Girl Meets Billionaire

by Aubrey, Brenna

  Now home.

  Home.

  I say it over and over in my head. Home.

  Don’t start, Mac. Just don’t start.

  I put the car in gear and squeal out of the parking lot, make a left on the first street, and follow that road around to the Occulus Building where I now own the penthouse.

  Home.

  Hardly. I wouldn’t call that top-floor monstrosity a home. A place to live. Temporarily, anyway. But not a home.

  Home has people in it, and this place has none. Not even full-time staff. The family was livid when I let them go, but there are plenty of other places for them to work. I need to be alone. If I’m being forced to stay here while Stonewall Entertainment is sold, well, I want to be alone while that happens.

  I pull into the underground garage a few minutes later and flash my phone at the security gate sensors. I have to get a sticker for the car, then I won’t even need to stop. The gate will open, I’ll slide into the private parking section, and board my private elevator to the penthouse.

  All without bumping into anyone.

  When I get upstairs I empty out my pockets and find Ellie’s resignation letter.

  Why the fuck did I overreact like that? And not just the threat at the end. Why the hell am I throwing myself at this girl? She’s… well, yeah, she’s cute. And that combined with the almost sex—twice—at the office, well, she’s gotten into my head.

  Get out, get out. I don’t want her there.

  Tomorrow when I go into the office and she’s in the one right next door, I’m going to be the epitome of professional. No peeks down her blouse, no hands on her tits, no bending her over the desk.

  I’m hard again. Just what the fuck?

  I start to open the letter; I even get so far as a small tear in the back cover of the flap. But I stop.

  I think I invaded Ellie Hatcher’s private thoughts enough today.

  So I walk into the office, open the desk drawer, and toss it in there. It’s not like she can’t just print out another one, right? I’m sure she’s already done that. I’m sure my threats were a challenge to her to beat me at my own game. I’m sure she’s probably emailing that letter right now. Along with a long list of complaints about my bad behavior.

  As usual. I’m the disappointment.

  Ten years away and I can feel all the same old misconceptions about me resurfacing.

  What gives her the right to judge me?

  I walk over to the bar and pour myself a drink from the crystal decanter and take a sip. I might need the whole bottle to get through this night.

  No, that inner voice says. No. You will not fall back onto old habits just because you are part of the real world again.

  My cell rings in the other room, so I take my one drink and walk out to answer it.

  I smile at the name on the screen. Mr. Romantic. “Hey, asshole. What’s up?”

  “Mr. Perfect, how the fuck did it go?” Nolan Delaney’s voice is welcome. We’ve been friends since we started boarding school together back in the seventh grade. We’ve been through hell and back since those days.

  “Well, shit,” I say. “About as fucked up as I imagined, but not in any of the ways I thought.”

  “Bad, huh?” Nolan asks. I can hear the sympathy in his voice.

  “It could’ve been worse, I guess. How are things with you? Business good?”

  “Killing this shit, Perfect. I’m killing this shit.”

  “You always do.” I sigh.

  I can almost hear his smile on the other end. And then the corresponding frown. “It’ll get better, man. Just hang in there, you know?” Nolan’s life has been charmed since the day he was born. What does he know about failure? What does he know about anything that doesn’t begin and end with success?

  That’s not fair and I know it. He was there. I am the only black mark on his perfect record of an existence. Even in the worst of times he was never the target. That was always me. I just brought my friends along for the ride.

  We make a little more small talk, him wishing me luck and providing me with the appropriate level of support. I thank him and hang up.

  Alone again.

  I’ve been this way for ten years, so what’s one more night?

  That’s my mantra. I’ve lived with it for ten years. I can live with it for one more night.

  The problem is Ellie. I can’t seem to stop seeing her face. Her breasts. Her flat stomach as I pushed her back on that desk. I was so fucking close. Twice today. So fucking close.

  I need to be different tomorrow. Need to put a stop to this before it all goes to shit again. Need to be careful about who I trust. Who I let in. Who I get close to.

  Ellie Hatcher will never be that girl. She’s got me in a place I don’t want to be. And one more wrong move might ruin my life.

  Again.

  At four AM I give up trying to sleep and go for a run. There’s a quarter-mile track along the perimeter of the roof, but the hills of the surrounding area call to me. I haven’t been running since I got back to the States and it feels good.

  It rained all night long and the air is crisp. I love dawn. I love the smell of a fresh start, a new day. I love beginnings.

  After three miles I turn back and slow my pace to ease my heart back down. The doorman smiles and hands me a newspaper as I head towards the elevator, and when I get upstairs I have just enough time to jump into the steam shower and get dressed before I need to leave for work.

  I like to get there early. Especially today.

  I walk into my seventh-floor office at exactly six forty-five and stand at the window, wishing I had a view of the airport instead of the cows for once. Or the parking lot, so I could watch her coming to work.

  Ellie kept me up all night. Not just my threat, although that was weighing heavy on my mind. Things about her. Things I don’t know about her. What kind of car does she drive? Where does she live? What does her apartment look like? Why does she work here?

  I only know the answer to the last question. Although I could look the other three up and find them somewhere in her personnel file. She has to have an address listed. I could find that in five seconds. And she has to have a parking pass for the lot. That would list her car on the application.

  I don’t want to stalk her though.

  Why the fuck am I still thinking about her?

  She’s not even going to show today. And on the off chance that she does show, she won’t show up here on the seventh floor. I’ll have to send someone down to the hangar to get her, I’m sure.

  The elevator opens and I turn and try to see out my open door.

  Not Ellie.

  Several more people come. Not Ellie.

  Stephanie comes, bringing me coffee, even assuming that I take it black, which is right. And then more and more people.

  She’s not coming.

  So many more people bustle through out of the elevators and up the stairs just as the clock hits eight-thirty.

  She’s not coming.

  Then things go quiet.

  She’s not coming.

  “Excuse me?” I hear the small sweet voice I’ve been waiting for. “I was told to report up here today,” she tells Stephanie. “Apparently, I work on this floor now.”

  She came.

  I walk to my office door and my exhale becomes an unexpected sigh of relief. Standing before me, Miss Hatcher looks like she’s ready for an evening out. She’s wearing a little black dress, not hugging her curves, but draping down her body in some kind of very flirty, feminine fabric. A good stiff wind might lift it right off her body.

  I think I get hard just from the thought.

  Chapter Ten

  ELLIE

  “You came.” McAllister Stonewall is leaning against the door of his office looking spectacularly triumphant. His dark gray suit drapes his body like an Italian tailor was paying attention to each and every stitch of thread. His shirt is a classic gray pinstripe and his silk tie is a deep cerulean blue that match
es his eyes.

  He looks very smug. Like he won something. Like my mere presence in his top-floor world is a prize. But he also looks tired. Like he lost sleep last night.

  Good. Good. I lost sleep last night too.

  God, I hate his guts. But I’m not about to make another scene up here on the seventh floor. I called Ming last night crying and she vowed to make this bastard pay for what he did. We’ll figure it out, she said.

  But that’s just not the kind of person I am. Not vengeful. I just want that phone back so I can delete all those messages I sent stupid Heath. How did I ever think either of the two Stonewall brothers were handsome? It makes me want to barf.

  The only reason I’m here today is so I can scope out McAllister’s office and figure out a plan to get the phone. Ming is going to meet me up here after work and then we’re going to tear his office apart and get it back.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Do I get an office? Or will I have to claim a picnic table out in the Atrium?”

  “Oh, we spent all day getting your office ready, Ellie,” Stephanie says. I know her pretty well. I was up here to see Heath at least once a week. “You’ve got Heath’s old annex.”

  “The connecting room?” Jesus Christ. Can I not catch a break? Now I’ve got a connecting office to Mr. Fancy Jet?

  “And Jennifer is on the other side of you. That will be nice.”

  Yeah, Jennifer Sluts-around and I should become fast friends, considering we both like to fuck our way to the top.

  Stop it, my inner voice says. Stop it. He promoted you before all that stuff happened. You earned this office, Ellie.

  Too bad I’ll only get to enjoy my sudden ascension up the corporate ladder for one day. As soon as I find that phone, I’m out of here.

  Well, assuming that’s after Adeline leaves. I allow myself a little smile at that. I practically get to spend the entire day with Adeline.

  “Are you just going to stand there wasting Stonewall time and money?” McAllister asks, breaking me out of my happy moment. “Or should we get to work dismantling your secrets?”

  “Ugggh,” I say under my breath. Thank God Adeline is here today, or I might stab him with a pencil. “I’m ready when you are,” I say, tipping my head up and walking past him to the open door of my office. “I won’t be around much today. I have a VIP.”

  The office is… well, what I expected the second they said Heath’s annex. It’s the same dark paneling, the same massive hardwood desk, the same leather chairs. In other words, ugly.

  I walk over to the desk as McAllister follows, me taking a seat in the gigantic executive chair, him perching nonchalantly on the corner of the desk.

  “They’re all VIPs, Miss Hatcher. Today’s guest is no different than yesterday’s. So you will make time for me and my questions.”

  “Oh, really?” I challenge.

  “Really,” he snarls.

  “Well,” I say, opening the top desk drawer to find a shitload of Heath’s old stuff, including cigars. I make a face as I hold one up between my fingers. “Smells like these things in here still, you know. And it’s dark and ugly.”

  “Uhhh…” Stonewall falters. “Sorry. Now why is today’s star more VIP than yesterday’s? Who, by the way, personally called me last night.”

  “What? Brutus called you? Why?” But I know why. He’s going to sue us because he thinks I tried to kill him.

  “Not Brutus, Andrew Manco. He called to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he will take his VIPness elsewhere should you leave the company.”

  I have to turn away a little to hide my smile.

  “Laugh all you want, Miss Hatcher. But it’s not funny. We’re trying to make the sale of Stonewall go as easy as—”

  “Sale?” I say. What the hell?

  “Oh, I forgot,” he says. “You had to dash out of the meeting yesterday to grab a tampon.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows at him. Asshole. God. He’s such an asshole.

  “Well,” I say, taking control of the conversation once more—and then I see the open door, get up, close it, and take a seat back in my chair—“what I do here is all very confidential.”

  “Really?” Stonewall says, one eyebrow hitched up on his forehead.

  “Really. I appear to be a silly escort. The girl who runs out for M&M’s when the rock stars get belligerent about the condition of the green room. But that is not, in fact, Mr. Stonewall, what I do here. I smooth egos, I give advice, I lend a friendly ear to the world’s rich and famous when they feel like talking about their very unique problems.”

  He’s got a very confused look on his face.

  “I’m a life coach,” I tell him in simple terms. “To the stars. I even wrote a book. Seeing Stars.”

  “What?” he asks.

  I almost laugh at his confusion. “It’s not published yet though. I’m working on that.”

  “This is real? What you’re telling me is real?” McAllister asks.

  “Of course it’s real. I see stars. I’m the BFF to exactly twenty-seven high-level VIPs. That’s why they love me. I listen to them.”

  “Are you some kind of therapist? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “No, I’m not a therapist, I’m a friend. They talk, I listen, I give advice, they take it. Success.” I hold my hands up in one of those voilà gestures. “So that’s why Andrew probably called you. I mean, I’ve been here a while. Seven years. I’ve known Andrew since he was sixteen. And Adeline and I met the very first year of my internship. She’s the VIP for today. And we always spend a lot of time together.”

  “So you wrote a book on company time, is this what I’m supposed to take away from this conversation?”

  “What? I wrote the book at home, asshole.”

  “You used company resources for the source material of your book?”

  “Why are you doing this?” I stand up and smooth down my dress. “Why do you have to be so mean? Why is everything about you and your company? I didn’t use anything from Stonewall. I made friends. Does this company get to keep my friends when we break up?”

  I whirl around to walk out, but McAllister grabs my arm and pulls me close to him. My back tingling with the anticipation of connecting with his chest. I can smell the faint scent of cologne on his neck when he leans into mine and whispers, “I wasn’t being mean. I was asking all the questions the company lawyers will ask when your book hits the stands, Miss Hatcher. We need—”

  “I have releases from everyone, Mac.” I stare into his eyes and he’s taken aback when I use his nickname. I’m not even sure why it comes out. “Sorry, Mr. Stonewall. I have releases. I don’t need your lawyers.”

  His free hand slides into place just above my hipbone and the one holding my wrist lets go and palms my breast.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in a whisper.

  “I don’t think your dress is appropriate, Miss Hatcher.” He slides the hand on my hip down the silky fabric until it comes in contact with my thigh. “It’s far too flirty for a Thursday.”

  He forces me back into his body. I’m practically in his lap as he continues to sit on the edge of the desk. “Well,” I say. “If you want a completely professional outfit you have to wait for Tuesday.”

  “What?” He laughs.

  I laugh too, breaking the sexy moment and the hostile one at the same time. And then I turn to face him. I can look into his blue eyes now, because he’s sitting and I’m standing. “Mondays I wear pencil skirt with button-down oversized shirt and a thin belt at my waist. Tuesdays are business chic. Fitted trousers with a cami shell and a matching blazer. Wednesdays are A-line skirt with an interesting blouse—”

  “Interesting blouse?” he asks. “Well, that kimono thing was certainly interesting once I got your bra off you. What’s today?”

  “Today,” I say, “is sex-it-up-for-happy-hour day. Ming from IT and I go for drinks every Thursday night.”

  “Hmmm,” he says, his hands wandering up my dress and c
oming to a rest on my ass cheeks.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly becoming breathless.

  “Tell me to stop and I will.”

  “That wasn’t the question,” I whisper back.

  “I’m feeling your ass. I’m waiting to be slapped. I’m giving you an out, but getting in a feel at the same time. I’m going to bend you over this desk in exactly ten seconds if you don’t walk out, Miss Hatcher. One. Two—”

  “I have to go meet Adeline on the tarmac.”

  “Three. So go. Four.”

  “We’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Five. Six. From who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Seven. Last chance, Miss Hatcher. Take it or leave it. Eight.”

  I chew on a fingernail and even though every voice in my head is screaming at me to walk out, just when I get the nerve to break away, his fingers slide down my ass and slip between my legs. “Oh, shit,” I moan.

  “Nine. Ten.”

  I stare at him for what seems like eternity. Looking him straight in the eyes, wondering what he’ll do next.

  And then I know, because he’s got me bent over the desk, the heel of his hand pushing down on the small of my back.

  “Lie still, Miss Hatcher,” he says. “I’ll take it from here.”

  I can barely breathe, but I’m panting hard at the same time. That makes no sense. Nothing makes any sense at all.

  He lifts my dress up, the air bathing my bare skin with a coolness that both excites me and makes me panic. “Wait,” I say.

  His hands caress me. Over each round ass cheek. Down the front of each thigh. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Hatcher. Get up and pull yourself together, or lie still and take it.”

  My mouth falls open at the audacity of this man. But he hooks his fingertips into the lace of my panties and slides them down. Not all the way down. Just far enough for him to get access. Just enough so they are positioned right in the crease where my cheeks meet my thighs.

  “Goddamn,” he whispers, stepping back a pace or two.

  His touch is gone and I turn my head a little to look over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Enjoying the view.” He grabs the thick bulge beneath the fabric of his trousers and squeezes. “I’ve barely touched you, but you look ready to me.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a condom. The crinkle of foil and the small rip as he opens up the package make me swallow with a little bit of fear and a whole lot of anticipation.