Beauty and the Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  Other than her, of course.

  Maybe she’d get him a gift. But what? It was the day before Christmas Eve, and she hadn’t shopped. Ugh. Her assistant normally handled everything, but Snoopy had decided to take a month off to visit her family and Daphne hadn’t even thought about the holiday. Then again, she normally didn’t have anyone she shopped for other than coworkers—

  “Water damage,” Gretchen declared, angrily whipping egg whites with a whisk.

  “Huh?” Daphne looked up from the cupcakes.

  Gretchen pointed at the ceiling again. “Water damage next to Hunter’s office. I haven’t seen it, but he says it’s pretty awful. The crew’s been up there for a few weeks now.” She shook her head. “And Hunter swore to me that they’d be done before the wedding, and I’m going to lose my lid if someone starts a drill in the middle of the ceremony.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be done,” Daphne soothed. Weird how she was turning out to be the calm one right now and Gretchen was the frantic mess. Normally it was the other way around.

  “I thought about what you said,” Gretchen commented, whipping the egg whites again.

  Huh? “About what?”

  “About, you know . . .” Gretchen shrugged, her whisk going a mile a minute. “About what I would do if I found out there was something wrong. Like, would I break off the wedding or would it change anything.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “And . . . I still want to marry him. I trust him. I know he’d never cheat on me, so it can’t be something awful. I’m going to trust him and love him and take what comes our way together.”

  Daphne smiled and finished a thick frosting swirl on her cupcake. “That sounds wonderful to me.”

  “Me too. How about you and Trainer Beefcake?”

  Daphne glanced over at her sister. “How do you know he’s a beefcake?”

  “Because he’s a trainer, duh.”

  Good point. Daphne sighed and began to ice another cupcake. “I’m pretty much head over heels for him and he thinks I’m a job. Nothing more.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yup.”

  Gretchen paused in her whipping to pour the frothy egg whites into a new bowl. “Bring him to dinner tonight and wear something super slinky. Show him the hot, sexy Daphne instead of the gym Daphne. You know how to catch a guy—I’ve seen you in action. Show him you’re interested and he’ll be putty in your hands.”

  Daphne paused mid-cupcake. “Am I invited to the rehearsal dinner?”

  “You are now.” Gretchen grinned impishly. “It’s for family, right? And the good news is that I’m catering it myself, so I can add two more to the list.” She studied the pan of cupcakes and then made a face. “You might want to come armed with carrot sticks, though. I think eggnog is the leanest thing on the menu.”

  ***

  Daphne sucked in a breath, studying herself critically in the mirror. The red sheath dress she was trying to pull over her hips was turning out to be more of a challenge than she’d originally thought. She twisted, eyeing the back of the dress. It had a built-in bra and a sheer mesh back that left her almost naked down to her thong, but still had enough material to be somewhat modest. Somewhat. As for the zipper? She couldn’t work it on her own no matter how hard she tried. Time to suck it up and call for help.

  She could do this. She seduced men all the time as Daphne Petty, global superstar. So why did the thought of seducing one rather stoic personal trainer and life coach fill her with worry?

  Probably because his opinion counted, and not many people’s did. And if she screwed this up? She was in danger of losing his friendship. And that terrified her.

  Daphne was good at wowing people. She wasn’t good at keeping them.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror again, then bit her lip. She could change out of this dress and meet him downstairs and pretend nothing ever happened . . . or she could take the bull by the horns.

  Daphne hesitated, then pointed at her reflection. “You’ve got this, you fierce bitch. Don’t forget who you are.” With a firm nod at the mirror, she turned and moved to the bedroom door. The Manhattan penthouse she was renting was big, but she knew exactly where Wesley would be.

  The gym, of course.

  She sauntered confidently down the hall, as if it were every day that a woman dressed in heels and left the back of her slinky dress open as she wandered around her apartment. Her makeup was perfect—a low-key cat eye—and her hair was pulled into a festive twist decorated with a big white gift bow. She was all holidayed up . . . minus the zipper of course. Now she just needed her date to fall in line.

  She approached the gym cautiously, peeking in through the door to see what Wesley was up to. He was by the weight rack, a pad of paper in hand, making notes. She knew from working out with him for the past few months that he liked to make careful logs of what he lifted, and how many. He was always so cautious, her Wesley.

  Well, he wasn’t hers yet. She just had a lot of hopes.

  Daphne paused, then took a steeling breath and pushed the door open. Her expression was casual as she sauntered in. “Hey, Wesley, can you zip me up?”

  He turned, putting down his notepad, and stopped, blinking. His gaze flicked up and down over her, at the hand holding the front of her dress in place, the tall stiletto shoes gracing her feet, then back to her face. “Sure.”

  She decided not to try and read too much into that small response, turning around and giving him her bare back and the zipper waiting for attention. He said nothing, but she was intensely aware of his proximity as he grasped the tab of the zipper and slowly pulled it up.

  “Wanna be my plus-one tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She played it cool. “I need a date for the wedding.”

  “Oh. Sure, I can go.”

  Gee, he didn’t exactly sound excited. That was all right, though. At least she wouldn’t have to go alone. “Thanks.”

  “Of course.” The zipper hummed up her body until it got to her shoulders. “Little tight up here.”

  Oh god, that was depressing. “I’m too fat?” She desperately tried to reach it, as if her grip could somehow make it zip up. “After all these fucking burpees I’m too fat for my dress?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Wesley said. “It doesn’t fit at the shoulders because you’re gaining muscle, not fat. You look fantastic, Daphne, and you’re looking better every day. Don’t be discouraged.”

  So he thought she looked fantastic? Pleasure rushed through her, and relief. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all. Maybe she’d been missing subtle hints from him that were there all along. Daphne turned and looked up at him. He was standing so close that she could practically smell the sweat on his skin, and . . . it was sexy. She needed to seal the deal, then. Make sure he knew that she was interested. Her hand went to his shoulder and she stood on her tiptoes, tilting her mouth toward his.

  He pulled back, giving her a startled look. “What are you doing, Daphne?”

  She didn’t give up, just tugged a little harder at his shirt to pull him down toward her. “Trying to kiss you.”

  His gaze flicked to her mouth, then to her face. He took a step backward, and she stumbled to catch herself. “We can’t do that.”

  “We can’t?” She kept the laugh in her voice, though she felt like dying inside.

  “I’m your trainer and your life coach,” Wesley said in a low, gentle voice. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave them a little squeeze. “I’m your mentor. We should have a relationship full of ultimate trust.”

  “We do!”

  “And that will change if we become romantically involved. Our relationship will change, and I don’t think it should because it’s working for you. You need strength right now, not a boyfriend.”

  She felt like crying. All these feelings she’d
been having for him, all the longing and the closeness? It was clearly one-sided. “Why can’t I have both?”

  Wesley sighed and dropped his hands. “I didn’t want to say anything before the new year, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. I’ve been talking with the label and they’re super happy with how you’ve been doing. They feel you’re doing well enough to go back to normal. Snoopy’s been briefed and she can take over a lot of my coaching duties, and you can hire a local trainer to come and work out with you a few days a week—”

  Daphne gasped, pulling back. Her hand went to her breast. “You’re abandoning me?”

  Pain flitted over his broad face. “That’s not it at all. We knew this was a short-term deal, Daphne. I’m here to help you pick your life back up and put the pieces together. You’re doing great, and so we need to cut the cord soon.”

  “I see.” The knot in her throat felt enormous. “So what, you’re just going to go back to LA?”

  He rubbed his shaved head awkwardly. “There’s another client lined up for me. Currently in rehab, but should get out in February.”

  She felt like crying. “So you’re leaving me. Like everyone else does.”

  He didn’t even smile. Didn’t even try. He looked as miserable as she felt. “You’re strong, Daphne. I’m not sure you need me anymore. The choices you’ve been making lately? They’re good ones. You’ve been focused on your music. Your workouts are excellent. Your eating is on point. You’ve been working on repairing your relationship with your family. All of these are great things, Daphne. When you removed yourself from the club, that showed me you were ready.” The look on his big face was gentle. “You don’t need me anymore.”

  Was he crazy? The thought of him leaving her, of waking up and not spending the day with him, felt like punishment. It wasn’t that she’d miss the workouts, or the nagging about carrots. She’d miss his unflagging support, his determination, his attempts to be stern even when she did her best to get a smile out of him. She’d miss their push-pull relationship. She’d miss those rare moments when he touched her hand, or the quiet evenings when they just talked for hours.

  She was losing her best friend and the person she was closest to in the world, all because she finally had her act together. It didn’t seem fair. “So what will it take to make you stay with me for another year? A relapse? Should I go buy some coke and snort it? Or is weed enough of a gateway drug? What about a beer?” The words felt ugly and bitter as she said them, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “Or how about a chocolate bar? A fucking cupcake? Because I’ve been good and clean and clearly all it’s going to get me in the end is nothing!”

  The look on his face was incredibly sad, and she immediately regretted the words. “You don’t mean that, Daphne. You can’t be clean because I want you to be. You have to be clean because you choose to be.”

  “I know! I fucking know!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head hurt. Hell, her heart hurt worse. She was ready to cry, but she couldn’t without redoing her makeup. If there was one thing she’d learned after years of being in show business, it was how to hold back the tears.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Daphne—” He reached for her.

  She shook her head and jerked away. “Forget it, Wesley. Never mind. I have a party to go to tonight.” She adjusted the ill-fitting dress. “One that may or may not have obscene quantities of chocolate. Wanna be my date tonight, too?”

  The somber look he gave her broke her heart. “You think I should?”

  “I think if you’re not, you won’t be able to know if I’m any good. And I don’t have much of an incentive to be good at the moment, it seems.” She whirled around and stomped away.

  He caught her hand and stopped her after a few paces. “Daph—”

  “Stop it, Wesley.” Dammit, she really was going to cry at this rate.

  “You’re making this about me,” he said. “It’s not about me. It’s not about eating chocolate or doing drugs to get back at me because I can’t kiss you. It needs to be about love.” When her eyebrows went up, he pointed at his chest. “Not for this person.” He reached out and tapped her breastbone. “For this person. When was the last time you loved her, Daphne?”

  Shit, now she really was going to cry. She wrestled her hand out of his grip. “Don’t need more of your life coach bullshit right now, thanks,” she said hoarsely. “See you later. Or not. Feel free to leave since we’re done here.”

  “I’ll still be your date tomorrow.”

  “Whatever.”

  This time when she walked away, he let her go. And somehow that made things worse.

  For this person. When was the last time you loved her, Daphne?

  God. Why did everything he say hit like a cannonball? When was the last time she loved herself? She passed a mirror as she grabbed her coat, heading out of the apartment. She looked good, she supposed. But all she saw were the freckles that had given endless makeup artists issues. She saw the fine, limp hair that had made costume designers demand she wear wigs. She saw the figure that was too thick—and now too muscled—to be anything but heavily photoshopped on an album cover. She saw a thin upper lip that needed injections, a jawline that a producer had once told her made her face look more like an egg than anything. She saw tits that weren’t big enough for the actor she’d dated once, and a stomach that was far too big for the producer she’d slept with for a few months. She saw bared arms that the tabloids would have a field day with if they showed a bit of jiggle, and thighs that had strong quads but would probably be photoshopped into one of those ‘worst bikini bodies’ issues if they ever made it to the light of day.

  Daphne touched her face, thoughtful and sad. When had she stopped seeing a person in the mirror and started seeing just a bunch of broken parts? Why couldn’t she just love the music and have it be about that anymore?

  She knew that the label was already planning on doing an “art” shot to hide her bigger body. She knew what an “art” shot was. It was going to be a close-up of her hair or face and not much else to hide the fact that she was no longer a size zero but a size ten. Fat, according to everyone in LA except for Wesley, who only cared about whether she was building muscle and putting the right things in her body.

  Oh, Wesley. Why couldn’t he love her enough to give her a chance?

  If he couldn’t love her, how could he possibly expect her to love herself? She shoved her arms into her coat and headed out the door. Time to go celebrate someone else’s happy ever after. Funny how she was the most successful out of her sisters and yet was the only one that couldn’t seem to find love.

  ***

  (Very Early) The Next Day

  Gretchen stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

  Today, she was getting married.

  Today, she was going to be one half of Mr. And Mrs. Buchanan.

  Today, Hunter’s secret would come out. It had to. It was their wedding day. And she would have to deal with the consequences, one way or another.

  And if it didn’t come out . . . well, she’d have to deal with the consequences of that, too.

  She looked over at the love of her life. He slept, face on the pillow next to hers, his hand between them as if ready to touch her, or shelter her if she needed it. The scars on his face were shadows in the moonlight, making him look haggard, but to her, he was beautiful.

  She loved him. And she was utterly terrified. Terrified that maybe she was making a mistake and his secret would be as awful as she dreaded. Terrified that her wedding was going to be a monstrosity of Christmas and whatever else she’d thrown in there. Terrified that something awful was going to go wrong after a year of planning and obsessing.

  Terrified that he’d get to the altar and decide that actually, no, he wasn’t interested in marrying a loudmouth, not-all-that-put-together redhead. Because living together was one thing. But marriage? Marriage was a
big deal.

  And they had no prenuptial agreement. She’d been the one that suggested it, because she didn’t want him to think she was after his money. He’d scoffed at the idea, and when she’d brought it up again, he’d gotten angry at her. So she’d let it die, but now she worried.

  If he married her, he had to really, really want to marry her—warts and all—because she’d be entitled to a crapload of his money once the ring was on her finger. And, well, that made her nervous. What if he changed his mind? What if he resented that she hadn’t pushed harder?

  What if, what if?

  She slid out of bed as carefully as possible so she wouldn’t wake Hunter. It didn’t work; his fingers immediately brushed over her arm. “Gretchen?” His voice was a sexy, sleepy mumble that made her quiver all over.

  “Gonna start the bread,” she told him. “I have to have it in the proofing drawer for a while so I need to begin early.”

  His thumb grazed over her skin in a gentle caress. “You okay, love?”

  “Yep! Just thinking about baking.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Go back to sleep.” By the time she had her slippers and robe on, Hunter was already deep asleep again. She felt a surge of love for him—and then she felt the anxiety return. Time to go pound some dough.

  An hour or so later, she had six bowls full of dough rising for panettone loaves, a coffee in hand, and her mind still wouldn’t turn off. She felt dangerously out of control—like the calm before the storm that was going to hit later. Her stomach was full of dread and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Something always did, didn’t it?

  She took her coffee and headed to her private study down the hall. It was the closest study to her favorite kitchen, and she kept her recipes and doodles in the room. She also kept Igor’s favorite bed in there, and he was curled up, sleeping, when she went in. Gretchen went to her cat and absently stroked his velvety ears.