Drive Me Crazy_Working for a Billionaire_A Second Chance Romance

by April Fire

  Her college career had been mostly successful; she’d come out with a reasonably useless yet suitably impressive politics degree and had avoided getting stuck in the continuous state of partying that some people had fallen victim to. She’d made a handful of best friends and a fistful of worst enemies, but most people fell somewhere in between. Richard had been one of them; he was nothing special, really, not the smartest nor the funniest nor the best-looking guy she’d ever dated, but they’d parted amicably and he’d disappeared into the ether to focus on his career. Oh. Oh.

  Without a shred of shame, she types his name into Google and waits for her Wi-Fi to catch up with her mind – it can’t be him, surely, he was too quiet and geeky to become – whoa. It is him. Just about.

  He’s lost the lanky hair and the acne, the ripped jeans and the Green Day shirt, and he’s staring at her from the computer screen with a too-white smile. A little more digging tells her he’s worth over $50 million. He used to ask her for lunch money.

  It shouldn’t matter to her – he’s just some guy, who happens to have been lucky enough to be a success story. He’s probably got three divorces under his belt already and a kid in every state, he’ll probably end up lonely and depressed at the end of his life because he devoted everything to his career and left no room for his personal life. Yeah. This doesn’t make him better than her.

  But she can’t help looking around her shabby office with its one small window, a slowly dying potted plant and a stain on the wall from that one time she launched her latte across the room and think what she’s done so wrong. Why can’t she be the one with the sharp suit and the smug expression? She’s probably worked double as hard as this prick; life just isn’t fair.

  Then it dawns upon her. She’s going to have to drive this dude around. She’s going to have to smile like nothing’s wrong, like she’s not burning with envy, like she doesn’t hate listening to him prattle on about his shares and his penthouse. He’ll recognize her, surely, he will, and he’ll mentally taunt her for the whole journey. It’s going to be hell on earth.

  She can’t back out, though, so she just minimizes his shit-eating grin and tries to put it out of her mind before she caves in on herself.

  ***

  Friday comes a lot quicker than she would’ve liked.

  She likes to think the weather is deliberately reflecting her mood when she opens the curtains to a dark and drizzly day. Serves him right, she thinks bitterly, even he can’t control the weather.

  It pains her that she has to make such an effort for this guy; she’s ironed her best suit, tamed her hair into flowing curls and smothered her face in various pastes so as not to give away the fact that she has pores. After several minutes of swearing at her slightly wonky lipstick until her carefully placed dabs even it out, she gives herself a big smile and tells herself she looks presentable. She can still impress him by appearing somewhat well put-together, even if it means binding her dignity with her eyeliner.

  She has a practice run on the drive to the office, telling fake Richard in the back seat that it’s so wonderful that you’ve done so well for yourself and isn’t it funny that I happen to be your driver. She hopes real life Richard is as good at keeping quiet as her imaginary Richard. Imaginary Richard politely tells her that this won’t be the case; as with all cocksure businessmen, he’ll probably spread his legs and his opinions, neither of which she has the slightest interest in. Imaginary Richard agrees.

  Thankfully, she misses James when she drops into the office to dump some of last night’s paperwork, but she does get some good luck wishes that piss her right off. She wants to remind them that the only reason they’re doing their jobs is because she can do her job. She doesn’t need luck to ferry some jumped-up douche bag to his luxury suite.

  As per her instructions, their finest category A car – a Jaguar XJL, no less – has been brought out of hiding and polished until Lauren can see her own stressed expression in the gleaming silver paintwork. The Satnav is pre-programmed, the mini-bar is stocked, and there’s a fresh bottle of water in the seat pocket in the event of Richard needing to cool his flaming ego.

  She climbs swiftly into the driver’s seat, changing her heels for her well-worn driving flats, and decides she’s got this.

  ***

  The airport is hell, as she knew it would be. It’s been so long since she’s done this, she has to resort to the Satnav’s snotty instructions to find her way. She tries to find solace in the fact that people stare at the Jag as she swoops past them; she plays at being rich for a while, imagining what it’d be like if this wasn’t a company car, if she was on the way to her very own penthouse with a swimming pool and a tennis court and all the accessories. But then she’ll see the chauffeur license sitting on the dashboard and fall back to reality.

  Reality yells at her to get in the right damn lane, the traffic building up around her as she nears the arrivals level, burying her in a sea of cabs and minibuses. Someone’s honking behind her and it’s way too early in the morning for that kind of behavior but she tells herself to remain calm – she is a professional, after all, even if she forgets it occasionally.

  By the time she’s finally parked, she feels considerably more ruffled, and takes a few moments to pointlessly fix her hair and check her phone, too, just in case the flight has been delayed. To her slight dismay, there’s nothing, so she switches back to her heels and climbs from the vehicle as smoothly as she can, grabbing the stupid tablet whose only purpose is to display Shepherd’s name. As if it isn’t plastered across enough billboards already.

  She recalls another reason she stopped doing this particular job; when she finds herself mowed down by people towing suitcases larger than themselves. They’re everywhere, swarming like locusts, often wielding children and trolleys and God knows what else. She avoids them like the plague, holding her head high and trying not to slip on the highly polished floors; she squeezes through clumps of people until she’s right up at the barrier, she won’t have him docking a star on his review because he spent an extra thirty seconds of his precious time looking for her.

  With tablet at the ready and gaze scanning the crowds, she waits.

  Chapter Four

  Richard would like to say he enjoyed his first-class flight – the champagne was nice and so were the staff, not to mention the cooked breakfast – but it was really far too early for champagne in his book, he sort of wished the staff would act like how they felt; instead of smiling the whole time, and the breakfast with a good chance of reappearing when a bumpy landing had his stomach doing somersaults. He never really liked flying.

  But he tries to pull himself together all the same, avoiding the tired eyes of his reflection in the bathroom mirror – they’d only damage his confidence. At least Emma, his PA, is having the time of her life; she’s already eaten more packets of peanuts than he’d care to count and wolfed down the rest of his eggs when his stomach told him he’d had enough. He stopped her after the second glass of bubbly, though, hopefully preventing any embarrassment in front of their driver. Richard can do that part all by himself.

  He hopes they look vaguely professional as they stagger through security, even if the guard stares at him for far longer than Richard is really comfortable with; he just flashes a smile and tries to look composed, hoping no-one saw the way he tripped over his feet on his way out.

  Emma trots behind him as they fish their bags off the conveyor belt and head towards the exit, nattering about something or other and furiously texting at the same time. He doesn’t know how she does that – he can barely walk and talk simultaneously.

  She manages to spot their driver first, though, taking Richard by the elbow and steering him towards a stern-looking woman holding a tablet with his name on it. She smiles as soon as she sees them both, but Richard notes that it doesn’t reach her eyes. He surges forward and holds out a hand in an attempt to look less like an ass, and she shakes it firmly. The recognition only strikes him when she looks him straight
in the eye and says, “Lauren Tate. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He knows her. Or at least, he knew her. She was his first girlfriend, the first girl he’d ever really liked and hadn’t been terrified of. He sure is terrified of her now, though.

  She knows he knows her. Her eyes are waiting for it, for him to ask how she’s been or pull her into a hug or something. But while Richard’s always been good at reading people, he’s never really been good at knowing what to do with the information, so he flounders in front of her for a few awkward moments before stuttering, “Richard Shepherd. Obviously, because it’s on the – anyway. Nice to meet you.”

  The smile she gives him is one hundred percent false, but he sees the little flash of annoyance across her face all the same, and it makes him hate himself a little. She’s not changed too much since college – her hair doesn’t seem so permanently scruffy, and her figure has filled out a little. Her brown eyes are just the same, though, stubborn and hardly blinking as they hover a step away from a glare. Fuck, she’s pretty. Richard tries not to stare.

  “Are you ready to head out, sir?” she asks, politeness barely masking the sarcasm.

  “Uh, yes, thank you,” he nods like he has any kind of authority, following behind her like a scorned child. I can’t say I know her, he tells himself, Emma might start asking awkward questions. And it’s not like they just knew each other; this girl has seen him naked, too. Emma would have a damn field day.

  “Did you have a pleasant flight?” she asks as they step out into the chilly spring air.

  “Yes, uh, great, thanks,” he lies, his stomach churning in disagreement. He should have cleaned his teeth before he left this morning; they’ve got that furry feel to them, and he really hopes his breath doesn’t smell of egg. He wishes he was the type of person to carry mints.

  “It was amazing!” Emma pipes up, “first class and everything, they gave us champagne!”

  “How nice,” Lauren says, but it sounds a little like she means it when she throws Emma a more genuine smile than Richard had managed to get out of her. “There’s more in the car, if you’d like.”

  Emma beams, Richard winces. What he’d really like right now is a nice cup of chamomile tea and a nap. What he’s probably going to get is an awkward car journey and a tedious business meeting, and if he’s extra good, maybe even a call from his mother wanting a blow-by-blow account of the simple act of signing some pieces of paper and shaking a few slimy hands. They’re always so slimy.

  His own are a little slime-covered as his ex-girlfriend opens the car door for him and flashes him a robotic smile that says she’d break him if she had the chance. He wonders how much she’s being paid for this and hopes it’s enough. It’s never enough with Kingswood, though, they’d haggle for a discount at a dollar store if they could. He tries to decide whether or not to leave a tip; would that be too patronizing? Her cold stare says yes, yes it would in the rear-view mirror. He’ll just keep his wallet as firmly shut as his mouth, then.

  This is evidently one of the first good decisions he’s made today, because Emma and Lauren seem to get on like a house on fire. Emma raves about the Jaguar as Lauren explains the technical aspects in terminology that goes completely over Richard’s head. He almost interrupts when Emma starts to ramble about the various helicopters they’ve been carted around in, but Lauren doesn’t seem too fazed, nodding along and laughing in all the right places at Emma’s silly jokes.

  In short, he feels utterly left out, and a little idiotic when he tries to laugh along with whatever they’re saying and Emma throws him a strange look. He decides to busy himself by checking out the mini-fridge, which turns out to be a little sparse. There’s bottled water, though, so he pretends to take an interest in unscrewing the lid so it doesn’t look like he’s simply staring into space. Not that either of them care, anyway; he could wear the bottle as a hat and do a dance and they probably wouldn’t notice.

  It seems like a lot longer than the Satnav’s half an hour before they reach the hotel. Richard hides a grimace when Emma exclaims “Are we here already? That was quick!” and scrambles out of the car before Lauren can open the door for him. He doesn’t really want another dirty look.

  The hotel is – well, amazing, to say the least. It towers above them, sunlight slanting across it and gleaming from the perfect rows of windows studding the building. It’s not as good as the one in Dubai, or the one in New York, or the one in LA, but it’s impressive enough, and the porter rushes to greet them, hauling their bags out of the trunk and giving them a nervous smile.

  Richard stands awkwardly in the immaculately manicured driveway as Emma and Lauren say their goodbyes; they smile like old friends and shake hands with the promise of next time, which comes as a surprise to Richard. He wasn’t expecting to have to go through this again.

  He waves half-heartedly at Lauren as Emma starts to walk away, heart fully set upon crashing out in his hotel room until someone wants him to sign something, but he changes his mind at the last second and wheels round towards the car. He can’t have someone hating him, he doesn’t want this to be her lasting memory of him.

  “Lauren! Lauren – uh, Ms. Tate!” he calls, jacket flapping in the breeze as he jogs towards the car that she’s about to step into.

  “Mr. Shepherd?” she says, the mask sliding flawlessly across her face, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” he breathes, wishing he hadn’t exerted quite so much energy, “I just – uh, I’m sorry. For – for not, like, saying something. I didn’t know if it’d be – I just, I do remember you, I didn’t know how to say it, I’m sorry.”

  She takes a moment to process his tangled words, and it’s moment enough for Richard to begin to panic slightly; then her face breaks into a small smile, and he can finally breathe again.

  “You know what? That’s okay. It would’ve been – unprofessional, maybe, I get that. But thanks for apologizing.” She doesn’t look entirely convinced by her own words, but Richard will take them over a glare any day.

  “It’s just that Emma would’ve – you know, and I didn’t want her to –”

  “It’s okay, I get it,” she nods, “you’re a big shot now, you don’t wanna associate with the little people, that’s alright.” Her tone is light enough, but the words are still meant to guilt and the ball of shame in Richard’s chest coils a little tighter.

  “Look, uh – can – can I buy you lunch?” he stammers, shuffling closer to her. “Like, just as a – a sorry? And a thank you for putting up with Emma?”

  “Hey, she’s the only reason I’m not referring you to one of my colleagues for the rest of your stay, be grateful for her,” Lauren almost snaps, but Richard detects an edge of humor in her voice and thinks perhaps she might not hate him as much anymore. “Oh, and give her a raise,” she adds, nodding at him.

  He hazards a laugh and she smirks, pushing a stray length of hair behind her ear. “So – lunch? Or not,” he adds, not wanting to piss her off any more than he already has today.

  “This time, I think not,” she frowns, “but thanks anyway. I guess I’ll see you – well, whenever you next need me.”

  “Okay, fair enough,” he nods “Yeah, I’ll see you – whenever. Have a good day,” he finishes rather awkwardly, beginning to back away from her.

  “You too, Mr. Shepherd,” she replies, her eyes sparkling with good-natured sarcasm, and he decides she doesn’t hate him anymore. He also decides that she’s as likable as she used to be. He only hopes the same is true of himself.

  He gives her a final smile and then heads back towards the hotel, where Emma has surely located the bar and will be in need of rescue. He’s already trying to think of excuses to need a chauffeur.

  Chapter Five

  “Lunch?” is the first thing Richard says when Lauren greets him in the foyer of his hotel. She doesn’t normally work Saturdays, but her work phone blows up around 10 o’clock that morning with messages from James telling her that she’s wanted in the driving sea
t, and she reluctantly peels herself out of bed to go and fetch him.

  She’d been pleasantly surprised with Richard at the end of their meeting. Of course, she’d thought he was a prize ass when he’d first sauntered into her sights, and she’d damn well seen the recognition on his face when he’d looked her in the face. He’d been deemed bastard from that point onward, especially after he’d sat sulking in the back of her car for the whole journey. She’d been ready to call James and tell him I’ve done my job, now pass this fucker on to someone else, but then came his little speech, if it could be called as much.

  He’d tripped over the silliest of words and given her the humblest of smiles, and she hadn’t been able to help herself smiling. He’d been the opposite of the arrogant, smooth-talking rich boy the billboards sell him as. It was a nice surprise, and she was so strongly reminded of the shy geek she’d met in college, that some of the coldness she felt towards him melted. He was alright, she supposed, alright enough to apologize for being a dick, which was a step in the right direction. That does not mean she was at all pleased to be dragged out of bed to see to his apparently burning need to travel at this time in the morning.

  Knowing that she looks slightly less composed as she steps into the foyer, she tucks her hair behind her ears and re-buttons her jacket, spotting Richard sprawled elegantly on one of the sofas that probably cost more than her apartment. His face brightens when he sees her.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late, I didn’t realize you were going to – “

  “Lunch?” he blurts, standing up and immediately losing all sense of elegance. “I mean, uh, I want lunch. To go out for lunch. Could you – take me for lunch? To somewhere to eat? For something?”

  She has very little idea of what he just said, but she nods all the same. “Of course. It is only 11:30, though…”

  This seems to trouble him greatly, and his face falls. “Oh. Yes, of course. Well – brunch? Do you know a good place for brunch? Or would it be better just to wait for lunch? Is there any point in getting brunch if, soon after, it’ll be time for lunch?”