Marrying My Billionaire Boss

by Lee, Nadia

  I check him out when I’m pretty certain he isn’t looking. His back looks freakin’ amazing. Defined. Powerful. Muscles rippling smoothly as he reaches for whatever shirt I’ve picked out for him that morning.

  “I think he’s been working out more recently. He’s gotten even more muscular,” I say. If he were lying down, and you slowly poured a glass of Merlot—like, say, the one I’m holding—over his stomach, you’d end up with six little islands surrounded by dark red channels like rivers in a miniature landsca—

  “The man’s in his prime. Of course he’s getting more muscular,” Kim says. “I’m telling you, he is totally into you. That’s why he keeps showing off his body. It’s like the mating dances those birds do. He’s displaying himself so you’ll say yes.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop.” I wave my hand, embarrassed and confused over her insistence that there’s more to his parading around topless than him just…parading around topless. “I don’t know why we have to have this same conversation every week. No matter how hot he is, he’s off-limits. Good for admiring from afar, but that’s it.”

  “You never kno-ow,” she says with a little singsong lilt. “He’s young, rich, handsome and definitely single. Perfect for you, and I know you think about him in the most carnal way.”

  Crap. Am I that obvious? “I do not. That’s just your little fantasy.”

  “I bet he fantasizes about you calling him Mr. Sterling in that prim voice while he rams into you.” She does a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. “Oh, Mr. Sterling. You’re so big.”

  Oh lord. My face turns hot. I bet he’d feel solid and amazing on top of me. And he’s built. Those broad shoulders, the pecs…

  Bad hormones, bad!

  I gulp down the wine. I started calling him Mr. Sterling because I wanted the formality for a little distance between us. He never corrected me, and called me Ms. Parker in return. But when I told Kim a couple of months later, she said he was probably having boss/assistant power-dynamic wet dreams. Ugh. I then immediately thought about switching to “Nate,” but it seemed stupid after being all “Mr. Sterling” for so long.

  But regardless of Kim’s imaginative interpretation, Nate’s never hinted he was interested in me. His “display,” as Kim labels it, is just him being comfortable in his home.

  Besides, even if he really were interested, I’m not doing anything with Nate Sterling except my job. Date a boss? Oh, no. Been there, done that, and basically had to flee my hometown because of it. I’ve learned my lesson.

  “Look, when I left Dillington, I made a plan.” I tick the points off on my fingers. “One: go to L.A. Two: get a job. Three: find the love of my life. Four: live happily ever after.

  “I’ve done the first two, so I’m halfway home. Just need to finish up the last couple.” And I have to remind myself that no matter how much my hormones wish it were so, Nate is not the love of my life who I can have a “happily ever after” with. The man was born to a staggering fortune and dates models, socialites and other celebrities, most of whom look like they should be models, too. I’m just Evie Parker. Nothing special.

  “All that ‘love of one’s life’ stuff is overrated,” Kim says.

  “Your friend Hilary has it.”

  “Yeah, but she wasn’t looking for it. He came knocking.” She looks at the ceiling. “It’s very Zen. The more you pursue it, the further away it gets. Like a rainbow.”

  “Maybe mine will come knocking, too.”

  “Why? Did your date go well last night?”

  I make a face. “If you call shit-tastic fantastic. He wanted to go to a steakhouse, but I told him no because I didn’t feel like lingering over multiple courses, which are sort of inevitable at places like that. So we had Mexican instead. Casual, right? If we’d hit it off, we could’ve gone for drinks or something afterward, you know?”

  She nods, all wise in how things ought to progress, even though she’s single, just like me.

  “He’s a klepto. Napkins, salt and pepper shakers, knives. Even some chips.”

  “No way.”

  “Oh yeah. They aaall went into his knapsack.”

  “Oh my God. Really? Did the waiter see him?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. I was too embarrassed to look around much. I just wanted to die.”

  “If anybody should die, it’s him, not you.”

  That’s a great point. I deserve to live. I don’t steal restaurant utensils. “Anyway, that wasn’t even the worst part.”

  Kim leans forward.

  “He forgot his freakin’ wallet at home! I mean, he said it sheepishly, but it’s not like I’m stupid.” My blood boils, thinking about the credit card bill I’m going to get for the month. I didn’t budget for that particular dinner. “I should’ve known.”

  “So if you’d gone to a steakhouse…”

  “Yup. The asshole had five drinks.” And wanted more, but I stopped him, saying he needed to drive.

  “Wow.”

  “He told me to send him an invoice and he’ll cut me a check.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Why? So I can get charged a twenty-five-dollar bad-check fee?”

  Kim shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry for you.”

  “Just laugh. That’s what I did when I came home.”

  “Girl, you have the worst luck.”

  “I know, but what can you do?” I shrug, trying to brush it off. The fact that in the ten months I’ve been in L.A. I’ve met more losers than I can count is simply beyond my control. I could probably write an encyclopedia on bad dates, just based on my own experiences. But I have to go through this pain to find the love of my life, so I’m dealing with it. Mostly.

  “Bet you Mr. Sterling wouldn’t have forgotten his wallet,” Kim says slyly.

  “Would you stop? He’s my boss. Besides, he’s got too many crazies around him.” I tell Kim about the furry-bikini lunatic at the clinic. And the determined desire on her part to win him at the auction.

  “She must really want him, but then, a lot of women do,” Kim says. “I doubt he’ll let her, though. He’s supposed to be the nicer younger brother, but he never struck me as soft, despite the friendly vibe he gives off.”

  “He won’t. He asked me to bid on him at the auction.”

  “Whoo! Tell me you said yes.”

  I give her a look reserved for the mentally deficient. “Of course not. I turned him down.”

  Kim gapes. “Why?”

  I can’t believe I have to point out such an obvious reason. “Because I don’t have the money to bid on him.”

  She waves it away. “Oh, please. He’ll front it. Probably as a work expense.”

  It’s amazing how she’s giving me the same solution he did. “And I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear to the event.”

  “So tell him! He’ll let you expense it.”

  Argh. Did she and Nate share notes? “He has other friends who can help him.”

  “But did he ask them…or you?”

  The question makes me stop. He didn’t ask anybody else. He asked me.

  Apparently my expression is answer enough. Kim straightens. “Okay, here’s the deal. Some people might look at us and see glorified coffee fetchers or whatever. But we’re not. We’re managers. We manage our bosses. Some of these guys can’t tie their own shoes without us around. Like Nate. He can’t even decide what to wear without you to choose everything for him. And you have to take care of his breakfast, too. What does that tell you?”

  That he needs me to bail him out of this auction thing. But what if people jump to the wrong conclusion? What if I lose my job over it or have to start over somewhere new again? “But does it have to be me? Can’t it be somebody else?”

  “Our bosses trust us. They need us to make them feel safe from people who want a piece of them. We’re the ultimate gatekeepers. You bidding on him at the auction is you doing your job. Nobody gets to him so long as you’re the
re, not even his family.”

  “But it’s so complicated,” I say, then shovel the rest of the chicken and rice into my mouth. “I don’t want to go on a date with him after the auction.”

  Oh yes, you do! He’s probably filled out the date plan for the auction already—about how he’s going to whisk the winner away to a gorgeous private beach on Bora Bora. Hell, his family probably owns half the island.

  “You don’t have to,” Kim says. “It isn’t like anybody’s going to be watching.”

  Hmm. That’s true.

  “And you can probably swing a pay raise out of it. I would.”

  I keep my mouth shut and don’t tell her he already offered. And out of all the things, that tempted me the most. I’d love a pay raise, even though it’d be a little early, employment-wise. I need to rebuild my savings, just in case. Sometimes financial security and independence are the only things that can help you start over. If I hadn’t had any savings, I’d be still stuck in Dillington, enduring the whispers of people who believe the worst of me because of my ex. He thought I was good enough to fool around with, but not enough to keep. I was basically a box of Kleenex to him, and I deluded myself into believing it was more. Then, to add insult to injury, he told everyone I was the sleep-my-way-to-the-top type. As if! I worked my ass off at that job. But again, nobody believed me.

  Obviously having taken my silence for incredulity, Kim adds, “You can totally get one, depending on how badly Nate wants you to do this. Negotiate, girl! It’s extra time and effort, beyond the standard scope of the work. He should value you for that, and you should make sure he rewards you properly.”

  Chapter Four

  Nate

  Saturdays are terrible. So are Sundays.

  The cuckoo clock hoots seven times, but Evie isn’t here. Just me in this damn big mansion and the perfect sapphire-bright Pacific over which the sun shines. I swear the orb is saying, “You’re going to be alone. Alone. Alone. Alone,” as it travels through the sky.

  Bastard.

  I wish I could be the kind of douchebag boss who made his assistant come in on weekends. But I just can’t. She works hard, and she needs to recharge. I’ve seen people burn out, like my cousin Kerri, and I don’t want to have Evie burn out and hobble around with a hand over her stomach. Or worse, quit.

  After a shower, I go to the walk-in closet and look at the two outfits. Evie picked them out yesterday evening, saying I could wear one on Saturday and the other on Sunday. It’s seriously cute that she worries I might actually wear the puke-colored flower-print shirt and pink shark pants that are hanging in my closet. They were a gag gift from Court, and I have no desire to put them on, although I think Evie believes she’s the only barrier between me and them.

  Regardless, she has good, utilitarian taste. A simple T-shirt and shorts because she knows I’m visiting my brother today for lunch. There’s no point in wearing anything nice, because my young nephew has no respect for high fashion or the price of silk.

  I go to the kitchen and open the fridge. As usual, Evie has left two kale shakes in the special vacuum containers. I told her I didn’t know how to operate a blender, so she makes them every Friday evening before going home. Says she wants to ensure I get proper nutrition over the weekend.

  She’d murder me if she saw me dumping them down the drain. Like now. Five days a week is plenty. I need a break, too.

  I reach for my secret stash, buried deep in the wine cooler, behind the Beaujolais. Ah. Smoked ham, smoked salmon, cream cheese and bacon.

  Yes!

  I fry up the bacon, reveling in the life-affirming smell of grease and salted, smoked pork belly, smear an extra-generous serving of cream cheese on my toasted egg bagel, then pile ham and salmon high on the pure, unadulterated carb platter. Then, with a roar of triumph, I bite into my creation, a victorious T-Rex savoring his meal.

  So. Good.

  I wash it down with coffee. And not just any coffee, but coffee spiked with a good shot of vodka. As satisfying as the breakfast is, it still doesn’t make up for Evie’s absence. But it helps keep my spirits from flagging. Doing my best to undo the insufferable violation the kale shakes have inflicted on my system over the workweek is a good starting point.

  I still haven’t been able to change her mind about the auction. Yesterday I offered her the use of a company car—any model—because there’s always a point where people break. I thought she was wavering, but she shook her head ruefully at the end. And I have no freakin’ idea why.

  Should I have offered to replace everything in her closet with something newer and better? Maybe made the pay raise more concrete and enticing? Ten percent would’ve been a good place to start. Or maybe I should’ve told her she could make use of the family’s various vacation properties. We have them on the Riviera, in Bora Bora, the Maldives…you name it. If she doesn’t like any of them, I could book her a suite at whatever resort strikes her fancy.

  But maybe I should just hire a mercenary to solve my problem, provided I can figure out where to look. I’m not going to have Georgette murdered. That’s not how I roll. I simply want her removed…to some as-yet-undiscovered deserted island, sans laptop, tablet or cell phone. She can keep her mink bikini, though. I’m not a complete bastard.

  I check my personal emails, which is something I do only on weekends. Everyone who has my email address knows I only answer on Saturdays and Sundays, and they text or call if something’s urgent. I have a couple of unread emails—one from Mom and the other from Barron.

  I decide to read Barron’s first, because Mom’s will be chatty and cheery and I can end on a high note. You never know with my great-uncle.

  Nate,

  I’m sending you a bronze statue Catherine purchased. It’s quite unique and artistic, but I think it bothers Stella, mainly because the grandchildren are so young. But you’re an adult, so you’ll appreciate it. It should arrive Saturday morning. Make sure it’s in pristine condition, then keep it that way.

  B

  Unique and artistic, huh? I wish I knew if those were Catherine’s words or his. Or maybe Stella’s. As Barron’s art curator, Catherine’s been busy padding his collection. She’s good at her job, so whatever statue she bought must really be something for Barron’s girlfriend to object.

  On cue, the intercom buzzes. How convenient. It’s like Barron knew exactly when the crew he hired would be arriving.

  The crate isn’t too big, considering. It can stay in the living room. Maybe by the indoor waterfall.

  The crew brings the wooden box in, moving with exaggerated care as though there’s a live nuke inside it rather than a hunk of metal. They’re moving so gingerly that it takes forever until they’re done. But I guess they have to do that because the statue undoubtedly cost a fortune. Barron does not buy cheap art.

  I sign for it, eyeing the thing, and the crew show themselves out.

  Unique and artistic? Looks to me like it’s just a rough metal frame around two people fucking. It isn’t even that imaginative. Just plain ol’ missionary. Not that there’s anything wrong with missionary, but I thought it’d have be more inventive to be considered “art.” Still, I can see why Stella would object if there are young kids visiting.

  I fold my arms and slowly circle around to take the statue in from different directions, wondering why in the world Catherine bought something this crass and mundane. She has far better taste—

  Then I see it. Depending on which angle you view it from, the position of the couple changes. The missionary position morphs into doggy style…and then some sixty-nine action. Yup, definitely unique and artistic. No wonder Catherine bought it. And of course Stella objects to keeping it in the house. This is X-rated art, and her grandkids are way too young.

  I email Barron.

  The statue made it safely. I can see why you’re giving it to me.

  Then I can’t resist adding a little teasing: But what am I going to do when I want to have a baby of my own?

  Barron’s respo
nse arrives within a minute.

  A baby? You don’t even have a girlfriend.

  I have to chuckle. The message is a remarkable show of restraint on his part. He didn’t go into a long spiel about how he’s getting old, how my mom’s getting old, and how it’s my duty to marry a nice, sweet girl and have some babies because old people like him and my mom need something to look forward to, like a giggly bundle of joy to bounce on their aching, arthritic knees. Or maybe his assistant is unavailable to type all that stuff up. Barron doesn’t like to type. Says it’s tedious.

  I check my mom’s email. It’s nothing urgent, just some catching up. She’s planning to spend some time in Los Angeles because Ohio is too cold this year, and the temperature is bothering her joints. To be honest, that seems like an excuse. Mom might be old, but she’s healthy as a horse, and she loves her home with its huge garden and five-acre lot. My guess is she just wants to spend time with her grandson. And possibly hint at a second grandchild—from me. She’s going to have to wait a long time for that, because she wants me to do things in the “proper” order: find the right girl, fall in love, get married and then have the baby. I’d like to become a father at some point, but I’m in no rush to find “the right girl.”

  Still, I’d love to see Mom, because she’s been widowed for so long and I don’t visit that often. But she lives in Harrisburg, Ohio, which is a pain in the ass to get to, as it’s two hours from the only airport in the area. I email her back, letting her know I miss her a lot and can’t wait to see her.

  That done, I drive over to Justin’s place. It’s early, but lunch at my brother’s place on a weekend isn’t just a meal. It’s pre-lunch drinks, then the actual lunch, then lingering over coffee and tea and cake. Vanessa won’t have it any other way, and Justin lets her do whatever she wants.

  Their home is a huge mansion with every real-estate-value-enhancing feature a developer could think of because my brother and his wife decided they need a good space for their family of three. Actually, I think Justin wanted to get it more than her. She wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic of brides, and he was paranoid she was going to disappear or change her mind about their marriage. And even with our vast wealth and connections, Justin would’ve been helpless to stop her because of who and what she is. Not only is she a Stanford-educated lawyer, but a Pryce as well. The Pryces are dysfunctional enough to fuel a decade’s worth of daytime talk shows, but they always protect their own against outsiders.