The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  “Ah, young love.” Devon smiles indulgently, but I don’t acknowledge his little joke, because he’s hitting way too close to the truth. “Is that the sister who works at your office?”

  “Yeah - Becca.” I want to get off that topic as quickly as possible. “Anyway, I stayed in touch with the Douglass’ PR assistant, and by the time I graduated, she was running her own firm. I started working for her, and the rest is history.”

  “But you struck out on your own,” he points out. “Not everyone does that. You’re ambitious.”

  “I don’t like being told what to do,” I reply.

  He grins. “Ambitious people usually don’t. Because we always know better.”

  “Of course you’d say that.”

  He shakes his head indulgently. “So, who plans the date next time? I’m looking forward to getting a chance to really impress you.”

  "You'll have to try pretty hard to impress me," I remind him. "I'm not some dewey-eyed ingenue who's never left her hometown."

  He scoffs quietly. "Who the hell do you think I normally date? You've been reading too many romance novels. Heiresses aren't easily impressed, either. My last friend-with-benefits was born in the backseat of a Bugatti. And that's not a metaphor."

  I laugh, in spite of myself. "Everything about you is absolutely appalling."

  His eyes sparkle. "I try my best."

  Thoughtfully, I pick up my cup. "Have you ever dated someone who wasn't...you know, like you?"

  "Nobody's like me," he deadpans.

  "I really hope you don't make a point of saying that on dates." I smirk at him. "It's a little off-putting."

  "It's obviously a joke," he points out. "And because I read people exceptionally well, I know that you're smart enough to understand that. Obviously I wouldn't be insincere with anybody who's too dull to understand sarcasm."

  "You know what I mean," I insist. Genuine compliments from him make me exceedingly uncomfortable. "Rich. Do you date outside your social circle?"

  "I've dabbled," he says, staring into his drink. "It doesn't go well."

  “Well, you might want to broaden your horizons a little,” I tell him. “Otherwise, you’re really limiting yourself.”

  “That’s the most optimistic I’ve heard you about my prospects,” he says, with a smile. “Things must be looking up.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I tell him, with a reserved smile.

  ***

  ***

  Going back to the office after my coffee date with Devon is…surreal, to put it mildly. I’ve gone on plenty of practice dates before, but they never felt like this. It’s never felt real.

  I try to shake it off as I walk into the office.

  “Hey, I’ve got some bad news,” says Becca, glancing up from her keyboard briefly and then going back to her rapid typing. “You know that lawyer?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” I deadpan, grabbing a pile of papers out of the inbox on her desk. Without even looking, she reaches over and swats it out of my hand.

  “The lawyer,” she says. “And that’s my work, not yours. You hired me for a reason, remember?”

  “I have some free time,” I insist, reaching for the papers again. “You mean Mr. Pizelle?”

  “Of course Mr. Pizelle, who else? If you’ve got free time, go do some yoga or have a smoothie or something.”

  “Let me guess,” I mutter, giving up on the sheaf of papers. “He didn’t do what I asked.”

  Becca nods. “The sites are down, they got de-indexed properly, but he just couldn’t help himself. He put up another auction.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She rotates her monitor around so I can see. Oh, God, he’s at it again. Complete with the goofy pictures, the humble-brag bio, and the “woe is me I can never ever get a date with a normal woman” demeanor. He’s even added a few selfies where he’s sticking his tongue out - I’m not sure if he thinks it’s fun and carefree, or sexy. Either way, he’s wrong.

  I pull out my phone and start to dial.

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Becca chuckles, grabbing the pile of papers again.

  “Mr. Pizelle?” I ask, when he picks up. As if someone else would be answering his phone.

  “Yes, Cassandra? It’s great to hear from you so soon. I didn’t expect -”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “But I need to clear something up with you before I do any further work for you.”

  He swallows audibly. “Is something wrong?”

  “It seems like you left one of your auctions running,” I tell him. “I’m sure it was an oversight, but I need you to take it down right away if you want to continue working together.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “About that,” he says, finally, clearing his throat. “I know you said that you need…clean metrics, or whatever. But I also need to keep my options open. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “What I understand is that you agreed to stop,” I reply. “And you didn’t. I have a long waiting list of clients, Mr. Pizelle, and I don’t like to have my time wasted.”

  “I was hoping you would be more flexible.” There’s something dark and bitter in his voice. “If you can’t work with me…”

  “Mr. Pizelle, I’m going to be honest with you.” I take a deep breath and settle against the edge of Becca’s desk. She’s loving this, I can tell. “One of the first things that any of your prospective matches will do is search for your name online. They’re going to find all of these posts, all of your auctions, your sites, anything you put out into the world. And you’ll never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

  “Are you saying I’m making a bad one?” He’s already so angry, so defensive, and I can’t tell if it’s because he knows deep down that it’s a bad idea…or if it’s just that so many people have told him before. I could tell there was something simmering beneath the surface with him, but I didn’t expect it to rear up so fast.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” My pulse quickens slightly, but I keep my voice steady. “You’re an intelligent, highly educated, professional man. And these sites, these auctions, these posts you keep putting up - they don’t convey that. In fact, they convey the opposite.”

  I can hear him breathing out sharply through his nose. “No offense, Cassandra, but I’m not sure you know as much about the dating world as you think you do.”

  For a second, I’m actually too in shock to response. “Mr. Pizelle, this is literally my job.”

  “I do things my way,” he snaps. “If you don’t think you can help me, that’s fine. I’ll be expecting my deposit back by the end of the week.”

  I have to take another deep inhale before I can respond calmly. “As you might recall, the contract that you signed stipulates the deposit is non-refundable if you don’t follow my instructions.”

  “Your instructions?” He was growing more and more shrill with each passing second. “You don’t get to dictate what I do with my personal life, on my own time.”

  “Your personal life is what I was supposed to fix,” I reply. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. Pizelle. You’re well aware of how much time and effort it would take to fight me in court over such a small amount of money. Instead, I recommend you put one tenth of that amount of effort into trying to actually attract a woman. Have a good day.”

  I thunk my phone down on Becca’s desk with a little more force than necessary.

  “Holy crap,” she exclaims. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Sighing, I shake my head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  Chapter Eight

  I’ve decided to start small with Mr. Wakefield. Shopping.

  “I feel like you should know this place,” I snicker, as he stands by the fountain, staring around with wide eyes. “You look like a kid at…well, maybe not the big D. Maybe like, Universal or something. Let’s not get too crazy.”

  He’s not even listening to me. “I didn’t even know they had malls anymore,�
�� he exhales, digging his hands deep in his pockets. “Let alone malls like this.”

  “Now, shopping online is nice.” He’s hardly the first socially stunted tech-era billionaire I’ve had this talk with, so the script is already cued in my mind. “But there’s no substitute for the personal boutique experience. Once these folks get to know you, and more importantly, once they get to know your recipient - you basically just show up, and they’ll package up the perfect gift for you in a minute. It’s unique, it’s personal, but it doesn’t really require any effort besides keeping a boutique employee happy.”

  “And what’s the dollar value of that, exactly?” he asks me.

  “Clever boy.” I hook his arm and start dragging him down the sidewalk. “They work on commission, so you don’t even have to pay out of pocket for their loyalty.”

  Devon shakes his head, with a bewildered smile. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “Cute,” I tell him. “Save it for your real dates.”

  He mutters something under his breath, but I pretend not to notice.

  The first few shops we pass by are clothing boutiques. Devon’s head is on a swivel, and he pulls me towards one of them. “Come on, aren’t we going to shop?”

  “Not there,” I tell him. “Clothes are too risky. Don’t buy a woman clothes until…you know what, just don’t buy a woman clothes. There’s just no reason to. So many wonderful, thoughtful gifts out there in the world, no need to risk getting the wrong size or the wrong style or whatever.”

  “Hmph.” Devon hesitates for a second, but then he continues along with me. “That sounds like a challenge. I enjoy a challenge.”

  “Stick to a challenge with lower stakes,” I tell him. “At least until you know what you’re doing.”

  I lead him towards Morgan Jeweler’s, one of my favorite shops. I’m not much for jewelry myself, sticking to one or two basic statement pieces and understated earrings just to maintain a professional, polished look. But I love their pieces. If I was the kind of person to get gussied up for a trip to the store, I’d buy them out in a heartbeat. Sometimes I’ve thought about getting some necklaces just to hang up in my bedroom and admire, but that would be insanely wasteful.

  “Cassie, how are you?” The chipper employee behind the endless glass counters smiles at me as we walk in. I know we’ve met before, I want to say her name is Erica. “We’ve just got some new pieces in from your favorite designer.”

  “Ah, I see why we’re here,” Devon mutters as Erica pulls a velvet box from the display case.

  “Strictly professional reasons,” I mutter back, through a frozen smile. I don’t like him knowing that I actually covet these pieces. It feels too…personal.

  “Look, isn’t it stunning?” Erica shows me the piece, beaming. It’s a gold necklace, with emeralds scattered throughout an intricate, twisted design. It looks like something a high elf queen would wear.

  “Beautiful,” I agree, calmly. I turn to Devon. “Of course, it wouldn’t be to everybody’s taste. And that’s something you need to know. There’s no point in buying a woman a forgettable piece that she’ll throw into a shoebox and shove in the back of her closet.”

  Erica’s pulled out another box. “How about this one? Very similar, but in silver and amethyst. It’s just so stunning.”

  “Gorgeous,” I agree. “Do you think you could show us some different styles? Just for the sake of educating my client.”

  “Of course,” Erica enthuses. “I’m sorry, I should’ve guessed you were here for work.”

  “Ah, so you take them all here, do you?” Devon smiles, letting his gaze roam the cases. “And here I thought I was special.”

  “Oh, you’re special, all right.” I gesture towards the lineup of half-open boxes Erica is laying out for him. “See, you’ll find something for everyone here. You just need to spend enough time with her to get a sense of her tastes, and that doesn’t take long - if you’re observant.”

  Devon swipes his hand across his brow like he’s in a deposition. “It’s so exhausting. Do I have to spend every waking moment analyzing her likes and dislikes, and cataloging everything she does and says?”

  I shake my head, smiling a little. “Well, if you like her, that shouldn’t feel like a chore.”

  “But how will I know if I like her or not?”

  I blink a few times, setting down the necklace that Erica just handed me. “Are you…are you really asking me how to know if you like someone?”

  “Well.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Obviously, I can’t trust my own judgment. That’s why I hired you in the first place.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Wakefield, that sounds like a problem that’s above my pay-grade. Have you considered therapy?”

  He chuckles, but looks away and doesn’t answer.

  “What if she doesn’t really wear jewelry?” he asks, after a moment, his eyes grazing my chest.

  “Then you’d better get her something else,” I reply, a little too sharply. I make an effort to soften my tone. “There’s nothing more irritating than a man assuming you must want some kind of pretty bauble, just because you’re a girl. And then you feel obligated to wear it, because it was a gift, and then the resentment starts to breed…”

  “Right,” he says. “So, flowers then. Got it.”

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut for a moment. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  ***

  Poor Devon is exhausted. I can see it in his eyes, although he’s doing his best to hide it. I can tell he’s second-guessing every date he’s ever had in his life. It’s hard not to feel responsible, even though I know it’s not my fault. I’m just the messenger. If he’s been doing it wrong this whole time, it’s hardly my fault for pointing it out.

  We’ve been to six different shops, and I’d like to squeeze in one more, but I feel like he’s on the verge of collapsing on the floor and throwing a full-on temper tantrum.

  As we pass by a small boutique on the corner, he suddenly stops, his eyes lighting up a bit. “What about this one?”

  It’s been hours since he’s actually expressed interest in a particular store. I stop, frowning a little. “We don’t need to go in there,” I tell him.

  “Why not?” he asks, gently tugging my arm as he walks towards the door. “It looks lovely.”

  “No,” I insist, disentangling from him. “There’s no point. You won’t be shopping there.”

  “Why not?” he demands.

  I really don’t want to have this conversation.

  “Because,” I sigh. “Look at the mannequins.”

  “I can see them,” he says. “I’m assuming the lack of heads is artistic license, and not a signal that the store is catering towards headless women.”

  “I shop here, Devon,” I cut in, a little too harshly. “You’re not going to be dating anyone who looks like me.”

  There. I’ve said it. It’s out in the open now, the elephant in the room, the unspoken reality of my life as a plus size woman.

  He stares at me, his expression unreadable.

  “Someone who looks like you?” he repeats. “You mean…beautiful? Professional? Blonde?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Stop playing dumb,” I reply. “And stop leading me on. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “I thought that was the point of all this,” he says, softly. “I thought I was supposed to treat you like a date.”

  I’m so frustrated at him, I could scream. After all his flirting, all his cocky insistence, he still has to act like there’s absolutely nothing strange about the idea of the two of us together. Men like him don’t date women like me. Period, end of story.

  Why can’t he just admit it? Why does he have to act like there’s no barrier between us?

  “You are,” I tell him. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  Devon tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He reaches out and takes hold of my arm. I could shake
him off, but I don’t.

  “Sorry, am I violating professional boundaries?” he says. It’s not really a question. His eyes are locked with mine, and I can’t bring myself to break away.

  “That’s not the point,” I hiss.

  “Isn’t it?” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I thought that was the only thing that mattered. If there’s no professional boundaries, well, then we’re just animals.”

  I should laugh at him. I should pull away, but I don’t. There’s always been something so mesmerizing about him, and now that I’m here in his presence, locked in his gaze, it’s a thousand times more potent. I can’t just shrug him off. I’ve never been able to.

  “Speak for yourself,” I manage to half-whisper, finally.

  He laughs, very quietly, very deep in his chest. I’ve got the crazy urge to press my ear against it and hear the rumble. The slow, steady beat of his heart.

  How long has it been since I’ve felt the warmth of another human being like that? How long has it been since I’ve let myself go?

  His hand is on the small of my back. It feels impossibly large, spreading heat. Still, I shiver. I don’t pull away. I don’t stop him. I move in closer.

  There are so many ways to describe a kiss. Electric. Warm. Passionate. Sparks. None of those words could possibly do it justice. They’re all too small, too silly.

  When his lips touch mine, the universe compacts to a single dot, all of reality distilled down to that moment. To the place where our bodies touch.

  Becca would laugh her ass off. I’m being so melodramatic. It’s not like me. I’ve never had the luxury of indulging in such flights of fancy.

  And yet here I stand, weak in the knees as Devon Wakefield kisses me senseless.

  He pulls away, and I’m gasping for breath.

  I stare at him. He stares at me. He’s smiling. I’m not. There are remnants of my subtle pink lipstick smeared on his mouth, but I’m not going to tell him.

  “You can send me my evaluation later,” he says, after a moment of silence. “I’ll see you next week, Ms. Kirkland.”