Girl Meets Billionaire

by Aubrey, Brenna

  “Look,” she said, meeting my eyes, and I had to take a moment to catch my breath. Every time I met her startling blues, I found they had that effect on me. “Darrell was very serious when he told me that he’s going to do everything he can to rip us apart. We have to make it look like we’re a real couple. In real life, a modern couple would be living together in some shape or form at this point in time in their engagement. If we’re not going to agree to live in one place, we’ve got to be sharing both of our apartments. Going back and forth. You know, make it look like we’re spending time together. Like we’re…”

  “Like we’re fucking each other on a regular basis,” I said and immediately regretted it. Just letting my mind go there for even half a second gave me a semi.

  “Yes, that.”

  I was beginning to see her plan. “So you’re saying we need to start sleeping at each other’s houses. All right. I got it now.” I thought about it for a minute. That couldn’t be so bad, could it? Move a few essentials over to her place, make sure to only be there on the weekends so the travel wasn’t too far to work. Have her near me so much more of the time than I already do… Have that much more temptation...

  Yeah, what could go wrong?

  “Fine. I want to be at my place as much as possible during the week. I’ll clear out the guest room for you and give you a key. I’m guessing you’ll do the same for me?”

  “I’ll email you a schedule then. Don’t bring over too much at once or it will look obvious.” She jotted down the notes that I’d given her. I watched her pretty cursive handwriting. His place on weekdays. Exchange keys. Clear out guestroom. Hire him a maid.

  “Hey, you don’t need to be hiring me—“

  “If I have to live there, there is going to be a maid.”

  I leaned forward. “The thing is, sweetheart, you don’t have to live there. So there will not be a maid.” I held her stare, but I realized now that she was bent forward too, and that it would only take just a little bit more movement on either of our parts for our lips to meet, and suddenly all I was thinking about was that damn fucking kiss again.

  Shit, she was in my head. She was under my skin. She was about to be in my apartment. The one place she wasn’t was in my pants, and I was beginning to really wish otherwise.

  The stare-off was some sort of game of chicken, and I should have been the one to lose because of the way she was making me feel—all twisted inside—but somehow she was the one who backed down.

  “Fine.” She crossed hire him a maid off her notepad.

  When she looked up again, she didn’t look quite at me, but straight past. Her eyes narrowed and then widened in surprise.

  “Clarence?” she asked after a minute.

  I frowned in confusion and then followed her gaze to find she was looking at some guy behind me.

  She stood up out of her chair and said it again. “Clarence. It is you!”

  One of the guys at the next table got up and came over to us. “Elizabeth Dyson. How are you? You look great.”

  He hugged her and my entire body went stiff. Who was this freaking dude? My eyes darted from him to her with eager curiosity. The funny thing was, the Clarence dude looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  Their embrace ended, and he stood back, but not back far enough for my taste. Only far enough so that he could look her over again. Slowly, this time.

  I recognized that look. The one that was already eating her up, undressing her with his eyes, mentally dragging her off to the bedroom—

  I stood up so quickly that my chair shook and almost toppled over. “Hi,” I said, my hand outstretched so he was forced to shake it, making him move away from Elizabeth. “I’m Weston. Have we met?”

  The Clarence guy looked quizzically at Elizabeth—my fiancée—then back to me. “I don’t think so. Clarence Sheridan.” He shook my hand, but there still wasn’t enough distance between him and my girl for my comfort.

  My fake girl, I reminded myself, but my inner caveman didn’t hear any distinction.

  When I was done shaking Clarence’s hand, I put my arm around Elizabeth, drawing her next to me. She gasped quietly as I did, but her body was pliable, and she melted into the curve of my arm easily enough.

  “Sheridan,” I asked. “Any relation to Theodore?” I’d gone to school with a Theodore. That was who this guy looked like.

  “He’s my older brother. How do you know him?” he asked, almost suspiciously.

  “We went to Harvard together. Small world.” I turned to Elizabeth. “Honey, have you told me about Clarence? I don’t remember you mentioning him. At all.” God, I was such a dick.

  “It was so long ago, Weston. Clarence and I went to high school together. We haven’t seen each other in years.” She looked flustered.

  Suddenly, all I could think about was whether or not she’d fucked him.

  “You’re going to invite him, aren’t you, honey?” I poured on the honey, extra thick, and pulled her closer to me, possessively. “To the wedding?” Yeah, I emphasized the word wedding. Because she was mine, not his.

  Well, she wasn’t his.

  Her cheeks burned.

  “Wedding?” Clarence said, catching on. “You two are getting married. That’s great! Congratulations.”

  “Yes! Married. That’s right,” she said, as though she’d just remembered, and by God I wanted to spank her so she’d never forget again. Or kiss her. Or both.

  “Yes, of course. If you want to come to my wedding, that is,” she stammered. She’d totally fucked him.

  Did she want to fuck him again?

  My ribs ached with the question.

  “I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world,” the douchebag said. Douchebag was a more fitting name than Clarence, I’d decided.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth sounded surprised. And a little disappointed. “I guess I should get your current address.” She looked toward the table. Then at me, her eyes blinking as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Sweetheart, can you hand me my purse so I can get Clarence’s phone number?”

  No fucking way I was letting her get his number. I pulled out my phone from my pocket, sure to keep my other arm still around Elizabeth. “Here. You can put your digits in here.” I handed my cell over.

  While Douchebag was putting his numbers in, Elizabeth jabbed me with her elbow and sent darts at me with her eyes.

  She could send darts all she wanted. I was the one who fucking taught her how to shoot darts in the first place. And no fiancée of mine was going to have some other dude’s number in her phone. Not some dude that she used to fuck, anyway.

  When the asshole was done, he handed the phone back to me, and I put it in my pocket. “Got it. We’ll send you an invite. It will be great to have you there. Now if you’ll excuse us, our food is getting cold.”

  Elizabeth jabbed me again. I’d have a bruise in my side from all her jabbing, but it would be worth it.

  “Of course. Sorry to interrupt. But when I saw Elizabeth, I had to come over and say hi. Hey, I texted myself, so I’ve got your number now, too.” Douchebag grinned at me, smug. Then again at her—but if I were giving an objective, very non-gay evaluation, I’d have to say he did not have a smile anywhere near as stirring as mine. He leaned in to hug her again or kiss her cheek or something intimate, which was awkward since I was still holding on to her tightly, but somehow they managed a half-embrace thing, and then he went on his way. Finally. Thank God.

  As soon as he was seated again, only a table away from us, Elizabeth turned to me with her full wrath. Some dark little part of me was starting to really enjoy her anger. It was the only time she ever let herself get passionate, since our night in the bubble room.

  “What the fuck was that?” she hissed.

  “I was just playing the part,” I said. “And be careful, he’s not very far away. We need to keep playing the part, don’t you think?”

  I pulled her seat out for her, and this time when I sat down, I scooted close to her a
nd dropped my arm along the back of her chair. Then, not feeling it was enough, I let my hand slide down to her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. As if it wasn’t obvious.

  “I already told you. Playing the part. He’s going to keep looking at you. Ex-boyfriends tend to look at their ex-girlfriends a lot.” I snuck a glance at Douchebag myself, and sure enough, he was peeking over at us.

  “How do you even know he’s my ex?”

  “Oh, it’s quite clear. And if you don’t want him to know what’s up—”

  “Do you really think it matters if an ex is in the know? It seems you don’t, since Sabrina is in on it.”

  Sabrina? Sabrina only knew because I hadn’t wanted her to have a wrong idea when she’d taken the job. And because Donovan had told her.

  But for some reason I didn’t want to explain that to Elizabeth. Maybe because I liked the way she was so worked up about Sabrina. Because it was kind of cute. Kind of sweet. Kind of gave me an upper hand. Made me a little less upset about Douchebag.

  “Sabrina is another story,” I said, brushing her off. My fingers grazed against the bare skin at her neck, and maybe it was accidental the first time, but her flesh felt so warm and silky, I couldn’t stop my fingers from running back and forth, over and over again.

  She swallowed, her eyes down, but I didn’t have to wonder if she was reacting to my touch, because goosebumps sprouted down her arms.

  Still, her next words came out cold and tight. “If you get to make decisions about the people close to you who know the truth, then I get to make the same decisions about the people close to me.” She turned her eyes up at me, shocking my fingers still with her piercing stare. “And that means ex-boyfriends. That means Clarence. If I want Clarence to know that this isn’t real, that’s my call. Not yours.”

  We didn’t say anything more, just ate in silence.

  But I kept my arm where it was, kept my fingers rubbing her skin, her satiny-smooth skin, and I was left again to wonder which version of Elizabeth was real—the one who snapped at me and wanted to reserve Douchebag for when we were over?

  Or the one who shivered, leaned in close, and reacted like crazy to my touch?

  Chapter Ten

  “Don’t throw away the pad thai,” Weston said from behind me.

  I peered over my shoulder at him, surprised I hadn’t heard him come in, before going back to the takeout. I opened the container and sniffed at the ingredients, making a face at the awful stench before throwing it in the trash. “It’s three days old,” I told him.

  I walked over to the sink and washed my hands, noting the time on the microwave clock. It was 9:00 p.m., and Weston was coming home late for the second night in a row.

  He squeezed by me to open the refrigerator door, and I tried to ignore his eyes on me in my short nightgown. We’d been living together for a month, and goosebumps still sprouted on my skin whenever his gaze traveled down my body.

  “You threw out the Chinese too?” he asked, obviously irritated.

  “It was even older.” I flicked the water droplets off my fingers into the sink, then grabbed the washrag to scrub at the stain that I’d just spotted on the counter.

  “Jesus, there’s nothing in here but your stuff. Yogurt, fruit. Hummus. What am I supposed to eat?” I heard the clank of a beer bottle, then the shutting of the door.

  I glanced behind me to find him leaning against the refrigerator. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, and his hair scruffy like he’d run his hand through it several times. Or like someone had run a hand through it. Was he late because he’d been messing around?

  I cared because I didn’t want him jeopardizing our plans, of course.

  I wished that was the only reason I cared.

  “You have a box of shrimp Cup of Noodles from Amazon that came today. I left it in the coat closet. Just heat up some water and you can have that.” So juvenile. It was true what they said about bachelors—they were just overgrown boys.

  “You opened my mail?” Again, he wasn’t happy.

  “I thought it was mine. I didn’t realize until I opened it.”

  “Why would it be something for you? This is my house.”

  “And I live here during the weekdays. It’s easier to have mail sent here.” Sometimes it was hard to believe that he had an MBA.

  “Did you even check who it was addressed to?” He brushed past me to toss the bottle cap into the sink, sending tingles down my spine from the contact.

  “I guess I didn’t,” I said, grabbing the bottle cap out of the sink and tossing it into the trash can. Where it belonged. “Is it really that big of a deal that I opened your mail? Are you expecting something you don’t want me to know about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t you think you’re taking this couple thing a little too far?” He mumbled the last part, but I still heard him.

  I threw the washrag into the sink and nudged him out of the way so I could open the dishwasher and load the few dishes—his dishes—that were still sitting there from breakfast.

  “I suppose I kind of am. Since I’m the one cleaning up after you like a wife.” I shook my head, cursing that I was once again doing housework because of him. “You need a maid, Weston. You live like a pig.” I honestly didn’t know why he didn’t have one. Who had a penthouse in Manhattan and didn’t have a housekeeper come in at least once a week? I thought the whole cleaning profession thrived on serving his particular demographic—single, rich, male.

  “Maybe I don’t like spending money on things I can get someone to do for me for free.” His tone of voice, matched with that half-smile of his, made the statement sound dirty.

  My knees swayed and my pulse ticked up. He was standing too close, and I was intoxicated, as always, by his swagger.

  Intoxicated and disgusted.

  “You’re so full of yourself,” I said, walking into the main room. I needed distance. More distance than I could find in his two-bedroom apartment, but I’d take what I could get. I discovered he’d left his shoes, briefcase, and jacket in a pile on the floor. I picked them all up and carried them to his bedroom door and left them there, then walked to his bookcase and found a glass that had been neglected there since who knew when. I picked it up, intending to take it back to the dishwasher, except I noticed the shelf was filthy.

  “When was the last time you took a duster to any of this?” I brushed a layer of dust off with my hand.

  “Are you a germaphobe or something? Are you seeing someone for that?”

  Ignoring him, I pulled some of his books from the bookshelf. “Your comics are covered with the stuff. Doesn’t this bother you?”

  “They’re not comics. They’re graphic novels. Don’t touch them.” He ran over to me to grab the comics—er, graphic novels—out of my hand, and replaced them on the shelf. With his sleeve, he wiped the shelf clean.

  I shook my head again. “A maid, Weston. Hire one or I’ll hire one for you.”

  “A little dust never killed anyone. And I’m not getting a maid. I’ll clean it when my schedule eases up, okay?”

  Right, he didn’t have time because he was too busy working. He was working a lot lately. He claimed they had a lot of big accounts, but the other thing that I knew he’d been spending time on was training his new hire—Sabrina.

  I tried not to let it bother me, tried not to imagine him with her all day, late into the evenings, having dinner together. Sharing a drink. Sharing more than a drink.

  “You don’t have to tell me again,” I said, insolently. “You have to work. I’ve heard it before.” I cringed internally. I could hear what I was saying and how I was saying it. I sounded like a nag. Shit, maybe I really was taking the couple thing too far.

  But it was a compulsion—the nagging, the wondering. The needing to know. The harder I tried to stop, the more I couldn’t stop. Even now I didn’t want to ask, and yet here I was asking anyway, “With Sabrina?”

  He leaned against
the arm of the sofa and crossed his legs at the ankle. “That was last night. Tonight we were pitching to a big client. Phoenix Technology. We sealed the deal, if you were interested.”

  “Congratulations. Glad to hear all your hard work pays off.” I tugged at the hem of my nightgown, rolling it around my finger absentmindedly.

  “Thank you.” He took another pull of his beer. “I’m still not getting a maid.”

  “Of course you’re not. Because you’re cheap.” I crossed to load the glass in the dishwasher.

  As I put the gel pack in and started the cycle, I watched him from behind the kitchen counter. He made me so confused and riled up every time I was with him. Every interaction felt unsatisfying, even if I’d won the argument. I still wanted to poke more, wanted him to give me more; though, if he asked me, I couldn’t tell him what.

  I poked at him now. “Maybe I should let you fuck a maid. At least we could have a clean apartment.”

  “Let me? Look, I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re the boss of my dick, but you are absolutely not. My abstinence is a fucking favor, not an obligation.”

  “Really? How about my abstinence?” I challenged. “Is that a requirement to this deal?”

  His brows rose. “You’re the one who said we needed to be chaste, babe. If you’re getting your pipes cleaned, then you sure as hell better let me off the chain.”

  I rolled my eyes. Nothing was getting cleaned around here that I wasn’t cleaning myself, especially my pipes. “I’m not the one who is going to fuck this up, Weston. But if you’re fucking this up, then I don’t want to be held on a leash, either.”

  “Meaning?”

  I bunched my hands into fists and rested them on my hips. “Meaning—give me Clarence Sheridan’s phone number.” I didn’t even really want to call him. I’d barely thought about him since we’d bumped into him that night at dinner a month ago. He was an ex from high school. My first real boyfriend, yes. The guy who’d taken my virginity, but we’d broken up seven years ago now. Seeing him again had knocked the wind out of me because it had been so long, not because I still felt anything for him.