Hot Jerk (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 12)

by Lindsey Hart

  “Which I’m not actually interested in doing.”

  “That doesn’t matter, because I’ve been paid to sit here and ask you these questions.”

  “It doesn’t mean I have to answer you.”

  Rowan grips her paper coffee cup and lifts it in the air just a little higher than necessary to take a sip. I have the feeling she’s mock saluting me, and it ratchets up my annoyance by a few levels.

  “Fair enough.” She scratches something in her notebook. I grind my teeth. “I’ll keep asking, and you can keep not answering. It’s not my life, my problem, or my mom that I have to deal with.”

  I can feel the temperature rising in the little coffee shop. Suddenly, I feel like I’m drenched in sweat like Satan himself is back in the kitchen, brewing up a pack of fucking bad news, transforming this place into his own personal hell. Oh wait, that would be my own personal hell. While Rowan is silent, I think about her last question. Do I believe in marriage?

  The short answer to that question is no. I guess I don’t. My parents are still married and happy, even after approaching forty years of marriage, which is hard to believe. I think they’re the exception now. I guess I could say I feel the same way about all relationships. They might start out okay, but in the end, they turn into a bunch of nonsense, people hating each other, bitterness, bad words, bad thoughts, bad experiences, bad everything. Relationships are like flowers. They last for a little while. They might even look good and smell good. But then they start to wilt and die. They start to die a slow death, and no amount of fertilizer, no matter how expensive, is going to revive them.

  I feel the same about romance. I think anything that has to do with it is a bunch of nonsense. It’s fake—all of it. Romance was invented to sell books, jewelry, chocolates, and flowers. It’s a business transaction and an invented notion. End. Of. Story.

  “So. What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

  I cross my arms and shift in my seat. There’s an uncomfortable pit growing inside of me. “Not going to answer that either.”

  “Great.” Rowan jots something down. “Your dream destination?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  I see Rowan’s lips twitch. “There’s that humor again.”

  “Look.” I blow out a hard sigh. I reach for my coffee cup and grip it so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t explode like a geyser and paint the ceiling. “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. I’m sure you make decent money off exploiting lonely people who have more dollars than common sense. I’m sure you sleep just fine at night knowing you helped stupid people find whatever false version of happiness they might be up for at the moment. I’m not buying into it. So, ask me whatever questions you have left. Ask me what my hopes and dreams are. Ask me what my goals are. Ask me what fruit I’d be if I could be one. Go ahead, but the same thing is always going to be true. All of your questions are pointless, and when you ask a pointless question, you get a pointless answer.”

  “I believe that’s stupid.”

  “What?”

  Rowan’s face is completely neutral—like she eats douchebags for breakfast. She’s not disturbed at all by my rudeness. In fact, she’s smiling at me, and her eyes are twinkling. She’s still just as crazy beautiful as she was when she walked in here. It appears she’s also utterly undaunted by my less-than-thrilled attitude.

  “I believe it’s ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” She grins at me. “And I’m not going to ask you what fruit you’d be if you could be a fruit, because this isn’t a job interview, and people can’t be fruits, so what’s the point? I try and avoid questions that aren’t going to be helpful to me in choosing a match.” She starts gathering up her things, clearly done with this meeting.

  For some reason, that makes me panic. It’s irrational. If I don’t want to be here in the first place, why am I worried about her leaving? Maybe because I actually have nowhere better to be, since my fire-breathing mother told me I’m now on vacation. Maybe this is the highlight of my day, which is incredibly sad. Or maybe because I like her smile.

  No. No, it was definitely not that. It had everything to do with going home to unbearable silence and long hours to fill, and nothing to do with Rowan.

  Rowan packs up her things and shoots me yet another charming smile. I’m starting to wonder if her face is hurting from all the smiling. I have no idea how long she can keep it up for. No one is actually that cheerful in real life.

  “I’ll have your first date arranged for Friday night. In my experience, it’s a good night to go out. You’ll have lots of options then. I’ll send your date’s information—her name and a brief profile—over to you by tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll do the same for her. That way, it will be less awkward for you both. We create a personal account for each of you, and that includes an email. I expect you to be in contact and work out a pick-up time. Please note that you should keep things to a public place for your first meeting, and you shouldn’t exchange personal information like addresses or phone numbers unless you are extremely comfortable doing so.”

  “You mean, don’t take her home and—”

  “That’s not at all what I’m talking about.” Rowan shoves back her chair and reaches for her black coat. She shrugs it on and pulls her curtain of dark hair out from where it was trapped. It falls freely about her shoulders, the red highlights in the dark brown locks brought to life by the rays of sun drifting through the huge windows.

  “It’s Wednesday,” I point out helpfully. “You must be a miracle worker if you can get a date arranged by Friday.”

  “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by everything about this.” Rowan hoists her tote over her shoulder before picking up her coffee cup. “Thanks for meeting with me. You’re a little on the sour side, so I’d advise picking out one of the amazing desserts they have here. The lemon brownies are absolutely to die for.”

  I literally don’t have time to say anything else before she turns and saunters out of the coffee shop, her head held freaking high. Oh yes. She’s quite confident in her abilities.

  I grasp my coffee cup and sit there for a few minutes. I stare at the dark liquid sitting in the cup until I realize my eyes are dry from not blinking in ages. I blink slowly. Pointedly. We’ll see. We’ll see if Little Miss Confident lives up to all the I can conquer the world vibes she puts out there. I realize I’m actually looking forward to Friday night, just to see what Rowan comes up with. Which makes me realize I’m slightly excited if just for that reason. Well, no, not excited. Curious. But I do feel something. Which I vowed not to do.

  Oh, she’s good. She’s really freaking good.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rowan

  I wasn’t nearly as calm or as cool as I pretended to be in my meeting with Cliff on Wednesday. I’m a professional, so there was no way I was going to let my annoyance show. The guy would have probably got up and done a happy dance, knowing he pissed me off. Cliff Marshall is like a splinter under my skin, and the whole thing chaffed and bothered me until Saturday afternoon. I told him in the package I sent over on Thursday that I would be doing a follow-up call. I not so subtly implied that he better freaking answer it, or else.

  My hand shakes a little when I pick up my cell. We don’t work in the office on Saturdays. Any follow up calls after dates are made from home. I log my hours and get paid for it, so I don’t actually mind. Anyway, the only thing I have going on is a hot date with my cactus, which, excitedly enough, has decided to flower. Hey, being single isn’t so bad, despite what all my clients tell me and what I tell all my clients. I know. I’m probably the world’s biggest hypocrite, but it’s not that I don’t date. Sometimes I do. I just happen to find myself single at the moment, and for the time being, I’m enjoying it. I also may have just gotten myself out of a pretty possessive relationship six months ago, and yeah, I’m not in any hurry to get myself back into the dating arena.

  I find that when I’m single, I have time for long baths with cheap candles sit
ting on the decrepit vanity. I get to watch my cactus grow a little more each day (you know you are seriously single when you detail all the life stages of your plants). I don’t mind drinking the occasional glass of wine by myself or doing some cooking that only I eat.

  So, I’m not a walking, breathing, living billboard for what I do for a living. So. Freaking. What.

  I force myself to focus on what I’m doing. Talking to Cliff Marshall is going to take every ounce of my concentration. I’ve thought about the guy, in technicolor detail, for the past three days. Oh right. That wouldn’t be because I’m using him as the inspiration for touchy-feely me time. Seriously. Nope. I am using him as inspiration for I can’t get my ass fired because I’m barely making all my bill payments as it is.

  I punch in Cliff’s number and prepare myself to get blasted. I’d say get chewed out, but that sounds strangely intimate, and I don’t do intimate, especially not when it comes to clients. The phone rings three times, and then there’s a crisp, clear voice on the other end.

  “Hello, Cliff speaking.”

  Right. So, he answers his phone like this is a business call. I guess it is kind of a business call. But still. I half expect him to tack on, what can I help you with today?

  Seeing as that’s my question, I force cheerfulness into my voice. I’m at my small kitchen table, which is a retro set, of course, because my love of all things vintage doesn’t just stop at clothes. I set my one hand flat on the bright red tabletop and study the small window right across from me. My cactus—since the months are getting warmer and there’s more sunlight now—has been relocated to a small table in front of said window, so I cast a quick glance at it before studying the window again.

  I think I’m a nurturer by nature, and that makes what I do for a living perfect for me. Despite how rude Cliff was to me, which I guess was to be expected since he’s basically being forced into this by his mom—which is kind of sad, weird, and maybe even a little bit creepy if you think about it—I actually care about how his date went. And not just because if this goes sideways, I’m out of a job. God. With a client like Cliff Marshall, I should already be on my laptop searching for different job options.

  I quell my self-doubt and put on my professional face even though Cliff can’t see me. I think professional faces are like smiles. If you force one, they can make you feel it too.

  “Hi, this is Rowan. Just checking in to see how your date went last night.”

  “Well…” Cliff hedges and I hold my breath because his tone is anything but hopeful.

  Really. Why did I expect that it would be? He’s clearly not on board with any of this, and he’s going to do his level best to sabotage this. It doesn’t matter that his date was a thirty-year-old professional who has a heart of gold. I actually felt bad about matching her with him because I thought it would be doing her a disservice, but I thought if he were going to come around and warm up to anyone, it would be Amanda. She’s basically the best human on the planet. She’s had a string of bad relationships in the past, and now her job doesn’t leave her much time for conventional dating. She’s lonely, and that’s why she came to us for help. She wants a good match—someone who isn’t going to screw her over and break her heart again.

  She’s perfect for Cliff in every way. She’s confident. Outgoing. She’s a professional who makes quite a bit of money every single year, so she’s not looking for someone to take care of her. She doesn’t care about how much money a guy makes. He’s also a working professional, educated, obviously has some humor and wit stored away, which means he’s probably quite intelligent. I thought they’d make a good match, and Cliff would, despite his best efforts, come around and see the light.

  Apparently, he’s still stuck in the dark because he grunts into the phone like a caveman. I can practically feel myself deflating at the table, and I’m glad there’s a chair underneath me to hold me up.

  “It didn’t.”

  “It didn’t what?” I barely manage to keep my voice level.

  “Go.”

  “What are you talking about?” If Cliff stood Amanda up, I know she would have called me.

  “It started out well enough,” he admits reluctantly. If I’m pulling teeth with this guy to get a confession of enjoyment out of him, then we are definitely going wisdom tooth style here. As in, all four teeth need to be surgically removed in a complicated, risky procedure style. “I picked her up. We were going to go to this play. She suggested it, and I thought it would be fine.”

  “Alright…”

  “I ran out of gas halfway there.”

  “What?” I barely resist the urge to smash my face into the tabletop, epic facepalm style. Bonus points to me if I knock myself out in the process. I think it would be the least painful option compared to hearing the rest of the story. “You did that on purpose,” I hiss, despite my resolve to be nice.

  I’m done being nice. This guy is going to cost me my job. Maybe even my sanity too. It’s on the tip of my tongue to beg him to try, just for my sake, but I’m sure it wouldn’t even move him. He has the heart of the coldest, most brutal stone. Actually, that would be good on our gravestones. Cliff Marshall. Heart of stone. Rowan Mills. Died trying to bleed an ounce of mercy from that heart of stone.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I just forgot. It’s a habit I have. Forgetting to get gas. The tank gets low, and I know I should do it, but then I end up forgetting. Anyway, we ran out of gas. I phoned for a tow, but by the time it came and brought us gas, the play was half over. I felt bad. Really, I did. I offered dinner to make up for it, but she wasn’t having it. She just wanted me to take her back to her car. She parked on the street, and I picked her up from in front of a restaurant, so that’s where I dropped her off. We didn’t exchange addresses or personal information like you demanded.”

  Demanded? I’ll freaking demand that you do some serious soul searching and pray for the universe to have pity on you and transform you from an absolute piece of shit into something that more closely resembles a decent human being. No wonder this guy’s mom washed her hands of him.

  “Poor girl. I hope you realize you hurt a very nice woman with your selfishness and self-centered behavior.”

  “First of all, those are the same things, I believe. Secondly, I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear I didn’t. I really did try to make up for it, but she was the one who acted like a snobby brat and refused.”

  “A–a snobby brat?” I sputter. I’m glad there aren’t any mirrors in range, because I don’t particularly want to look at my pissed off face at the moment. “I think you would benefit from some sensitivity training; you know that?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes! I actually have some materials you could go over. Or, better yet, I could give you a few pointers myself!” I practically scream that last bit into the phone. My voice crackles back at me; I’m so livid.

  What does Mr. Heart of Stone have to say about that? Nothing. Cliff Marshall figures that laughing in my face is as good a response as any. He actually has the nerve to laugh. At. Me.

  Oh, that is it. That is so it.

  “You’re going to meet me tonight,” I grind out. “Pick me up at six. I’m bringing the self-help materials with me, and I’m going to give you a rundown you’re not going to forget anytime soon.” He continues laughing, and I don’t think. I just go for it. “My job is on the line with this one! You might be doing your best to screw my entire life up, but I’m not going down like this. You will pick me up, and we will do a dry run of your next date. We will practice because you clearly need it.”

  “Practice?” Cliff snorts. It’s one of those laughter snorts because he’s still fucking laughing even after I basically begged him to help me help him.

  Yup. This isn’t one of my finest moments. I’ve never done a dry run date. I have helped clients in the past by sitting down and helping them talk through the shit they’ve gone through. But I’m no counselor. I don’t offer professional help. I’m just a good listene
r, and after they bare their souls to me, I try and find someone who is going to be sensitive to what I know they’ve gone through or someone who has even been through similar shit.

  A dry run date and a conversation about sensitivity are exactly what Cliff Marshall needs.

  “Does this practice involve the whole deal?”

  “What whole deal?” Perhaps the better question is, why is the hair on the back of my arms standing up at his suddenly dark, kind of sexy, kind of ominous tone?

  “The whole deal. Opening doors, chivalry, the first date awkwardness, the goodnight kiss…”

  “No!” I declare, alarmed. “No goodnight kiss involved. This is a dry run. A dress rehearsal. This is me whipping you into shape. No personal contact required. I thought I could make a match for you just by hearing a few details about your life, but I was wrong. This is going to require something much, much more drastic. Since my job is on the line, I’m willing to put in the time.”

  “I’m flattered, doll.”

  “Doll? Doll?!”

  “Well, you dress like it’s nineteen fifty, so I thought terms like that were fitting.”

  “Doll is like a twenties or thirties term; I’ll have you know. And I’m not a doll! Good god, it’s no wonder you’re single. What woman would have you?”

  To my surprise, Cliff laughs into the phone, a different laugh than before. It’s a dark, thrilling kind of laugh that could melt panties right off a normal person. I’m not a normal person, at least not where Cliff Marshall is concerned, so all I get is a bit of unwanted tingling in the lady bits region.

  “Tonight. Six.” I rattle off my address, ignoring my body’s physical reaction. I blame it on the fact that it’s been about a good eight months since I saw any action. Even when I was dating Calvin, we weren’t actually intimate in those last few months, which might have had a little something to do with the fact that he was so freaking convinced I was cheating on him that he basically stalked me all the time and threatened me verbally and even physically. “Fill up your tank this time, for the love of God.”