Girl Meets Billionaire

by Aubrey, Brenna

  “We’re not going to do that, Vicky.”

  She frowns, eyes dark and dazzling. “Smuckers isn’t feeling favorable to the funding, that’s the problem here.”

  “We need this funding,” Kaleb says. “We could lose millions of dollars of business here.”

  She shrugs. “Then I’d suggest you tell Smuckers directly why he should cast a yes vote. Really talk to him. Make him feel included. Because, between you all and me and the Locke Worldwide flagpoles, you’re not treating him with the respect he feels is his due. You tried to defraud him in the last meeting, and now you’re ignoring him. Can you blame him for being unhappy?”

  Smuckers is standing on his dog bed, wagging his tail, sensing the energy in the room.

  I’ve done battle many times in the corporate world. I know the language of battle, the feel and sound of it. I know the moves, the signals, the rules.

  She tried to play our game last time and nearly lost. We played dirty. She’s asserting her power now, being unreasonable. Forcing us to orbit around her. And something else.

  It’s as if she’s operating out of some kind of disdain, and most of it seems pointed at me.

  She disdains me. It’s…electrifying.

  “Dreoger starts on the fifteenth,” Mandy says to me, jolting me out of my haze.

  I nod. “Right.” We need the software. We needed it yesterday.

  “That right there,” Vicky says. “When you talk like that without giving Smuckers any kind of background, he feels unhappy.”

  I fix her with a hard gaze and get to my feet. I’ll take the bullet for my people any day of the week.

  I go to Smuckers. Smuckers’s tongue is a little bit out of his mouth, and the hair around his face is puffier than last week. This, too, is by design—it just makes the optics all the more hosed up. The grifter. Toying with us.

  “Smuckers,” I say, “if we were to convert over to this new software, it’ll result in a tighter integration of our core services. And honestly, nobody is worried about the learning curve.”

  “Project teams have been researching it…Smuckers,” Kaleb adds.

  “That’s not very persuasive,” she says.

  “Look, Smuckers,” I say, going for it now. “We really need your vote on this. I know what you’re thinking, that a services integration will result in higher initial bid costs, so yeah, our bids might not look competitive, but this up-front integration will cut out surprises. Construction and design would work together, instead of a design being handed over to construction to interpret.”

  I look over at her.

  “Can you imagine how much time that wastes?” I add.

  She plays with her ponytail, which is just long enough to hang over the front of her shoulder. It’s curled on the end, and I’m thinking about what her hair might look like down.

  I get up and unclip Smuckers, take him out, begin to pet him vigorously, holding Vicky’s gaze all the while. I know what little dogs like this like. I grew up with dogs like this.

  Dogs were the only companions my mother really ever chose for herself.

  Until Vicky.

  Why her? Did they take walks together? Did Vicky take Bernadette out for lunch at her precious Gramercy?

  Smuckers is licking me, practically trying to burrow into me.

  “When everyone collaborates at the front, Smuckers, projects run shorter, with fewer surprises. That’s more valuable than lower up-front costs, don’t you agree?” I scratch his ears.

  My gaze meets hers. Everyone in the room is watching the dog, but she’s watching me, lips plumped together in a slight frown, gaze hot. Laser-beam hot.

  I say, “The tighter integration of business units will be incredible.”

  Smuckers’s little legs pump happily.

  “Is that a yes?” I ask him.

  Her lips part in shock. Annoyance. Her throat turns a compelling shade of pink. I wonder idly if it ever goes red.

  Still holding her gaze, I put my mouth to the side of his head. I give her my amused smile that seems to annoy her. “Who’s your daddy?”

  “Uh!” Vicky arrows up and stalks over to me. “Not you!”

  I feel her breath on my cheek as she takes him from my arms. She puts Smuckers back into his bed and clips him back up. Smuckers yips in protest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vicky

  What the hell!

  I’m supposed to be the owner but somehow, Henry’s in control. Completely unbalancing me. Why did I think I was up to this?

  I fold my arms tight over my chest like that’ll push down my confused emotions.

  He’s a suit-and-tie guy, the epitome of rich, entitled suit-and-tie guys, a man who has already tried to screw me out of something. A dirty player who thinks he’s the king of the universe.

  I tear my gaze from him, put my focus on Smuckers. “What’s that? Okay then.” I sigh. “While Smuckers appreciates your effort, Mr. Locke, you really just didn’t do it for him in the end. Smuckers votes no.”

  “You’re voting no?” Mandy says, glaring at me, then she turns to Henry, expecting him to do something. I supposedly run this company, but everybody is always looking at Henry for everything.

  “Smuckers votes no,” I say, needing to take some kind of control back. “Smuckers didn’t find the argument compelling. At all.”

  Mandy stands. She’s mad. Everybody’s mad—their anger twirls my gut into a pretzel, but I stand there like I don’t care. They tried to push me around and I’m done being pushed around.

  Never again.

  “Can you articulate an actual reason?” Mandy asks in a barely controlled monotone. “Other than your being a jerk?”

  “Let’s dial it back,” Henry says coolly. I don’t know whether he’s talking to me or her. Maybe both. He’s saying something about the software. A phased implementation, something.

  I’m not hearing him past the rushing in my ears, the thickness in my throat.

  The horrible girl, hated by all.

  I’m back walking out of that police station, all the angry questions and cameras.

  I’m in my bedroom, hated Vonda O’Neil, venturing onto Twitter and Facebook, wanting desperately to find somebody out there defending me, saying they believe me.

  It would’ve meant so much.

  The picture they’d always post of me that summer became iconic. It was one my mom took of me just before we’d gone out to dinner at Applebee’s the summer before. I was fifteen, standing against the hickory tree by the rusty fence, grinning like I’d never stop. I’d gotten straight A’s and that was our deal—straight A’s gets an Applebee’s dinner.

  That was a good summer. It was just my mom and my sister and me, mostly—no skeevy boyfriends.

  Mom was in a program at the time, and she had some kind of prescription that leveled her out. And I felt like, if I just kept being the best daughter ever, things would work out.

  Staring out at the camera that night, I could’ve never imagined all of America would’ve ended up staring back at me, hating me just a year later.

  Carly had encouraged me to wear her blue sweater today to go with my Smuck U stuff, but I’m glad I didn’t. Why did I think of such a crazy plan?

  I straighten. Don’t crumble. Hold your head up high.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can see why you’d be mad after being bullied and tricked. Or being threatened if you don’t take a payout. Or being unfairly brought to the police station…oh wait—that’s what you guys did to me.”

  Mandy rises. “This is impossible. This is not okay.”

  Henry simply crosses his legs. “It’s a business problem with a business solution.”

  Mandy slams her folder back together and yanks her laptop cord out of the wall. She walks out with all of the stuff hanging in her arms.

  Heart pounding, I make a production out of closing my notebook and repacking my bag. I can feel Henry’s gaze on me. “We’ll revisit this thing,” he says.

/>   I feel dizzy. I should give it all back. Hide in my turtle shell. Why did I think I could do this? Zip zip snap.

  “Hold on,” Henry says. “We have something else on the table.”

  I set my bag down. I sit. I fold my shaking hands in my lap. “What?”

  “We do charitable giving through the Locke Foundation,” he says. “I can’t remember the last time we gave to an animal charity. With Smuckers on the board now, I think it might be a nice gesture for the foundation to fund up a needy local rescue or shelter. A substantial gift.”

  I sit up. An animal shelter?

  Kaleb is instantly on board, suggesting a giant cardboard check.

  “Love it,” Brett says. “People are going to hear about Smuckers soon enough. Let’s make it a fun news story.”

  “Right?” Henry turns to me. “You wouldn’t be opposed to that, would you? Or, I’m sorry, Smuckers?”

  “That’s the last thing I expected,” I say

  “Do you want to spearhead it?” Henry asks.

  “Me?” I study Henry’s face. “Is this a trick?”

  “Does asking for your help to identify a charity to give a million dollars to seem like a trick to you?”

  “A million dollars?”

  “For our portion. Partners might want to contribute if there’s enough buzz. We can have a ceremony and introduce Smuckers. Have fun with it. Turn what my mother did into something positive.”

  I’m still stuck on a million dollars. “A million dollars?”

  “For our portion,” he clarifies, like that’s the unusual part. And not CAPS LOCK! A MILLION DOLLARS! “And you can direct it to a specific organization. You know, if you have opinions. Or we can have a consultant handle it—”

  “No, I have opinions. There’s this dog and cat rescue shelter my friend runs—they’re really good. They just started a stray drop-off center and they could do so much.”

  “Let’s schedule it up.” Just like that. Schedule it up. He turns to April. “Get the details and coordinate our calendars on the ceremony. Make a list of who to reach out to and all that.” Then he seems to remember she’s my assistant, and he turns to me. “Good with you?”

  I nod, feeling stunned. Why are they being so nice? But I don’t forget my manners. “Thank you. They’re going to be excited,” I say. “That is generous.”

  “It’s what the Locke Foundation is for.”

  April is smiling in the background, because she is all about the Locke Kool-Aid.

  “You want to give your friend a call?” Henry asks. “We’ll want to keep it under wraps until we orchestrate the PR angle, but we can float the donation as soon as they need it.”

  I get on the phone to Kimmy to deliver the good news. The board members file out while she squees into my ear. I promise her over and over that it’s real, that they’re getting that money.

  By the time I pocket my phone, it’s just Henry and me and Smuckers. Henry has Smuckers all leashed up.

  “What?” he says.

  “It’s just really nice. For the memory of your mother. For animals in need. For my friend’s organization.” I feel drained. Confused.

  “I want to make this work,” he says. “There’s no reason we all can’t get what we want, right?” He takes a step toward me, extending a hand. “Truce?”

  I’m overwhelmed by his nearness, his unexpected kindness, the intense masculine energy that seems to be concentrated in his hand—so much so that I feel shy to take it.

  But it’s there before me.

  I pause, mouth dry. Slowly, I place my fingers inside his. His hand is smooth and heavy, and it closes over mine, swallowing it up completely. Heat shivers through me.

  “You know what we need to do now?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Make one of those ridiculous giant checks,” he says.

  “That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would be in a CEO job description.”

  “It’s in the CEO job description if the CEO says it is. I make the operational rules here.” He lets my hand go.

  I stand there reeling, trying to untangle the annoyance from the allure when he takes Smuckers’s leash and heads across the tundra of blue elegance. Smuckers trots after him without so much as a glance back at me.

  “Hey…” I start after them. “You can’t just take Smuckers.”

  He gets into the elevator and claps a hand over the door, eyes sparkling. Henry can do anything he wants.

  “Fine.” I get in and I stab the lobby button a few times. Stab stab stab.

  “The doors don’t shut faster when you do that,” he says.

  “Shows what you know.” I stab it again. The doors shut. “See?”

  He rolls his eyes. And we’re alone.

  The air between us is thick and heavy.

  He turns to me, gaze serious. “We’ll whip out the check at the fabrication facility. It’ll be good for you to see some of the operations beyond the office.”

  I nod.

  Just then the doors open and two women come barreling in with a giant cart. “Oh, Mr. Locke!” the older one says. “We can take the next.”

  “Come on, there’s room.” He rests his fingers on my elbow and guides me back to the corner in order to make room for the huge cart. It’s just a light pressure, fingertips to elbow, but the sizzle burns clear through me.

  His eyes rivet to mine. Did he feel it, too? He removes his hand, and I think he did feel it, but no, he’s helping to adjust the cart.

  “Thank you,” the other woman says, with a gaze of enchantment.

  Henry nods and grabs the bar at the back of the elevator.

  The thing stops again and a woman and two small boys get on.

  I set my own hand on the bar back there, right near his. His suit sleeve grazes my bare arm. My body hums with his nearness, with the tickle of fine fabric.

  “We’ve got the Prime-Valu people on four,” the one woman says, unaware of the strange combustion in our corner. “That room projector bulb issue, but just to be safe…” She seems to wait for his blessing.

  He smiles his dazzling smile, the one Carly showed me in pictures, pleased with his minion. “Excellent call.”

  The women rattle off some corporate jargon. It’s clear that they just really want him to see they’re doing a good job. Everybody loves Henry, magical CEO of the world.

  I fix on the projector cord, neatly wound up at the side of the cart, trying not to feel him so keenly.

  Latrisha, my furniture maker friend, once said that living, growing trees extend beyond the actual physical space they take up. Standing next to Henry, I think that it’s true of people, too.

  It’s not just the body heat of him; his shining power seems to take over the little space. Maybe that’s what won him that hot bachelor award, that the space around him seems to crackle with power. Even the elevator is all about Henry.

  I should inch away, but the giant cart is taking up ninety percent of the space. And anyway, he’d assume it was because of him. Like I’m overwhelmed with him or something.

  It’s in the CEO job description if the CEO says it is. I make the rules.

  So arrogant.

  Around the twenty-fifth floor I’m wondering if it’s a smell thing—he has this vague masculine scent with manly notes of cinnamon and something musky. I breathe it in, letting it fill my nooks and crannies.

  Maybe that’s what’s affecting me. Maybe he’s wearing some pheromone concoction. A zillion dollars an ounce, made from the tears of mighty lions.

  He’s watching the numbers, so I turn my head slightly, in service of my scientific inquiry, breathing him in, telling myself he won’t notice. It’s cinnamon and musk and something oceany. Deep mysterious ocean with huge surges of waves.

  I catch one of the boys studying me. “Are you smelling him?” the boy asks. “You were smelling him!”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You turned your face to him and your nostrils went in and out. That means yo
u were smelling him.”

  I smile like I think he’s cute and then I give the rest of the women a baffled look.

  Everyone gets out. The door slides shut.

  Roller coaster belly flip.

  Henry pushes off the wall with the lazy grace of a large predator. He shifts so that he’s leaning sideways, eyes like sea glass, gaze glued to my lips. He lowers his voice. “You were smelling me?”

  I grip the bar. “Why would I be interested in smelling you?”

  “I can think of a lot of reasons you’d be interested in smelling me.” He gets that amused smile I hate so much. He seems to think it’s funny.

  My skin heats. “Name one.”

  “Hmm.” His eyes drop to my neck. “I’m going to go with lust.”

  “Oh my god, you are so full of yourself.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “Seriously? Do you automatically assume every woman wants you?”

  He watches me, curious.

  “Seriously. You think everyone lives to scrape at your feet, scrambling for crumbs of your attention and approval? Trying to smell you? And if a girl is truly lucky, maybe you’ll pick her?”

  He tilts his head. Waits a beat.

  “Well?” I demand.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you waiting for an answer? I thought that was a rhetorical question.”

  “Oh my god!”

  He beams at me, and right then those lopsided dimples appear. The smile that tugs at my belly.

  This is his genuine smile—I recognize it as such instinctively. It’s the smile that cameras never capture, the one that’s not part of the Powerful Prince Henry show. Real. And so human.

  Was he teasing me with the smell thing?

  The elevator stops. The door opens.

  And he’s on, folks. He’s straightened up and giving the million-dollar smiles to the group of senior execs. He places his beautifully masculine hand on the elevator door to keep it open and he turns to me, waiting. Ladies first and all that.

  He’s greeting the men by name, joking with them as they file in. They treat him with deference, like he’s a minor deity.

  We head out through the fabulous lobby with Henry carrying Smuckers. He’s macho enough to carry a little dog. All eyes are on him. He knows all names.