The Billionaire and The Virgin

by Bella Love-Wins

  Flowers.

  Dahlias, to be precise. Some are lilac colored, but most are bright pink.

  They’re everywhere.

  “Holy crap, Dahl! These are gorgeous!” She places her cooler bag and food container on the floor, and buries her nose into the floral arrangement closest to the front door. “I’ve never seen this many flowers in one place. Not even at those ritzy weddings I helped out during all of last Spring.” She tilts the vase to one side and pulls out the card sticking up between the blooms. “You should take a look at this note.”

  “You go on ahead and read it,” I tell her, because I can already guess they’re from Jackson.

  “It says ‘Sorry I overreacted, doll. I’ll make it up to you, starting with these. JK’.” She turns to me, intrigued. “What’s he sorry about?”

  “Nothing important,” I say dismissively, and head through the practical forest of bouquets toward the kitchen—where even more dahlias await. I’m met by an enthusiastic Sheba, followed by Daisy and Bailey, who must have heard us walk in.

  “I know these rich dudes can go overboard, but all this?” she waves her free arm around the kitchen, “It can’t just be about nothing. Spill.”

  Slumping down on a chair, I reach down for the dogs, petting Bailey, who’s closest to my leg. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all going back.”

  Shaking her head, she finds her apron from a side pocket of the bag and puts it on. It’s new, or at least I haven’t seen her in it before. It’s a white one, with the saying ‘I Keep the Best Desserts Under This Apron, so Don’t Ever Trust That Other Chef. You Know? The One with the Slim Hips…’ written in red across her chest. Which is kind of funny because Emily is the skinniest chef I know.

  “Hey, I’m starved,” I tell her. “Can we eat? And I want to hear your news.”

  “What?” she persists, pulling out containers from her cooler bag. “Oh no. I want details, Dahl. My little update doesn’t hold a candle to whatever went down after you left last night.”

  “You’ve been so good!” I baby-talk to the dogs, ignoring Emily’s question. “Vivian trained you guys to stay away from her flowers, didn’t she?” Stretching my arm to the sealed treat jar on the counter, I open it and hand out treats to Bailey, then Sheba and Daisy. “Good girls. And you too, Sheba. You’ve been so good.”

  Emily turns on the oven and one stovetop burner, and starts to warm up our lunch. “Come on, Dahl. Tell me. Give me something at least.”

  “You first,” I insist. “What’s your news?”

  Shaking her head, she finally relents, and her expression brightens. “Blair Rasmus hired me in his kitchen!”

  “That’s amazing. Congrats hun!”

  “Thanks. It’s part-time, but this isn’t just a solo gig, Dahl. It’s three evenings a week at his Gauche, his Soho restaurant.”

  “Wow. That place is super expensive.”

  “Upscale, hun. Not expensive.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  “But do you know what that means? It’s a dream come true, Dahl! There isn’t an item on his menu under three hundred bucks. This is the big leagues for me. Everything I wished for is starting to happen…right in front of my eyes.”

  “I’m so happy for you hun!” I say with as much enthusiasm I can bring to the surface.

  It’s not that I’m not ecstatic for her. I am. I just can’t feel much of anything since last night. Not even with all these goddamned flowers that Jackson got for me. In fact, they’re making it worse. They’re more reminders about what could have happened and didn’t. About a rejection so big that it leaves me at a loss to understand why Jackson reacted that way. Being a virgin at nineteen isn’t that huge of a deal where I’m from, but he acted as though it was the plague, or worse. A part of me wishes I didn’t tell him at all. The night wouldn’t have ended so abruptly if I hadn’t, and this anti-climactic morose wouldn’t keep me feeling so numb.

  And I wouldn’t be a virgin anymore.

  But no, I confided in him, and paid a worse price than if I’d let Sheba crap all over his balcony.

  “Dahlia?” Emily shouts to get my attention.

  “What?”

  “Where’d you just go? You’re not yourself, hun. Didn’t you hear that? Someone’s at the door.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No, let me.” She passes me a plate of her dill cucumber and tomato bites. “Here. You need to eat. Start with these.”

  Emily is gone and back in under a minute, but she’s not alone. It’s the last person I want to see. Jackson, standing with his friend with the glasses from last night. Dylan, I think.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” she says, giggling like a schoolgirl as she motions over at them and returns to the stove.

  “Hi Dahlia,” Jackson says to me. “I’m not sure if you remember Dylan from last night.”

  I nod politely. “Yes. Hello again,” I say to Dylan across the room, but he seems a hell of a lot more interested in what Emily is working on. It’s just as well, because I’m not in the best mood. Being in the same room with Jackson isn’t a good idea. I pop a cucumber bite in my mouth and get to my feet. “My lecture’s starting in fifteen minutes, so this isn’t a good time. But Emily is here. She just made lunch. Feel free to stay and eat.” I turn to Emily. “I’ll leave you the keys. Can you give it to the concierge desk after you lock up?”

  “Definitely. Thanks for letting me stay,” Emily chirps.

  “Can we have a word in private?” Jackson asks me, following me out of the kitchen.

  There’s purpose in my steps as I hurry to get my things at the door. “Unfortunately, I’m out of time. Have some lunch. Emily’s cooking is fantastic. You saw her at the gala last night, I think. Oh and thanks for the flowers, but I’d prefer if you take them back. Ideally, before I get home from class this evening.”

  “I came here to apologize,” he says to me. “Last night was…I …you threw me for a loop, okay? It didn’t feel right—”

  “Look, you don’t need to explain, and you really don’t have to try and make me feel any worse. I get that it didn’t feel right to you.”

  “That’s not what I mean. If you’d let me finish, I can—”

  “Oh, you want me to let you finish. Right. Please. Not another word.” I snatch up my backpack. “Emily, can you make sure you put the dogs back in their room upstairs before you go? I’ll talk to you later,” I shout.

  “Will do. See you!” she answers from the kitchen.

  “Dahlia.”

  “No. And do not follow me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  I don’t give it a second thought as I pull the door closed with Jackson standing inside, and head to the elevators. A wave of satisfaction comes over me during my ride down the elevator. There’s a new edginess inside me that I didn’t have before. An assertive power I’ve never tapped into.

  And it’s as cold as ice.

  I can thank Jackson for unleashing this new side of me.

  17

  Jackson

  Dahlia’s mad as hell.

  I can’t blame her. I’m the one who dragged her from my bed when I should have kept her tied up and finished the job. And she won’t make me forget it.

  Because hell hath no fury.

  At least Dylan scored the little blonde chef’s phone number over lunch. Somewhere in between tasting her cooking and eye-fucking her every time she stood at the stove, they have a connection. I don’t get it, but who am I to judge? After all, I’m stuck on the idea of owning Dahlia, now that I’ve fucked things up beyond repair.

  Dylan and I leave Vivian’s place, and begin to make our way through midday traffic back to the office in his black Audi A6. It’s what he likes to call his beater car, because he owns way too many overpriced limited model luxury cars that he can’t fucking drive except in the summer months.

  We’re close to the office when my brother’s number comes on over Dylan’s car on the Bluetooth speaker.

  “How’s the nego
tiation going?” Dylan says as he takes the call.

  “Gerald is on it today,” Jace explains. “And Foster’s sitting in to protect our interests. Is Jackson with you?”

  I can tell right away that his voice is in a fucking panic.

  “I’m here,” I tell him. “And you’re on speaker. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “We’re walking from this deal with Mont Blanc.”

  “What? Who decided that?”

  “I just fucking did,” he shouts into the phone, anger clear in his tone. “And I don’t give a fuck about Gerald or even what Dad will do. We’re not closing.”

  “Jace, dude,” Dylan interrupts. “Calm down and take a breath, man. What happened?”

  “I’m fucking calm, all right?” he barks, but I know better. My brother can barely get a word in without panting hard as though he’s been in a fist fight.

  “Can you meet us at the office?” I ask. “We’re close. Let’s talk about this in person.”

  Jace starts to mumble something unintelligible, and I have to wonder if he’s been drinking. But he never touches alcohol during the day.

  “Jace? Just tell us where you are, man. We’ll come get you.”

  “They killed her, Jackson,” he blurts out.

  Fuck, now I know he’s been drinking. “What? Who are you talking about?”

  “Pantheon. Just come to Dad’s place,” he pants out, sounding exhausted. Then the line goes dead.

  Dad?

  What the fuck is going on? Who did Pantheon kill? I’m so fucking anxious that my skull is pounding. Dylan’s dainty driving will take us forever to get across town. And if Jace is phoning from Dad’s place, my gut tells me this may be more personal than business, even if he did mention Pantheon.

  “Keep driving to the office,” I tell Dylan. “I’ll drop you off and borrow your car to pick him up. Something’s not right.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Matter of fact, stop the car. You can walk the rest of the way. Now.”

  Dylan has a look of disbelief on his face. “What the fuck has gotten into you and your brother?”

  “I said stop the fucking car, dickhead. You heard how Jace sounded. The office is only a few blocks away. This is urgent.”

  “Fine.” Shaking his head, Dylan flips on his indicator light and pulls up to the first available spot near the curb. He puts the stick shift in neutral and jumps out. “Let us know what’s going on as soon as you find out,” he tells me as he steps up on the sidewalk.

  I hop out and quickly switch seats. “I will,” I confirm, and drive off like a bat out of hell.

  Time to get some answers.

  I arrive at Dad’s house in Long Island to find Jace outside. He’s slumped against the driver side front tire of his car, looking disheveled with half of the hem of his shirt sticking out of his slacks, and no spring jacket or blazer. Bolting out of Dylan’s car, I run up to him and help him to his feet.

  This isn’t my brother. Jace is always the epitome of composure and self-control.

  “Jesus, Jace. What happened? Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s not home yet. I’m not leaving until I convince him this deal is off.”

  “Get in Dylan’s car, and start from the beginning. I still don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Who did Pantheon kill?” I ask, painfully aware that the sentence makes absolutely no sense.

  He sits in the passenger seat and takes a while to talk. Starting the engine, I put the heaters on full blast, turn on the seat warmers, and wait. Whatever is it that got him rattled, it has to be big.

  “Is Dad’s housekeeper inside?” I ask. “Maybe you should warm up in there. Have a coffee or something.”

  “I was just in there.”

  “Will you just talk to me? You’re freaking me the fuck out, Jace. What happened?”

  “Okay,” he says, taking a breath. “Pantheon’s chemo drug killed Mom.”

  I don’t know if I just heard him right. “Come again?”

  “That investigator we hired paid off someone on the inside. They dug up the company’s clinical trials. The side effects of their chemo drug caused Mom’s heart failure. They killed her, Jackson. Mom was one of the participants while the drug was still experimental. And the fucking company knew about the side effects even before that, but buried the results of their clinical trials to push the drug through FDA approvals.”

  My mind goes numb with every new piece of information. I can’t think. I can barely speak, but I manage to ask him if Dad knows.

  “No. That’s why I’m not leaving until he finds out.”

  “Are you sure it’s not some mistake?” I mumble out. “Some strange coincidence? Mom was terminal, Jace. People don’t come back from stage four cancer. And we got a couple of extra years with her before that when she went into remission.”

  He nods over at his car. “Go get the report and read it for yourself. It’s in the back seat.”

  I honestly don’t know if I have the mental, emotional or intestinal fortitude to go over the report Jace wants me to look at. Not without ending up wanting to kill someone for real. What I do know is we can’t afford for both of us to be out of control if and when we break the news to Dad.

  “I’m taking you back to your place,” I tell him, resolute. “Sterling can bring your car back later on this evening. For now, I’ll drop you off so you can get your shit together. Then I’ll go home, read the report, and if I agree with you, we’ll confront Dad together and quash this fucking Mont Blanc deal.”

  He nods. That’s enough for me. With the report from his car now tucked away in Dylan’s back seat, I drive Jace to his Midtown condo, and return to my place.

  It’s close to an hour before I drum up the courage to open the report, and when I finally do, I wish I fucking hadn’t read what I did.

  Everything Jace said was right.

  I’m mad enough to kill.

  Then there’s unbelievably loud barking and whimpering of multiple dogs at my front door, followed by knocking.

  If that’s Dahlia, her timing sucks, as usual.

  18

  Dahlia

  The dogs are out of control. They were fine when I got back from class, but now, it’s pure mayhem. I assume that they’re acting like this because they’ve been cooped up all day. Taking them for a really long walk seems sensible, so I put them on their leashes, tuck my treat and baggie supply pouch, cell phone, and keys in my winter coat pocket, and open the front door to make our way to the elevator.

  Except that’s not what they do.

  Sheba, Daisy, and Bailey all burst through the door and drag me across the hall before I can even try to lock up. They’re going in the opposite direction from the elevators, and only come to a stop in front of Jackson’s door.

  “What on God’s green earth is going on with the three of you?” I ask, looking down at them.

  Of course, I don’t expect an answer, but Daisy begins to whimper and cry, Bailey starts howling, and Sheba joins in with his insufferably loud, high-pitched barking. At the angle that Daisy stands to the wall, her tail slaps wildly against Jackson’s door. I pull on their leashes with a bit of force. Not enough to hurt them, but just enough to remind them of their training.

  They don’t budge from their spots.

  “Come here, doggies,” I plead, as this is the last place I want to be right now.

  They don’t move. I call, I whistle, I try to bribe them with doggie treats. Nothing works. I don’t understand. This behavior is completely unlike them. Hoping for something to work, I let go of their leashes, return to Vivian’s door, and push it open, calling them back inside. No dice. They’re not moving. In fact, they’re louder now. Returning to their sides again, I scoop up Sheba in my arms, hoping I can bring them back to Vivian’s one by one at least.

  Anything to get them the hell away from Jackson’s front door.

  But Sheba’s growls at me, acting like he’ll bite me any minute now for tearing him away from Jackson
’s door. What the hell?

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell him as though he can understand me. “I don’t know what’s got into you, but I’ll take you all to your doggie beds, and get you nice and fed, and you’ll all calm right down, okay? Everything’s going to be all right.”

  He more or less calms down, so I hold on to Bailey’s collar and try to coax her to come with me.

  Bailey’s not moving.

  Bailey’s not moving?

  Very strange. She’s the calm one, the one that goes with the flow, but all of a sudden, she seems to have developed an affinity for Jackson’s condo too?

  I am stumped as to what to do next, but fate appears to make that decision for me. Jackson opens the door a little too widely. He doesn’t get to open his mouth and shout at me, because Sheba pries himself forcefully from my arms and jumps to the ground. Then all three dogs run to him. Daisy lifts up on her hind legs and props her front paws on Jackson’s chest, licking his face while Bailey sits at his side. And Sheba, well he’s a bouncing ball right now, trying to launch himself into Jackson’s arms.

  If Jackson wanted to tie me down for what Sheba did last week, I can’t imagine how he’ll make me pay for this.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to him tersely, although as sorry as I am, there’s no sign of contrition that my voice used to have before. “You know I would never bring them here if I had the choice. I don’t know what’s gotten into them. They started acting up about half an hour ago, and won’t stop. I was about to take them out for a walk, but they came this way instead, and refused to leave your front door. Then you opened it.”

  He just stands there looking stern. It’s more than just serious, and although I can’t put my finger on why, I know that something’s wrong.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Get your dogs out of here,” he mutters, but Sheba scampers off into his foyer and disappears somewhere in his condo unit, followed closely by Bailey, then Daisy.

  Have they all lost their ever-loving minds?