The Nice Guy: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by Hazel Parker

  The Nice Guy

  Hazel Parker

  Table of Contents

  The Nice Guy

  Preview of Her First, Her Boss

  Author Bio

  The Nice Guy © 2018 Hazel Parker

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  The Nice Guy

  Right guy. Wrong time.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” A deep voice that sounds familiar asks me.

  He leans his shoulder towards mine and gently nudges me. Inhaling his scent of cologne and clean clothes and masculinity, I get lost in a memory of senses: heat, sweat, smooth skin, and panting.

  “Have we...met?”

  “You could say that.” He smiles mischievously.

  I can’t resist him.

  But I must.

  Must I?

  The Nice Guy

  Baby showers and weddings: Audrey Smith hates both. At least when she lived in China, she could RSVP with regrets and send a cashmere baby blanket or a champagne gift basket. Now that she’s back in the States—well, not the mainland, but the island of Maui—she can no longer run from her friends’ celebrations.

  Having been ghosted by yet another guy, the last thing that Audrey wants to do is celebrate a successful couple’s marriage. Even if it’s Whitney, her college friend who flew to Shanghai to ring in the new year with her and other expats while drinking Brooklyn beer underneath firecrackers reflected in the Huangpu River that runs past her house on the Bund. Well, her family’s house.

  The last thing Audrey wants to think about is Shanghai or her house or her last disastrous date.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” a deep voice that sounds familiar asks her on her right.

  She looks up from the empty cognac glass that she’s been turning by the stem at the bar. The majority of the wedding guests are working up a sweat on the dance floor underneath the bright lights reflected in the spinning mirror ball. Audrey and the guy, who looks like a young actor who could play a doctor on a cable drama, are the only two at the bar. Judging from his close proximity and unwavering brown eyes gazing into hers, she has the feeling that they’ve met before.

  “It’s an open bar, Bogart.” She glances over his black bow tie and tuxedo.

  “If I’m Humphrey Bogart, does that make you my Ingrid Bergman?”

  The word my caresses her skin. Goosebumps run up her arms. She hopes he doesn’t notice.

  She hears the playful tone coming from his mouth. She wants him to both stay and walk away. She wants to flirt with him. But, she doesn’t want to chat to yet another cute Mr. Wrong. Seeing the black ink of a cursive tattoo on the side of his neck disappearing around his collar, she stares a little too long to decipher it. She loves a man with tattoos. Especially when they’re meaningful quotes. She reads the first few words: “So we beat on...” She remembers the quote from college. But she can’t remember what book it’s from.

  “Maybe.” She looks into his dark brown eyes and wonders where she’s seen that mischievous look before. While she’s curious about his tattoo, she wants to be left alone to wallow in her pity party. The act of going over her past relationships and sipping a sweet cognac to warm her sorrows is a comfortable tradition. One that she prefers to do alone. She likes to wallow in the sadness of what-could’ve-been and the-one-that-got-away. She likes to imagine what she could’ve said to make it work or what the guy could’ve said to keep her from walking away. She thinks of what she can say to get rid of the guy without sounding totally rude. “Except that Bogart and Bergman dated previously in Paris. And you and I are strangers.”

  “Are we?” He leans his shoulder towards hers and gently nudges her elbow with his. “Winter ball. Blue dress. Beer bottle. Sound familiar?” He nods at her empty glass and asks, “What’re you drinking?”

  She glances up to the right. Thinking. Recalling the winter ball. She wore a white silk dress, and she drank sweet champagne. She remembers the bubbles tickling her throat as the champagne warmed her on the way down. She remembers the floor length satin dress getting caught in a door and ripping at the bottom. She doesn’t remember a tan guy with dark brown hair and darker brown eyes.

  “Grand Mariner. And I wore a white dress to winter ball. And I drank champagne.”

  “One Grand Marnier. One Jack on the rocks.” He signals to the bartender who pours their drinks. He drops a crisp one-hundred dollar bill into the tip jar.

  She raises her eyebrows at the large tip. Just then the Electric Slide song comes on and wedding guests from young to old cheer. They form lines and begin to move and dip in unison. Invisible smoke machines emit clouds of white smoke, covering the hardwood floor and their feet. The song fades into Michael Jackson’s Thriller, and the crowd erupts in whoops.

  “Feel like dancing?” Those brown eyes crinkle at the edges as his lips smile. The drinks appear. He lifts his glass. She raises hers. They clink drinks. “A toast.”

  “To what?” She knows she should toast the bride and groom, but all she can think about is the fact that she’s talking to a cute guy with tattoos who’s probably looking to hook up after the wedding—or even during the reception in his hotel room nearby—and forget her name and lose her number, assuming that he’ll even ask for it. From the way his shoulder and arm rest comfortably beside hers, she’s pretty sure that he’ll ask for her number. She’s more surprised that she hasn’t moved away. Why hasn’t she? Why hasn’t she told him to go away? Because he’s cute? Because his deep voice makes her want to tilt her head towards his and ask him to keep talking?

  “To the bride and groom, of course.” He throws back his chilled drink in one long gulp. She sips her warm liquor. “Sadness doesn’t suit you, Audrey.”

  She likes hearing him say her name. She sips the sweet cognac. Then she puts her glass down, and it clinks on the glass bar. She searches his eyes through the haze of her third—or is it her fourth?—drink. Did they meet at a party in Shanghai? Did they have an awkward date in downtown Atlanta? Did they dance the merengue in a club in the Dominican Republic? She’s lived in so many places in the past four years since college and had so many first dates that it’s possible that they went on a date and she doesn’t remember.

  She feels anxious. Her palms begin to sweat. She swallows and tries to remember his voice, his face, his touch.

  Did they date? Did he try to hook up with her on the first date and she said no and then he, invariably, never called her again? Did they have a great first date and then he ghosted her for inexplicable reasons? When she tells guys that she’s a virgin, she gets various reactions from her dates. One guy, who was a vice president at an investment bank, asked her if she was Mormon. She was not. Another guy, who was the heir to a baby food company, asked her if she was waiting for marriage. She was not. Then he asked her if they could have sex like at boarding school—anally. She said no.

  Then there we the one-and-done dates w
ho told her that she was “too nice.”

  What does that mean? Is she too nice because she doesn’t swear? A habit she developed from teaching kindergarteners for her college degree in education. Is she too nice because she doesn’t get mad when her dates are late? What exactly is too nice?

  Audrey glances over to the far side of his neck to his tattoo, and she sees a few more words as he turns his head to look her straight in the eyes. Silently she reads: “So we beat on, boats against…” She knows that she read this before, but she can’t remember where.

  “How do you know my name?” She asks after he gives no indication of introducing himself. Also, because she’s been staring at his tattoo and he sees her reading it, but he’s not telling her what the rest of it says. Maybe he wants her to ask. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s interested in him. Even though, she would be, if she hadn’t recently decided to take a break from dating. And sworn off cute guys with literary tattoos. Her weakness.

  “You don’t remember me?” He pretends to look offended. Then signals to the bartender for another Jack on the rocks. He looks back at her without blinking. The unwavering eye contact sends electricity shooting through her body. She loses her breath. Picks up her glass. Sips to have something to do that doesn’t involve staring into this stranger’s eyes.

  Just then the MC announces that it’s time for the groom to remove his bride’s garter belt with his teeth. Audrey groans in anticipation. She hates this part of the reception, only because she knows that after the garter belt removal comes the tossing of the bouquet, then the tossing of the garter belt, and then the inevitable awkward part where a perfectly strange man puts the garter belt on a perfectly strange woman. What’s the point of this tradition? Are the two supposed to get married and live happily ever after? Or are they supposed to hook up and then defy the odds and get married after a one-night stand?

  “No. I can’t place your face. Where did we meet?”

  “University.” He turns back to fully look at her as he loosens his tie. Beneath his chin-length dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, she can make out more words from his tattoo: “...boats against the current…”

  “Which university?” She meets his gaze. His eyes are amused. Honest eyes?

  “The one in New Haven.” He gulps down the rest of his drink and thumps his glass down on the bar.

  “When?” Behind them the crowd cheers. Her five-year reunion is coming up. She hasn’t been back since graduation.

  “Will all the single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands from the stage across the vast dance floor. Women cheer. Chairs scrape across the floor. Men laugh and place bets on who will catch the bouquet.

  “Audrey!” the bride calls to her from across the dance floor.

  She sighs. The last thing she wants to do is stand in a group of drunk and overly eager girls pushing each other out of the way to catch a bouquet. Who invented this tradition? Who made up this fiction that if you catch the bouquet, then you’re next to get married? Some anxious mother wanting grandchildren? Some anxious father wanting to merge his family’s fortune with another family’s? Or some anxious single woman wanting to join her friends in marriage-land where everyone brunches in twos, lunches in twos, and vacations in twos.

  “A single lady who doesn’t want to catch the bouquet?” He winks at her. That gesture brings back a memory, a moment in college when she was drunk for the first time on screwdrivers. She remembers running her hands through his shoulder length wavy brown hair. She remembers kissing his soft lips. He tasted like beer. He smelled like sweat and kegs and cologne. She inhales sharply. He grins mischievously at her. She doesn’t remember his name. She feels embarrassed. She blushes. They kissed. Suddenly she remembers his name.

  “Pierce Goode,” she says. He grins. She stifles a smile at the recognition that she once kissed this handsome man standing at her side. She kissed him on the dance floor in front of her friends and his friends and strangers. Well, he was basically a stranger. Is still a stranger.

  “All single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands again.

  “That’s you.” He leans the entire length of his muscular body against her curves.

  She tries to remember what happened after their long make-out session on the dance floor. She remembers her friends pulling her away. She remembers hearing gasps and giggling. She remembers him standing on the dance floor, watching her walk away with her sweat-soaked dress clinging to her body. Why did she walk away? He was cute. He tasted good. Did he try to take her back to his dorm?

  “No.” She refocuses on his teasing brown eyes.

  “You’re not single?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I am. But, no.”

  “Final call. All single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands to a cheering crowd. The disco light reflects sparkles of white light onto the dance floor.

  “Are you scared you won’t catch it?”

  She rolls her eyes. Why do some people think that every single lady wants to catch the bouquet? Why do some people think that every single lady wants to get married? She feels anger warming her alcohol-induced gaze. She turns to face him fully. She’ll show him. She’s not some typical girl looking for love and marriage. She’s not looking for anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. She wants to hold hands with a nice guy who reads books, volunteers to build houses in Central America, and changes flat tires on highways. She also wants to meet a guy who doesn’t freak out when she tells him that she’s a virgin—technically. That’s another memory she pushes back into the attic of her mind. She doesn’t want to think of the moments she almost had sex.

  Is she asking for too much?

  “No. I’m scared that I will catch it.” She doesn’t back away from Pierce, who stands arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder, with her. She won’t tell him that she’s afraid that if she catches it, then she’ll be doomed to get married to the first guy she has sex with. In this day and age, the idea appalls her. She wants to have at least two sex partners before she gets engaged, one day. Then she can tell her fiancé that he’s her third partner. The number three sounds respectable. Her friends would tell her to stop being ridiculous. Today tons of people have on average ten sexual partners—or something like that. She read it in a glossy fashion magazine at JFK airport while waiting for her flight to Shanghai. So, it must be true.

  “I bet you, you won’t.”

  “I can catch. I just don’t want to.” She rolls her eyes. She used to play softball in middle school. He doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that he was the first guy she ever really kissed. Her first French kiss. It was the first time she got drunk. She drank so many screwdrivers that she spent the night vomiting into the toilet bowl and hugging the cold, white porcelain base. She can still taste the pizza and the ice cream she ate that night mixed with bitter bile.

  “I bet you can’t.” He extends his right hand across his chest. “I bet you dinner and drinks that you can’t.”

  “If I catch it, you’re taking me out.”

  “If you don’t catch it. You’re taking me out.”

  She looks over his palm. She’d loved to prove him wrong, to wipe the smirk off of his face. But, winning the bet would mean that she’d have to have dinner and drinks with him. Either way she’d have to spend a few hours resisting him. She’d have to look into his sexy brown eyes and stop herself from thinking about their sweaty French kiss back in college. But, she doesn’t have to catch the bouquet. She could just let it fly by her. It may not even come her way.

  She takes his hand to shake it. His palm is cool and smooth. Not the hand of a construction worker or an MMA fighter. The hand of a man who is a stranger to hard labor, a man who spends his free time yachting in Italy, skiing in Switzerland, or collecting cars at Sotheby’s. She went to China to forget about the world of jet-setting and never-ending vacationing. She wants to forget about the homes her parents left her. She doesn’t want to think about her parents. If she does, then a w
ell of tears will pour out of her that isn’t a socially acceptable amount to cry at wedding parties. She’s not about to do the ugly-cry in front of this cute guy.

  The band strikes up a suspenseful tune. Audrey shakes Pierce’s hand.

  “You’re on.”

  Why not? She hasn’t done anything fun since coming back to the States. She’s been missing her parents and wishing she weren’t alone on Friday nights. She’s been eating pints of cookies and cream ice cream and then jogging miles along the beautiful paths of Maui.

  She turns and jogs across the parquet dance floor. The band is playing an unrecognizable song that ends in a drum roll. The bride sees her college friend running and grins at her. Whitney turns around in her beautiful white wedding gown and raises the bouquet above her head. The MC counts one—in an arc the bride swings the bouquet down in an arch to her thighs—two—in the reverse arc the bride swings the bouquet back over her head as if she is about to do a backward bend like in yoga class—three—the bride hurls the bouquet over the crowd.

  The drummer is playing frantically. Women in formal dresses and high heels are turning around and running with their arms stretched up over their heads. The bouquet is flying in a high arc—as high as the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Whitney played softball in college as well alongside Audrey. She has powerful arms. The bouquet brushes the curved ceiling of the white tent. It flies high above the heads of the jostling women on the dance floor. It swoops down like a dolphin diving back down into the ocean. The force of gravity pulls the pastel purple flowers in an arc straight into Audrey’s face. She has but seconds to put her hands up and stop it. The group of girls and women racing across the dance floor nearly collide into Audrey. She grabs the flowers in her hands, crumpling some, crushing others. Women crash into Audrey hoping she’ll drop it when they bump into her. But they’re out of luck. Most of them softball players just like Audrey, and she holds onto the bouquet like a pop up in the ninth inning. Her muscle memory has caught the bouquet. Or has the bouquet caught Audrey?