The New Hire :: A Billionaire Virgin Romance

by Sage Rae

  But, as with many things in Winnie’s life, that didn’t work out quite as planned. Her fiancé had flirted around endlessly, ultimately cheating on her with a girl at a nearby college. He’d told Winnie he was sorry; he could have sex before marriage, could sleep with people all over the world if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to give that up, just for some goodie two-shoes from high school.

  For a while, Winnie had allowed that fact to destroy her. But now, the memory floated like the wind through her mind, making her feel vaguely nostalgic, yet not terribly sad. In some respects, she wished she would have just had sex with the guy, to get it over with. She couldn’t really nail down the mechanics of the act, even now as a 24 year old. Couldn’t grapple with how anyone DID that to and with one another, without embarrassment.

  As she strummed, singing, she glanced up to find the dark, piercing eyes of a haughty, dark-haired man before her, strutting past. He gripped a briefcase with large hands, and his jaw was set, covered in a thin black beard. He stopped just in front of her bench. His eyes seemed to gravitate between annoyance and intrigue, and back again. In response, Winnie dropped her hands from the guitar, staring up at him. Again, she made sure she wasn’t crying.

  “Who told you you could do that?” the man asked, arching his eyebrow.

  “What do you mean?” Winnie asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Play and sing. In front of my office,” the man said. “Who told you to do it? Did someone hire you or something? The marketing team or…”

  “No, no,” Winnie stammered. Her cheeks turned bright red, but she forced a smile. God, she couldn’t hack this kind of world. He continued to stare at her, his eyes so dominant and piercing. And, because she wasn’t sure what else to do, Winnie began to chuckle at the ridiculousness of all of it. “I’m just playing and singing because… because I want to,” Winnie finished.

  “Huh,” the man said.

  Winnie brought her fingers over the guitar strings, feeling a chill up and down her spine. She swallowed, still taking the heavy eye contact from this handsome, older man. He still seemed incredulous, shocked. As if he’d never seen anyone play the guitar before.

  “But why in front of my office?” he asked.

  Winnie shrugged, biting at her lip. She wanted to remain confident, but she felt herself faltering. “I, um. Well, I just failed at getting yet another job. And so I collapsed out here to count how many days I have left before this city makes me completely broke. So—because it’s what I do when I’m happy, sad, or any other emotion, I decided to sing.”

  She blinked at him, her brain racing. Did this mean he was one of the Russell brothers from the tabloids, like her roommate had said? He certainly was handsome enough to be famous. In fact, she’d never seen someone whose arrogance so matched his good looks. But she couldn’t be sure, because she’d forgotten to look up what the Russell brothers looked like.

  “That’s very strange,” the man who could have been, and was probably, a Russell brother said. “What makes you think you’re going to go broke? Can’t you just, I don’t know, get a job as a waitress or something?”

  “I could, sure,” Winnie murmured. “But I was trained at secretary school and dammit, I thought it would be nice for once to be good at something. Last time I was a waitress, I dropped so many plates on the ground. So much broken glass…”

  Winnie wasn’t making it up, or joking. But in response, the man laughed—his eyes glowing with good humor. It was clear that, to him, she was ridiculous, a sight to see. Perhaps this was how many people regarded town troubadours. They were just sad little victims of their own love of music, struggling to pick up tips.

  “Do you ever play around the city?” the man asked, reaching into his pocket. He drew out his wallet, flicking through green bills.

  “Sometimes I play odd open mic nights,” Winnie said. She was aware of this man’s gaze as it skirted across her shoulders, floated along her breasts, found refuge along her thighs. Again, her cheeks burned red. “But I haven’t been picked up by a record label yet. Surprise, surprise.”

  “Ah. You’re operating under the assumption it’s all going to happen at once,” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “When really, it’s all about nose to the grindstone. Keep going, little one.” He brought two twenties from his wallet and placed them on top of her guitar case, giving her a wink. Then, he spun toward the office building, strutting, like he thought he’d done something good.

  A bit of charity, Winnie thought, lifting the bills to her chest. She ruffled them, sniffing. She’d never been particularly interested in help from strangers. But something about that handsome man struck her, made her sizzle with expectation. Immediately, when he entered the building, she sprung up from her bench, slid her guitar back into its case, and raced down the road. The two twenties continued to flap in her hand, less than half the money she required to give to Baxter for the practice room. But somehow, she no longer cared. She didn’t need a practice room to become better at singing, at songwriting. She could hole up in her moldy bedroom; escape to the rickety back porch. As long as she had her guitar, and her inclination to fight, she could prove everyone in this city wrong about her. Again, she imagined making the call to her mother, explaining she’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted.

  Open Mic

  “Where is that little secretary you used to have?” Stanley Isaac asked Carter, adjusting his massive body against the table in a high-end Mexican joint in Austin. The table shook, making Carter’s drink tip slightly. Carter grabbed it before it could fall to the floor—an incident that would make the client, Stanley Isaac, who owned the Austin baseball team, incredibly embarrassed.

  “Oh, which one do you mean?” Carter asked, giving Stanley a wide grin.

  “That little one. Elise, I think was her name,” Stanley said, his eyes twinkling. “There was always something about her. Something I really liked.”

  “We all appreciated her a great deal,” Carter said, choosing his words carefully. “But unfortunately, she had to move on. She only told us today. It’s going to be a hard road without her.”

  “Ha!” Stanley cried, reaching his fist across the table and bouncing it against Carter’s large bicep. “I get what you mean. Which one of you was it this time? Or both of you? Ha! You guys are absolutely uncontrollable. It’s why I wanted to go into business with you in the first place. You harken back to the old times. When men were men.”

  Stanley leaned tighter into the table, speaking in a whisper. “If I could tell you all the women I’ve slept with since I was married, I would. But I lost track a long time ago. God, if my wife only knew. It’s the reason you’re not settling yourself, right? Like your brother.”

  “Dan and Penelope are quite the pair,” Carter said, sounding diplomatic—yet giving Stanley a slight wink. He needed to let Stanley think he was in on the joke, whatever it was.

  “Ah, right. Penelope, of that lotion company fortune,” Stanley said. He brought his beer to his lips, waggling his eyebrows. “You know, I imagine since you didn’t come from money, you think she’s a different breed. She’s more like me, like my family. I look at Penelope, and I see all my birthday parties growing up. All my parents friends. And all my friends now, hell. I’ve been at about fifteen parties with Penelope. And each time, she looked down at me with the coldest eyes in the world.”

  “That’s our Penelope,” Carter said. He lifted his finger toward the waiter, beckoning him. His legs ached from sitting, and his head felt sloshy with drink. Stanley had blathered on for hours—a fat man, with a fat fortune, who felt sure that he could have whatever he wanted. Including Carter’s friendship. But Carter didn’t lend that out so easily. In fact, he could count his true friends with only a few fingers—and wasn’t always sure if he could count his brother among them. Their competition was too tight.

  “Again, happy to be working with you for the third year straight,” Stanley said out front, as his driver yanked up. “You’re a man after my own hea
rt. Now, make sure you make the next secretary blonde, huh? It’s good not to get too bored.”

  Stanley slid into the backseat of his car, saluting him. Then, the drive shot him away from the restaurant, back toward his mansion on the edge of town. Carter clucked his tongue, trying to get rid of the nauseous feeling in his gut. Would he turn into a sleezebag like old Stanley one day? Would he marry, and still cheat? He sniffed, wondering how quick the switch happened. One minute, you were hot as fuck, the top of your game, screwing whoever you wanted in the world. And the next, you were a fat old man, only screwing people who wanted you for your money…

  Carter began to walk through the darkness, toward a selection of dive bars along the edge of downtown. He’d gone to them as a younger man, a 20-something with nothing and everything to lose, to listen to the open mic nights and marvel at other people’s desire to actually be good at something “artsy,” something that didn’t necessarily equate with money. Back then, his arrogance had bled out from him, unstoppable. He supposed it still did.

  The girl in front of his office, with the guitar—he couldn’t shake memory of her. Her bright-eyed optimism had latched onto him, and, for minutes after leaving her, he couldn’t forget her smile. He’d enquired about her to Monica, remembering that the girl had said she hadn’t gotten a job. And Monica had leered at him, using a tone that told him that she knew best, always.

  “She was five minutes late. You don’t want that kind of girl working for you. And plus, Carter. She’s far too innocent for both of you.”

  “Well, we need a secretary. As soon as possible,” Carter had said.

  “I’ll find you another one. There are loads of secretaries in this city. I can have her waiting for you at the airport tomorrow morning.” Monica had paused, then added a sarcastic, “What kind do you want this time, anyway?”

  “It wasn’t me, Monica. It was Dan,” Carter had affirmed, anger rising.

  “Same difference,” Monica had burned back.

  Carter ducked into the first dive bar at the corner, sauntering toward the corner. A few of the bar staff recognized him; he was a borderline celebrity across Austin, a man known for his riches and for his apparent bravado with women. But he shrugged, unable to make eye contact, watching the crowd. Throughout, men and women—bright eyed hopefuls of the music scene—tittered with one another, tossing big heads of hair and adjusting hipster glasses. Not a single one of them was that girl.

  “Hey man. Do you want a drink?” a tattooed bartender asked, leaning heavily over the counter. “Or are you just gonna sit there all night?”

  “Naw. I just remembered. I have to go,” Carter said, cutting the man a wry smile. He ducked out of the bar, strutting toward the next bar, then the next. He felt almost as if he was hunting her, out of some kind of strange curiosity. Had he picked any other one of those bone-legged model-like waifs back at the first bar, he might have taken her home. But it wouldn’t have been enough for him.

  The last bar on the left was Rick’s, a place specializing in Texas BBQ, with a nightly open mic. Carter stood outside the window, shifting his weight, his fingers itchy with the desire to smoke. It was a habit he’d forced himself to give up in his mid, late 20s—when his image had begun to be plastered across magazines; when Forbes had named him and his brother in their 30 under 30.

  Inside, he watched as a young, mid-20-something girl leaned over her guitar case, sweeping her brunette locks over her shoulder. She lifted her nose to someone, laughing at his joke, before drawing the guitar strap over her neck. Immediately, Carter burned with desire to rush inside, to speak with her.

  It was the girl. The girl he’d been hunting for. His heart burst in his chest, making him feel volatile and charged. He’d set out to find her, and dammit, he had. He was unstoppable in this city. Anything he wanted was at his fingertips.

  The girl darted up the side steps of the small stage, seating herself at the edge of a stool. When she began to strum, Carter ducked into the dark bar, leaning against the brick wall along the back. She began to strum and sing, her eyes casting out over the crowd’s heads, as if she were seeing something that no one else could. Carter was captivated with her innocence. Each note that swept from her throat seemed lined with a youthful sadness, one he’d left behind when he’d become a billionaire. He’d lost all touch with his sensitive side, yet felt that this woman still swam in sensitivity, in feeling, in everything she did.

  The girl finished her song, rose up and bowed. The crowd clapped for her, offering several whistles, as she hopped back to the ground. She eased through the crowd, back toward the bar, her cheeks bright red. But just before she reached the bar, she stopped, making eye contact with Carter.

  Carter felt almost trapped. He’d never felt that way because of a woman before. Her eyes pinned him tighter against the wall. He reached for his beer, sipping it, and watched as she drew closer to him. Her hips shifted in her little, yellow sundress. His fingers itched to wrap around that waist, hug her close to him.

  “Hello?” she asked, tilting her head.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice gritty and dominant. “I just saw you up there.”

  The girl whipped her hair behind her shoulders, her cheeks burning brighter red. “Oh? How did I do?”

  “You were quite good,” Carter said, trying to sound passive, far away. As if he hadn’t tried to track her down. “What a coincidence, no?”

  “I didn’t imagine you were the type to hang around places like this,” she said. “You’re um. One of the owners of that architecture firm. Aren’t you?”

  “Carter,” he said, nodding. “Dan’s brother. And indeed, one of the Russells, at the firm that didn’t hire you. I’m sorry about that.”

  The girl turned her lips down, shot out her free hand and shook his. “I’m Winnie. It’s good to meet you,” she said, sounding very much like a typical small-town girl, sunny and optimistic, despite everything.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Carter asked, pointing toward yet another tattooed bartender.

  “Um. Sure. Like, a beer?” Winnie said, her voice anxious and high-pitched. It was clear Carter had a power over her, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she knew who he was, or just because of the tension that seemed to sizzle between them. Although, he knew, he had to keep his distance. This girl was youthful, bright. The antithesis of every haughty model he’d slept with the previous ten years. He didn’t want to destroy her.

  “Okay, I’ll get you ‘like a beer,’” Carter said, teasing her.

  Carter grabbed them both a drink, then strutted toward the back garden, behind the bar. Back there, music flickered in through the crack in the door, but allowed them space and air to speak. It was filled with the smell of greenery, of other people’s cigarettes. The girl named Winnie sipped her beer, her eyes falling to the ground with fear.

  “It was stupid, being so late to that interview,” she said suddenly.

  “What? Oh, god. I don’t care about that,” Carter said, chuckling.

  “Your head secretary seemed so angry,” Winnie sighed. “Although I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s probably up to her in the end. And there are a million girls in this city who can do that job. Hell, there are a million girls in the city who can sing and dance and play guitar—all while doing a backflip. Why did I ever think I could compete?”

  “You can’t think of yourself that way,” Carter told her, his nostrils flared. “If you do, then you let everyone else win, without even playing the game.”

  Winnie stared at him, her eyes growing orb-like. It was clear she’d never received such a pep talk. In some ways, this had been exactly what Carter had told himself, over and over again, until he’d made his first million. It had been a game of constantly pepping himself, of continually driving forward.

  “Okay…” Winnie finally said, clearly trying to quell the sudden intensity. “Well, regardless. If I don’t find a better way to make money soon, I’ll be back at my parent’s farm. And they’ll be tellin
g me that they told me so…”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Carter said. “You should really just come and work for me.”

  The words escaped his lips too quickly, before he had time to analyze them. But already, Winnie’s eyes were alight, almost twinkling. She tilted her head.

  “But your head secretary—“

  “This is a different position. I’d need you to work directly for my brother and I,” Carter said, chasing his own thoughts. “You said you were trained in secretary work, correct?”

  “Absolutely!” Winnie said, her eyes wide.

  “Well, I need you at several meetings over the next few days in New York City,” Carter continued, putting on his “boss” voice. “You’ll need to be ready to leave for the airport by five in the morning. Which is about six hours from now,” he offered, glancing at his watch. “Can you handle that?”

  “I’ll do anything. Anything at all,” Winnie said, jumping slightly. “I can’t believe this. And you just—you just stumbled in here, running into me. It’s like fate or something…”

  Fate. Or Carter’s insane desire to sleep with her—something he knew he had to push back on, constantly. Especially now that she was his secretary. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fall back on old habits, for the good of the business. Plus, Winnie was different. Breakable in ways the others weren’t. While Dan had ruined Elise’s career at the company—making her volatile and angry—Carter could imagine that sleeping with Winnie would not only destroy her career. It would shake her moral ground. It would make her rethink her perception of the world. He could smell her virginal instincts, the fact that she still revered the world and had hope for it. It was far too much to shatter.