior."

"You are my hero," she sang out in a soprano voice.

"I was in the right place at the right time."

She directed me to take a left. A minute later, I was pulling to a stop in front of a town house in a nice neighborhood. "Thank you so much for this," she said. "I do owe you a favor."

"I don't need a favor. I'm a nice guy helping someone out."

She opened the door with one foot on the curb. She opened her purse and pulled out a

Sharpie. The next thing I knew, she pulled my hand into hers and wrote her phone number

on my palm.

"Don't be foolish," she said. "When someone like me says I owe you a favor, you collect on it. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but you might need something. Not to brag, but I can move mountains."

"Good to know," I said.

"Call me," she said and got out of the car.

Because I was a gentleman, I watched her to make sure she got in the house okay. And maybe I was watching her walk away. She was beautiful. Her slacks were tailored. I knew a good suit, and she was wearing a very expensive designer pantsuit. The slacks hugged her ass as her hips gently swayed. She turned around to look back at me. I waved before driving away.

I could not wait to tell Thomas and Jenson who was in my car. Jenson was younger and would definitely know who she was. He was going to lose his shit when I told him. I was the middle brother who was always the solid, steady one. I never did anything to rock the boat.

The biggest excitement in my life usually came through something Thomas or Jenson did.

This was big news. I finally had something exciting to share.

"Score one for me."

It was the car. She saw my car and immediately assumed I was in her social stratosphere. I wasn't complaining. Thomas would make sure I knew it was the car. He was the one who'd pushed me into driving something a little flashier. But I was the one who got to meet Rachel Lore. And I had her phone number on my hand.