The Boss Me Series: Complete Billionaire Boxed Set Romance Books (1-3): (A Billioniare Steamy Romance Series)

by Brooke Kinsley

  "Maxwell's equation. I'm surprised you're covering it in first year."

  "We're not. I was just going through it for fun," I say.

  "For fun? I'm impressed."

  I pull out a crate of beer I'd been hiding under my bed and pass him one.

  "Cheers."

  It feels weird, really weird. He's sitting in my room looking like a prince while Beauty and Beast blares out from the room next door. The girls are in the full swing of things, singing along loudly like a group of caterwauling drunks.

  "I miss living in halls," he muses out loud as he listens to them.

  "You... Miss living in halls. Somehow I think that's bullshit."

  He gives me a wry smile and sips from his bottle.

  "There's a reason I love American girls. They're always so feisty and to the point. They're more interested in getting their own way than being polite."

  "Hey! We can be polite too."

  He looks amused and turns away to look at a nearby poster of Marilyn Manson.

  "But really, I do miss living in halls; the parties, the friends, the constant sense that you're not alone."

  A look of sadness flickers over his eyes for a second.

  "It must be nice to know you always have your friends nearby," he says.

  "Oh, sure! They're all so nice, but I'm sure you have your own wild parties, right?"

  "Not anymore," he says and that look of sadness returns. "Anyway!" he snaps himself out of it and slaps his thighs. "I didn't come up here to depress you. You must think I'm a boring old fart. I'm a little surprised you even invited me up."

  "What? You're not boring, or old! You're not even a fart."

  He laughs.

  "I feel old sometimes. I think that's why I volunteered myself to come back and help at the college. I wanted to recapture that sense of excitement I had when I was a kid. Life's rather boring at the top."

  "Pffff...." I scoff. "Boring? I doubt it. I thought guys like you hung out with Richard Branson in space and wooed supermodels on your luxury yachts."

  "Okay, boring is not the word. I guess I mean it's too serious. All the magic's gone. Everything you ever wanted is only an arm's length away and there's nothing else to look forward to. Believe me, it's the journey to the top that's the most fun. When you get here you realize you've left everyone else behind."

  "Hmmm..."

  I sit back against the wall and warily watch him.

  "Forgive me if I'm not convinced. You have everything you want at arm's length and somehow that's a bad thing. Sounds pretty ungrateful of you."

  "Ungrateful? Well, that's not what I meant at all..."

  There's a sudden tension between us. I should have kept my mouth shut but I had to ruin everything.

  "I like this," he says.

  "What?"

  "You challenging me. I needed this, needed to be taken out my comfort zone. I miss having people around me who argue and disagree with me. Everyone I know is a pure yes man. I'm followed around all day by a troop of suited bobbing heads that make me want to blow my brains out. This..." he points to the both of us. "This is what I came back for."

  I smile. He smiles. The tension has lifted and we're back to being two new friends sharing a beer.

  "So... Kansas," he says. "What made you come here?"

  "A scholarship," I say.

  "You must be exceptionally clever," he replies.

  "Maybe I am."

  He's looking at the other tattoos on my arm then his eyes are drifting over my stomach, down my hips, and down my thighs. I can almost see what he's thinking. He's wondering if I have any other tattoos and if I'm keeping any in secret places.

  "I'm sorry, Stephanie but would it be ok if I tell you how incredibly beautiful you are?"

  I laugh so hard I snort.

  "What? Oh my, God, that's the most British thing I've ever heard! Yes, you may tell you that. I'll allow it, just this once."

  "Sorry, I know some girls find it to be rude when you point out their appearance," he explains. "But you are stunning. A girl like you should be strutting around like the queen on campus but I sense a shyness in you."

  He leans forward in his seat and takes my hands in his. His skin is warm and smooth and he's so close I can smell his rich cologne.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this but..."

  He brushes the hair from my face and leans forward a bit more.

  "I'm really not supposed to get this close to the students but..."

  He hesitates and pulls back slightly.

  "I'm really good at keeping secrets," I whisper and he breathes in a sharp intake of breath.

  "So am I."

  He kisses me softly and I feel myself ease into his arms. His lips are so soft and gentle but his hands are firm on my face. He pulls away and looks into my eyes.

  "I've been meaning to do that since the first time I saw you."

  "Me too."

  "You're so beautiful, Stephanie."

  He slides a hand down the side of my body and rests on my hip.

  "I've always loved bigger girls."

  "Bigger girls?"

  He leans in to kiss me again and I push him away.

  "What's wrong?" he looks up confused.

  "Bigger girls! Are you fucking serious? I'm a hundred and thirty pounds," I yell.

  "You know what I mean!" he pleads. "I mean, you know, biggER girls. Like curvy girls."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Shit, Stephanie. I didn't mean to upset you. I was trying to compliment you. Fuck!"

  He grimaces and pinches the bridge of my nose. I'm suddenly aware that the television next door has gone silent.

  "I'm sorry," he says and shakes his head.

  I don't say a word.

  "I guess you'll want me to leave."

  "Please," I say as I open the door.

  He lingers in the doorway for a moment and looks so miserable I almost feel bad. Almost...

  "You don't want to see me again, do you?"

  It's more of a statement than a question.

  "No," I say.

  He purses his lips and slumps his shoulders.

  "I really was just trying to be nice."

  "Just go."

  He walks away and glances into the living room where all the girls are watching us with their eyes like saucers.

  "Goodbye," he says as he reaches the front door. "I'll see you at your next lecture."

  Slamming the door shut, I don't say a word. Bigger girls, I think. What the hell?

  Chapter Seven

  The three of us are outside smoking, sitting at the top of the steps as we watch people rush to their first lecture.

  "So he said you were fat!" Alex gasps.

  There's fire in her eyes but a look of glee too. It's as though she was looking for any excuse to prove that Milton was a scumbag.

  "He said he liked bigger girls."

  "You're hardly a bigger girl," Morgana says. "You're tiny. Maybe he just meant because you're curvy like you have big boobs and a great arse. That's probably what he meant."

  "It didn't sound that way," I say.

  In the cold light of the morning, I can't help but think I'd had a few too many drinks last night and maybe added two and two together and come up with four million.

  "Do you really think that's what he meant?" I ask Morgana.

  She's about to speak when Alex leans forward and interrupts.

  "I think he's a chauvinist pig who was body shaming you because you don't look like all the other girl he's been with. You know, all those supermodels who exist on a diet of spinach leaves and laxatives."

  I'm about to respond when the door opens behind us and we turn to see Jenny sauntering out looking fresh-faced and eager to get to class.

  "Hello girls!" she sings. "Why are you all smoking?"

  She tuts and squeezes past us.

  "Don't you know that one cigarette takes eight minutes off your life?"

  "We know," I say. "You've told us three times alr
eady."

  "Well don't be late," she says as she skips away. "I heard Mr. Gibson has a big announcement."

  I stub my cigarette out on the side of the step and ping the butt away.

  "I've really gotta give these up," I say.

  "Ah, don't listen to her," Morgana laughs.

  We gather our things and begin walking to the lecture theater that's over on the opposite side of campus.

  "What do you think the announcement is?" Alex asks.

  "I don't know, but I'm surprised he even made it in today. He was ruined last night."

  "Oh, my God, Steph! After you left with Mr. Moneybags last night he started dancing."

  "Dancing!" I recoil in horror. "To what?"

  "Some cheesy old thing," Alex laughs. "I thought he was going to break into the Charleston."

  We reach the lecture theatre and the fresh optimism of yesterday has somewhat dissipated. We take our seats and a moment later, Gibson is shuffling into the room with an extra-large coffee and a look of grim determination on his face. He looks as though he's aged ten years overnight.

  "Okay, quiet time," he says as he begins writing on the board.

  The chalk screeches across the slate and the sound feels as though it's grating against my teeth. At last, he throws the chalk down on his desk and leaves the words KNIGHTSWOOD POKER CHAMPIONSHIP on the board.

  "Poker?" Alex scrunches up her face. "So he's drinking AND gambling now."

  Gibson looks over in our direction and she shuts up.

  "Okay, hands up who's heard of our annual poker tournament?"

  A few people including Jenny raise their hands.

  "Good. For those of you who don't know, the tournament is a program we run each year for our best and brightest students. It's an opportunity for number lovers to really flex their mathematical muscles. This isn't normal gambling or regular poker, this is strategic and formulaic and cannot be learned by the average man in the street. This test here," he picks up a stack of papers off his desk. "Will determine who will be selected into the program."

  I lean into Alex’s shoulder.

  “Is this serious?”

  “Seems to be,” she whispers.

  ~

  I'm chewing on my pencil and looking down at the test. I finished twenty minutes ago but everyone else is still frantically scribbling and I have the overwhelming feeling that I've done it all wrong. I check it all again, chew my pencil some more, look over at what Alex is writing and give up. I sit back in my seat and lean back to stare at the ornate ceiling.

  Everything in England is ancient, even this university boasts being over four hundred years old. It's almost creepy how this building is still standing after all that time. The ceiling is covered in intricate cornicing with cherubs spaced sporadically around the lights. With nothing better to do, I begin counting their smug, alabaster faces.

  "Miss Blomquist?"

  I look down and see Gibson staring at me with his bushy eyebrows all bunched up.

  "Are you finished?" he asks with an air of incredulity.

  "Erm... yeah."

  He smirks.

  "Really? Are you sure? Did you remember to do the back pages?"

  A jolt of panic surges through me. I flick through the test booklet again but see that I've done every single question.

  "Yeah, done it all," I say.

  There's that condescending look on his face again. I want to smack it off him.

  "Right, well," he sits down at his desk. "You better bring it down then."

  I walk down the steps to his desk and see that a few heads are looking up at me, confused as to how I finished when they're still only halfway through. Dropping the paper onto Gibson's desk, I smile politely.

  "It really wasn't that hard," I say.

  He frowns again.

  "Maybe you misunderstood the questions," he says.

  "I doubt it," I reply. "Do I need to stay here?"

  "I suppose not," he huffs as he opens the booklet.

  "I need a smoke," I sigh, grab my bag and head outside.

  With everyone in class, the campus is empty and I find myself being the only person sitting on the main steps. Lighting a cigarette, I blow the smoke out and watch it drift away into the balmy air. Life is weird, I think. A month ago I was hanging out in Jon's pickup truck on the edge of town and now I'm here in London with all its strange new accents and customs. I make a mental note to call my mom as soon as I get back to my dorm and think about Jon again. He must really hate me. Why wouldn't he? I abandoned him and didn't even call him when I arrived. It wasn't that I didn't want to. It was just that I couldn't think of anything to say.

  "Blomquist?"

  Looking over my shoulder I see Gibson looking strangely cheery with my test paper blowing in the wind.

  "You've shocked me, you really have."

  He wanders over and sits beside me on the steps.

  "Any chance of a cigarette?" he asks.

  He sees my shocked expression.

  "I'm trying to give up but one won't hurt, will it?"

  "It'll take eight minutes off your life," I say.

  "I could get hit by a bus tomorrow," he replies as he takes a Marlboro with his knobby arthritic fingers.

  He pushes the test back into my hands.

  "Promise me one thing," he says.

  "Erm... sure."

  "Tell me you didn't see the answers to this beforehand."

  "Eh? How would I have done that?"

  "Did you?" he pushes.

  "No!"

  He looks into my eyes for a moment as though he's trying to see my thoughts.

  "I believe you," he says. "Millions wouldn't."

  "With all due respect Mr. Gibson, I don't like being accused of cheating."

  "Yes, well I'm really sorry."

  Flustered, he starts smoothing down his pants.

  "It's just that we've never had a student get marks so high before."

  "Really? What did I get?"

  I'm starting to think I'm dreaming this or it's some sort of practical joke.

  "A hundred percent," he says as he taps the top of the test paper.

  "You're joking!"

  "Not even slightly," he says. "Welcome to the poker championship."

  With no idea what to say, I just stare down at the paper.

  "I've only ever played poker for fun," I say. "I couldn't imagine doing it in some sort of academic way."

  "You'll be our star player. I have no doubt about it," he says with a smile.

  "So, do we get, like, extra credits or something?"

  He bites down on his lower lip like a cheeky schoolboy.

  "No, Miss Blomquist, it's for money, REAL money."

  "What? How much?"

  "The winner gets twenty thousand pounds," he says. "And the runner up gets ten. Although something tells me you won't be getting second place."

  I sit there with my mouth dropped open, waiting for the moment when he tells me he's just playing with me. It doesn't come.

  "So, are you in?" he asks.

  Twenty grand, that's even more in dollars. I could send it home to my mom, give her money for all the medical debt she's accumulated over the years. It would pay for her flights over here, it could pay rent in my own apartment. Twenty grand could do just about anything!

  "I'm in!"

  I grab his hand and shake it.

  "I think this is going to be the start of something tremendous," he says.

  "Me too!"

  He stubs out his cigarette and pockets the butt.

  "So you're running it, right?" I ask.

  "Oh, no! That's what Mr. Milton is here for. He's a prize poker player and he's kindly volunteered to mentor you all throughout the championship."

  No, I think. Fuck no!

  "You look a little worried," he says with a look of concern.

  "No. No...Just, oh, it's nothing."

  "It won't be a problem, will it?"

  His frown has returned. There's nothing I want
less than to see that spoiled, little rich boy again, but twenty thousand British pounds...

  "It's not a problem," I fake a smile.

  "Good! It starts tonight at seven. I do hope you can make it."

  Chapter Eight

  I don't want to go inside but I know I have to.

  "Twenty grand," I say to myself then I push open the door.

  The poker analytics class is being held in a basement room of the math department and couldn't look more seedy and sinister if it tried. The walls are bare cement breezeblock and the ceiling is lined with rusty pipes. There's the distant rumbling of a water heater that bangs and splutters in the corner and the room smells damp and dirty. I'm expecting to see more people in here, but as I walk in, I just see the five of us; me, Jenny and three boys who all look fairly interchangeable with dark, comb-overed hair and glasses. The three of them are shrunk inside their oversized sweaters and staring at Jenny as though they're in the presence of a princess. As I sit down, they look over my tattoos then glance away awkwardly.

  "I heard you got a hundred percent, is that true?" Jenny asks as she grabs my arm.

  "That's what Gibson told me."

  "A hundred percent!" one of the boys scoffs. "That's impossible."

  "Well, apparently it's not," I say.

  He looks annoyed and stares down at his notebook.

  A noise comes from somewhere in the bowels of the building and I soon realize it's footsteps. They're hurried but heavy and authoritative. Milton is coming and I'm so embarrassed at the thought of seeing him that I pull out some loose paper and start doodling random circles in a desperate bid to look busy.

  The door creaks open and everyone looks up except me.

  "Hey guys!" Milton's cheery voice says. "I'm so glad you could all make it."

  I can feel his eyes burning through my head but I'm still drawing circle after circle as though my life depends on it. He walks around to the front of the room where a makeshift whiteboard has been placed on an easel.

  "I'm sorry but why are we down here?" Jenny asks. "Aren't there any nice rooms?"

  "’Fraid not," Milton sighs. "Although there's a reason you're all down here. It's the most secure room."

  "Why would we need a secure room?" one of the boys asks.

  I finally look up and see Milton walking over to the corner. There's a cloth over something square but I'd assumed it was a desk or an old locker.