Romancing the Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  Brontë knew her well. Marjorie smiled at that. “I guess I’m pretty obvious. I just . . . you know. Have a lot more in common with guys like Dewey than most people.”

  It was true. She didn’t really date older men. She just spent her time playing bingo with friends, and shuffleboard, and going to knitting circles and volunteering at the nursing home when she could. Her parents had died long before Marjorie could remember their faces, and so she’d been raised by Grandma and Grandpa. Marjorie had grown up quilting, canning, watching The Price Is Right, and basically surrounded by people four times her age. It was something she never grew out of, either. Even at the age of twenty-four, she felt more comfortable with someone in their eighties than someone in their twenties. People her age never sat and relaxed on a Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and a crossword. They never just sat around and talked. They took selfies and got rip-roaring drunk and partied all night long.

  And that just wasn’t Marjorie. She was an old soul in a really long, lanky body.

  That was another thing that the elderly never made her feel weird about—Marjorie was tall. At six foot one, she was taller than every woman and most men. No one wanted to date someone that tall, and most women looked at her like she was some sort of freak of nature. Not her Grandma and Grandpa. They’d always made her feel beautiful despite her height.

  So, yeah. With the exception of Brontë, all of Marjorie’s friends were living in retirement homes.

  “Well, I think we’re good on the fitting for now,” Brontë said as the tailors finished their measurements. “Everyone out of their gowns. Go enjoy the day and I’ll see you ladies tonight for the bachelorette party?”

  Maylee giggled and Gretchen high-fived everyone. Audrey only patted her rounded belly. “Guess I’m the designated driver.”

  They shimmied carefully out of the fitted gowns and changed back into their clothing. Marjorie had brought her beachwear with her just in case, and changed into her polka-dotted one piece swimsuit, then wrapped a sarong around her hips, stuffing her clothing into a bag.

  It was a lovely day for a walk on the beach, and she had a few hours before afternoon shuffleboard started up, anyhow.

  —

  “Look! Look! Tits or GTFO! Right?” The woman frolicking in the water near Robert Cannon’s float pulled off her top and shook her extremely fake cans in his direction.

  He raised his drink to her, inwardly wishing she’d go away and take her friend with her. He touched his bluetooth earpiece to remind her that he was on a conference call, despite floating in a raft on the beach, a mixed drink in hand. “What do you mean, ratings are down?”

  “Just that,” said his assistant. “Reports are in and despite the new shows, ratings are down for The Man Channel by two percentage points.”

  Rob swore and took another swig of his drink. Near his raft, one of the beach bunnies grabbed another tanned girl. Looking over at him, they began to make out in an attempt to try and get his attention.

  Fucking typical.

  “What about the new show?” Rob asked. Hell, if he was down two points despite the new show, he’d need a much stiffer drink. This one wasn’t doing much to sustain his buzz.

  “Tits or GTFO? Well, despite heavy marketing, it looks like we’re not hitting that target 18-40 demographic as heavily as we’d like. I’m not sure what the deal is.”

  Robert swore again. “And advertisers?”

  “Already making unhappy noises.”

  Great. That was just what he fucking needed. He swigged his drink, emptied the glass, and waved it at one of the beach bunnies. On cue, one of the women took it and headed to the shore to get him a refill, her tits bouncing in her tiny bikini. “I’ll make some calls when I get back, all right? Just hold down the fort for this week while I take care of things down here.”

  “Any luck with Hawkings?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hoping to make some progress,” Rob told him absently, watching the antics of the two women. They kissed again—and then looked over at him to see if he was paying attention. One of them waded back out to his raft, his drink in hand. Rob shook his head. Ridiculous creatures. He’d become jaded on people long ago, and these two weren’t changing his mind, that was for damn sure. “I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I want a full write-up of all the overnight ratings and a comparison of ad revenue. Have it to me by the morning.”

  “Will do.”

  “And find out at what point those ratings dropped. What’s causing things to tank? Call me back.”

  “Will do.”

  He clicked off the phone and tilted his head back against the raft, letting the sun beat down through his Bugatti sunglasses. Fucking hell. With ratings down, he was going to have a hell of a time convincing Logan Hawkings that starting up a new cable channel aimed at white-collar businessmen and executives was going to be worth his while.

  Not that Rob couldn’t bankroll it himself. The billions in his bank account said differently. But he wanted Hawkings’s stamp on it, because Hawkings knew everyone in New York City and had a lot of cachet that Rob didn’t. People respected him and his business.

  They didn’t respect Rob’s, no matter how much money it made him.

  Most of the time he didn’t give a shit. Notoriety had made him as much money as anything else. And if he’d made his fortune on capitalizing on cable channels and radio networks designed for the average Joe, so much the better. So some of his shows weren’t exactly aboveboard. So what? Tits or GTFO was still popular. As long as there were girls with low self-esteem wanting to get on camera, they’d make money.

  And he wouldn’t feel bad about it.

  It wrecked his social life, but he’d just cry into his piles of money. Every woman that was even halfway interested in him wanted his wallet, or to be on one of his shows. The only girls he seemed to attract anymore were vapid idiots like the two currently making out and cavorting in the water in front of him just to get his attention. Didn’t care, really.

  Rob took the drink that blonde number one offered him and sipped it. Strong, just the way he liked it. “Thanks, sugar.”

  “So,” she said, giving her body a little wiggle to get his attention. “Think I’ve got what it takes to be on one of your shows?”

  “Maybe,” he said absently, taking a swig of his drink. Christ, that was strong. He took another swig, because why not? He needed to get good and drunk. Two fucking ratings points. Jesus.

  The other girl swam up next to him. “I heard you did lines off of Tiffany West’s stomach in Cannes,” she said with a sultry smile.

  “Did you? How nice,” he said flatly. He didn’t even know who Tiffany West was, and he sure as shit didn’t do drugs. Alcohol was easy. Drugs just made you end up as someone’s prison bitch.

  “Wanna do lines off of my stomach?”

  “I’m busy.” Another call was due to come in any minute now.

  He tossed down the rest of his drink and handed it off to one of the girls who watched him expectantly. When they didn’t go away, he looked back over at them. “How about you and you,” he said, pointing at both of them, “go do lines together and leave me the fuck alone?”

  One of the blondes gave him a furious look and stormed away. The other wasn’t quite so nice. She huffed up, her fake breasts rising, and then gave his raft a vicious shove.

  Rob flipped over and landed in the water, head going under.

  Fucking perfect. His head swam and he pushed his head above the water, glaring at the women that left. One of those two was going to buy him a new Bluetooth headset, so help him—

  One of his legs cramped up, shooting pain through his muscles. Rob went back under the water, thrashing. It was like his leg had locked up. Combine that with his spinning head, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings. The current ripped at him, dragging him further away from the shore. Huh. Riptide. He though
t you had to be further out for those sorts of things. His lungs were aching, and he tried to push his head back above the water, but it seemed further and further out of reach.

  Goddamn it, was he going to drown on the beach of someplace named Seaturtle Cay? Really?

  But he couldn’t find air. Reflexively, his throat worked and salt water filled his lungs, his mouth, his nose. He choked, and the world started to go black. He was really, truly dying. His last thought was that he’d be in the tabloids for forever now—legendary for drowning in a few feet of water at the beach.

  More blackness filled his vision, then red . . . and polka dots.

  Polka dots?

  A strong arm grabbed him, and suddenly Rob’s face was hauled against a pair of breasts. Real breasts. He barely had time to process this before more darkness swam through his mind, and he followed it under.

  “Breathe,” a voice shouted in his ear, and then lips pressed against his mouth. Air pushed into his lungs—and fuck, that hurt like hell—and suddenly water was coming up out of his throat and his nose and he turned his head to the side, vomiting salt water. His head ached in the most blisteringly awful fashion, and those red polka dots were swimming in his vision again. But there was sand under his back, and slowly, blearily, he focused his eyes.

  An angel bent over him on the beach. An angel with a faint peppering of freckles across her nose, a strong jaw and messy, wet blond hair, and dressed in the ugliest polka-dotted swimsuit he’d ever seen. And she was smiling down at him.

  She’d saved him. And the look she gave him was so shy and proud all at once, that he felt his heart swell.

  Well, damn. Rob was in love.