MILES (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book Two)

by Paige North

  “I don’t even know what any of that stuff was,” she says.

  “It’s just a meat and cheese board with some olives and jams and things. Fancy word for basic stuff.”

  “Okay,” she says, almost a question. She’s sitting tight in her seat, her back straight. She glances around the room as if she’s looking for someone.

  “I suppose this isn’t the kind of place you might ordinarily frequent, then.”

  “Hardly,” she says. “I don’t dine on the Upper East Side near as much as I’d like.” She holds my gaze for a beat, then laughs. “That was a joke. No, I haven’t been here before or anywhere even remotely close to it. Actually I can’t remember the last time I ate out—other than grabbing a slice of pizza.” She pulls on the shoulder of her dress, and now I do get a tantalizing glimpse of her ample cleavage.

  “Of course,” I say, as if I understand what she’s saying. In reality, her life is about as foreign to me as someone living in Mumbai. “So you don’t get out much?”

  “I get out,” she says. “Just not to restaurants. Or the Upper East Side.”

  “You say it like it’s a diseased neighborhood,” I say. “Do you have something against this part of town?”

  “Why—do you live here?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Okay, good,” she says. “Then I can make fun of it. It’s just a little stuffy, this area. Really old money and stuff. I mean, look at you. You’re a young guy. Do you really think you should have to wear a tie just to eat dinner?” She reaches across the small space between us and tugs on my tie. “Don’t you hate wearing that thing?”

  I go ahead and loosen it, then slip it off my neck. “Better?”

  “Sorry,” she says, but she’s smiling. “But yeah, it’s better.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” I say. “Although your scarf is lovely, it doesn’t really go with that dress.”

  She puts her hand on top of it, and our eyes lock in a playful showdown.

  “But it’s cold,” she says.

  “Give me your hand,” I say. She extends it across the table. I take her hand in mine and hold it close, rubbing my thumb across her soft skin. “You’re plenty warm,” I say, because she is, like she’s been wrapped up in a soft blanket for hours.

  “Okay, fine,” she says, slipping her hand out of mine. She unspools the scarf from her neck, and when it’s removed I have to work very hard to keep my jaw from dropping. The wrap dress she wears perfectly highlights her stunning cleavage. I wonder if the skin there is just as soft and warm as her hand.

  “Better?” she says as she turns to drape the scarf over the back of her chair.

  “Much,” I say. So, so much better.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude about this place,” Jordyn says, picking the conversation back up. “It’s really nice—the restaurant and the whole of the Upper East Side. I guess I just like where I live.”

  “The Lower East Side,” I confirm while wondering if there are any other articles of clothing I can convince her to take off. Her legs are turned toward the window and I get a view of them—as smooth and sexy as I knew they’d be. Her shoe dangles off her foot as she rocks her crossed leg.

  Before my imagination can get the best of me, I continue my line of questioning. “Somehow I picture you living amongst starving painters, unpublished novelists with goatees, that sort of thing.”

  “If you consider doing crap jobs while struggling to pay rent and living in a corner of the living room to be the definition of young artists.”

  The wine arrives. I taste and approve it, and we’re each poured a glass. I raise mine to Jordyn. “To new beginnings,” I say.

  She nods agreement, holding my gaze. We clink glasses and I take a sip. The rosé as wonderful as I’d hoped. A subtle sweetness with a great mineral note. “It’s excellent. I taste cherry and dried apples.” I wait for her response.

  “I just taste wine,” Jordyn says.

  I have a feeling that if anyone else had said that, I’d be annoyed, if not downright insulted. It’s a great bottle, not just some wine. But rather than angering me, her raw unfiltered honesty only intrigues me more.

  “Tell me again what you studied in school?” I ask her. “Writing?”

  “Journalism,” she says, setting her glass down. “I want to be a reporter. Real news stuff, not the fluff that’s normally out there.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  “Nothing is stopping me,” she says. “It’s just that there aren’t that many entry level jobs that actually pay. They’re all unpaid internship stuff. I can’t live on nothing. I’m not some trust fund baby. I have to work. And the internship hours, of course, are always during the day--so that’s a problem. I’ve been thinking about asking my roommate to help me get into the company she works for as a cater-waiter so that maybe I could swing an unpaid internship during the day and work at night.”

  “What does a cater-waiter do?” I ask, having never heard the term.

  “They’re waiters,” she says slowly, as if I’m dense, “at catered events. You know, those people who walk around with silver trays of pigs in a blanket at the fancy fundraisers you probably attend?”

  “More typically I’d see blue crab beignets, rather than pigs in blankets, at the kinds of functions I might attend.” My sarcasm is evident.

  “Well pardon me,” she says, raising an eyebrow, and takes another sip of the wine. “This is actually really good.”

  The wine does seem to be relaxing her—her cheeks have flushed pink. I wonder if the rest of her is flushed, and that gets me picturing her breasts unencumbered, her nipples stiff and ready for my mouth and tongue…

  Thankfully the waiter comes back to take our order, giving me yet another moment to collect myself.

  “Tell me about where you’re from,” I say once we’ve ordered.

  “Jersey, born and raised,” she says proudly.

  “That’s where you grew up? And your parents are still there?”

  “Still there, still married,” she says.

  “I didn’t think that existed anymore,” I say.

  “Your parents are divorced?”

  “No,” I say. “But my father passed away recently.” Just talking about my family makes my insides clench.

  “Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” she says, putting her hand to her chest.

  “Don’t be,” I say. “We weren’t close.”

  “That’s sad. I’m pretty close to my parents,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, exposing her long neck. “And they’re great together. Total peanut butter and jelly perfection. Can’t imagine one without the other.”

  “Impressive,” I say, although I’m skeptical. It’s something I don’t believe exists. No two people are perfect for each other.

  Our food arrives, and Jordyn dives into her meal like she hasn’t eaten in a month. “You seem rather famished,” I note.

  She puts a hand over her mouth and shakes her head. “I’m embarrassed now,” she says.

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say.

  She chews for a long moment and then dabs at her mouth with the napkin before speaking again. “I’m broke, Miles…should I even call you Miles? Or is it Mr. Croft?”

  “Whatever makes you more comfortable,” I say.

  “I…uh…I don’t know just yet,” she admits. “Actually,” she continues, “none of this is comfortable for me. It’s weird. Like, you still haven’t told me why you invited me here tonight.”

  Now is as good a time as ever to get down to business, I realize. As much as I’d like to simply wine and dine her and then get her out of that little outfit, there’s other matters to attend to.

  “This is more than just a dinner,” I admit, watching her as my words sink in. “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly.

  “My life is complicated. I run the New York branch of an international business and, as you might imagine, that comes with a
lot of pressure and responsibility. It also comes with many obligations. Events, professional functions, some personal functions but really--they all go back to the business. That’s the most important part of my life—the business. I need someone by my side at all these functions, preferably someone that I can trust. I think that person is you.”

  She’s watching me carefully, piecing together what I just said. “I don’t get it. You want me to be your personal assistant?”

  “Not exactly,” I tell her. “You won’t need to worry about scheduling things for me or anything like that—I have someone who handles the details. Two people, actually.”

  Her eyes squint and her brow furrows. “Now I’m even more confused. If I’m not going to be an assistant or a secretary, than what do you call it?”

  “I oversee billions of dollars worth of business, and my investors need to know that they can count on me to be focused on business. They don’t want some twenty-something, club-hopping playboy handling their fortunes, which is exactly what some people think I am, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s important that I present a professional image with a steady…domestic partner.”

  She still looks utterly confused. “Right,” she says, her voice telling me that she’s struggling to make sense of what I’m proposing.

  “I need someone I can take out in public and be seen with. And don’t worry. I’m only asking you to do this for one month, and I’ll pay you very well for your services.”

  “You’ll pay me for my services?” she says. The way the word shoots out of her mouth, I know she’s finally understood the gist of my plan.

  Of course, she’s offended.

  Which just means I have to sell it to her. That’s no problem because selling is what I do. I know how to close a deal. “Let me get this right,” she continues. “You want to pay me to be your pretend girlfriend? I can’t even believe I’m saying that. What the hell is going on?”

  Her voice is rising and I detect that some of the other diners may be starting to notice.

  I intentionally lower my own voice to compensate. “I’m offering you a job, Jordyn. To be honest, it’s a pretty easy one. You don’t have to do anything but be present and respectful. You’ll be whatever it is that I need at any given time, whether it’s at a business dinner or a night at The Met.”

  “Whatever you need?” she repeats. “Are you insane? No. I can’t do that.”

  Nearby, an older couple mutters and glances in our direction.

  “Keep your voice down,” I tell her. “You’re disturbing the other customers.”

  “And you’re propositioning me,” she retorts. “It’s…it’s…so insulting I can’t even believe I’m still sitting here talking to you.”

  “You need a job; I’m offering you one.”

  “I just can’t. It’s not right. It’s…” She leans over the table and says quietly, “prostitution.”

  “I’ve never paid for sex, Jordyn, and I don’t intend to start tonight.”

  “And I’ve never been paid for sex, and I don’t intend to start tonight,” she replies, her eyes furious. Somehow, I find that even sexier.

  “Then we’re agreed,” I reply happily. “Neither of us is paying or being paid for sex.”

  “No, we’re most certainly not agreed. Not even close, Miles.”

  I like the way she says my name. I like the way her chest rises and falls, and I’m fairly certain her nipples are hard—I can see them clearly outlined through her dress now.

  “It’s just a business proposition. I need someone to take to business functions, a partner who can keep the energy light and relax my clients, and you, my dear, need a job. From what I could gather from your sobbing this morning and the way you dove into your meal tonight, you need one pretty desperately.”

  “Do you expect me to be flattered or something?”

  “I don’t expect you to be anything but present and respectful, like I already said.”

  She sits for a moment, thinking. “I thought this whole dinner thing was going to be about another receptionist job at one of your companies.”

  “Jordyn, tell me,” I say. “Would you rather sit behind a desk answering the phone all day or go out to more dinners like this? Go to galas at the Metropolitan? Have an intimate dinner with the mayor and his wife at Gracie Mansion?”

  She scratches at the table again, thinking. “I don’t know. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend for money just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Frankly, I'm surprised,” I say. “I know you need the money, but more than that, I thought you’d be overjoyed at this opportunity to have experiences that aren’t normally available to you. Jordyn, I know everyone in this city. Who knows, you might meet someone with connections to the New York Times. You might meet the editor of the whole damn paper. But if you don’t think it’s worth it, that’s fine.” I stand up. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time.” I motion for the waiter. “I’ll have the driver take you home. Can we get a box for this?” I gesture to her half-eaten dinner.

  “Of course, Mr. Croft,” the waiter says.

  There’s a look of panic and confusion on Jordyn’s face. I stand behind her chair as if to help her out of it. “Nonetheless, thank you for joining me.”

  “Hold on,” Jordyn says, turning around to look at me with desperately wide eyes. “Can you at least tell me how much it pays?”

  “Sure. Not that it matters to you, but for your month of services I intended to pay you ninety-seven thousand dollars.”

  At this, her mouth falls open a little bit.

  Like I said—I know how to close a deal.

  Jordyn

  I don’t think I can move. Is my heart still beating? Did he just say ninety-seven thousand dollars?

  “Did you say ninety-seven thousand dollars?” I ask, my voice shaking as I speak.

  Miles is moving back to his chair, and he waves away the waiter.

  “Yes, I think that seems a fair amount,” he says calmly, and I kind of want to smack him. Fair amount? What is going on?

  He didn’t just grab that number out of thin air. That happens to be the exact amount I owe on my student loan bill.

  He knows that.

  How he knows, I have no idea. But it’s no coincidence, that’s for sure.

  “Miles—“ I begin, but he interrupts.

  “I’ll pay you a third upon signing the contract.”

  “Contract?” I say.

  “Of course. This is a business arrangement, Jordyn, which I’ve been explaining now in some detail.” His voice is getting more intent, more clipped, no room for play anymore.

  “I know you’re used to making ‘deals’ everyday,” I say, “but I’m not used to this. I’m just kind of…”

  “A third upon signing the contract, as I stated,” he continues. “Another third mid-way through the month, and you’ll receive the final third when the job is complete. That’s standard and more than fair. And now I think we’ve come to the moment of truth, Jordyn.”

  My mouth goes dry and suddenly the world before me starts to look out of focus.

  “I think I’m going to pass out.” I start waving my hands in front of my burning face, trying to cool myself down.

  Spots appear in my vision.

  For a moment, I picture myself shrieking and being dragged out of the restaurant on a stretcher.

  This is too much.

  I don’t belong here.

  I need to get the hell out of here before I do something truly crazy.

  “Here, have some water,” Miles says, setting my glass in front of me. When he speaks again, his voice has softened. “Jordyn, slow down, it’s okay. Take deep breaths. Look at me. Jordyn, look in my eyes.”

  I look up and his eyes are practically sparkling, even in the dull light. I focus on those steady eyes, as he tells me again to breathe.

  When he reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine, a calm sensation rushes through me. It’s like nothing I
’ve ever felt before. I feel his hand on mine, I listen to his voice telling me everything is going to be okay, and I watch his eyes as he comforts me.

  Finally, my breathing is back to normal. I’m not going to pass out.

  “You okay?” he asks, his hand still on mine. “Should I get you a cool washcloth?”

  “No,” I manage. “Thank you. I'm fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  His eyes are so kind, so concerned as he watches me come back to life. In those moments, I’ve made my decision. As crazy as it is, I’ll do it.

  There’s something about him that I feel I can trust.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll do…that job you offered me.”

  A little smile plays on his lips. “Good,” he says softly. “I'm glad.” He gives my hand one last squeeze before pulling away. I feel a sense of loss, of longing, which I know is crazy.

  “I’m sure I’ll regret this,” I whisper, mostly to myself.

  Evidently Miles doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t care. “As soon as we’re done here we’ll go back to my place and sign the paperwork,” he says.

  “Tonight?” I ask, taken aback.

  I was hoping to get used to the idea a little more, make sure I’m convinced I’m not doing anything weird and talk it over with Camilla and Jenny. “Can’t it wait at least a day or two?”

  “I’d like to get started right away.” As if to illustrate this point, he checks his fancy watch.

  I consider what he’s telling me. He’s saying that we’re going forward right away, and I won’t have any extra time to mull this over before I sign whatever agreement he intends to have me locked into.

  “Can I at least finish my dinner?” I ask, finally. It’s the best I can do to slow things down a little bit.

  Miles looks more relaxed now, even pleased. “Of course. And dessert too, if you’d like. We’re celebrating, after all.”

  I tuck back into my double-cut pork chop feeling a little more stable.

  My mind goes over the deal as I eat the incredible food on my plate.

  One month of not having to worry about money sounds like an eternity, an absolute luxury. Not to mention the hundred thousand dollars I’ll make when it’s all said and done.