Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Poppy Dunne

  “She’s annoyed I’m missing out on Lamaze classes to tie up all your loose ends.” She arches a brow. “So I better thank you for giving me an excuse. I hate those goddamn classes.”

  “My pleasure. This is my heartfelt speech?” Never set eyes on it before now. It’s as bloodless and polite as you can make it. When it comes to old school New York foundations and charities, they want you to sound hollow and professional. I can do the latter in spades; never got used to the former.

  “You’re going to deliver it with poignant sobriety,” Liv drawls. “I’m sure it’ll be a treat for all who hear it.”

  She gets away with the sass because she’s the best I have, and because she’s been with me since I was fresh out of MIT and looking for an executive assistant on Craigslist. Fun fact: she originally responded because she got her ads mixed up and thought I was selling a couch.

  As I look through my speech, my phone buzzes on the table. I grab it, and smile when I see the incoming FaceTime.

  “Another girl?” Liv tsks. “Please tell me this one’s not too young.”

  “Very young, but this one is special.” I hit accept and come face to face with a beaming eight year old. “There she is. Hey, Gabby.”

  “Uncle Jaaaaack!” Everything is elongated enthusiasm with this kid. She’s got on a pointed purple wizard’s hat, huge black-rimmed glasses, and is waving a wand like she’s trying to take someone’s eye out. And seeing as how her younger brother, Georgy, is beaming at me from the right, maybe I’m not so far off. “Expelliarmus!” she shouts at Georgy, who gurgles in response.

  “Still trying to make him disappear?” I perch on the edge of the wooden coffee table. I know I’m dripping, but this is worth it.

  “No, expelliarmus is to throw him across the roooom.” She tries again. Sibling love, folks. Can’t beat it. Gabby got hard into the Harry Potter books last Christmas, and ever since, it’s been non-stop Hogwarts and Gryffindor toys, games, and costumes.

  “Where’s your dad?” My brother, Pete, has the kids this weekend. He finally managed to wrestle them for a few days from Evelyn, his soon-to-be ex. Honestly, I’m surprised they have the time to call me. Hell, they’re supposed to be at Disneyland…

  Gabby’s face and wand fall. “Daddy couldn’t come,” she says.

  Now I know for a goddamn fact that’s bullshit. Pete would literally claw his way out of a volcano to have a full weekend with his kids.

  “Is Mom there?” I need to keep a civil tone. And then, boom, speak of the Chanel-wearing devil, someone picks up the phone and glares at me.

  “Jack.” Evelyn’s done up pretty nicely. Probably getting ready for an evening with the asshole she left my brother for. Believe it or not, I’m not judging her…I mean, I am, but not for the reasons you’d think. No outsider knows what goes on in a marriage between two people, after all. But playing keep-away with the kids? That’s something I know for a fact Pete doesn’t deserve.

  “Where’s Pete?” I don’t growl that part. Good for me.

  “Not coming, and not your problem. Bye.” Then she hangs up the call, before I even get a chance to say goodbye to the kids. I put the phone down, just resisting the urge to go back into the ocean and punch a shark in the face.

  “Want me to call the lawyer?” Liv sounds soft, which is unnatural. I can only nod, and head upstairs. First, I need to get in touch with Pete. Then, I need that damn shower and a change. Even with the hypersonic jet, I’m now cutting it close with the benefit. If I didn’t have to give that speech, I wouldn’t even go.

  At least I can help Pete with the lawyer. But even with billions, it sucks to realize there are some things money can’t fix.

  I’m not in the greatest mood when I finally make it to the gala, straightening my cuffs and trying to smile as lights snap in my face on the red carpet. A lot of New York old money types show up to these things; women wearing so many diamonds they can blind you if they step into the light at the right angle. The board members are all 65 plus at this point. If they want the philanthropic spirit to survive, they need guys like me. Truth is, I’m happy to step in and help.

  Then we’re inside, though I’m pulled backstage quickly. There’s the chairman of the board at the podium, thanking everyone for showing up and buying a ten thousand dollar plate. Damn, the Chilean sea bass had better be exceptional.

  I brief myself on the speech again. “It is with deep honor and humility that I accept this award tonight. The future belongs to our children, and that future is made brighter by the generous patrons of the Anderson Center.”

  Damn, I can feel myself falling asleep while I read. But the applause starts, which means it’s time to get my ass out there. The chairman, a man not a day past ninety, waves me out while the lights are hot and the faces before me are invisible. Weird that a bright light makes all the darkness seem that much more present.

  Now I’m at the podium, tapping my speech against it. The crowd settles down, and I start in on my spiel. I can feel them all settling into a kind of polite boredom. Handsome (by admission) young billionaire, in a sharp Armani suit with a prize for helping children with special needs? I could get up there, say nothing for five minutes, head to the bar, and they’d tell me it was a phenomenal speech.

  So I stop. I put the brakes on the meaningless, pandering bullshit, and I slip the speech back into my pocket. Sorry, Liv. I know they’re livestreaming this, so I’m sure you’re about to shit a brick. I hope they make a Lamaze class for that.

  “Look. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not one for public speaking. Tech jerks, we’re not built for it. If it can’t be taken apart, put back together, and explode, it’s not worth the time.” Small ripple of laughter on that one. Hey, maybe my Tony Stark-wannabe charm is working. “But I do know one thing: families can explode as well.” I try not to think of the kids and Pete.

  When you say the word ‘explode’ at a formal event, people tend to shut up and listen. The glasses stop clinking, the women stop fiddling with their diamonds. It’s all consuming attention time. Unlike a lot of other tech billionaires, that’s the way I like it. I didn’t show up in this bespoke getup to stand in a corner all night.

  “When a family has a child with special needs, that family can become a ticking time bomb. Ninety percent of marriages with special needs children end in divorce, because there’s no help or, oftentimes, hope for them. Because of the Anderson Center, that’s no longer the case. I’ve been a principal donor, funding the new research into the developmental patterns of children on the spectrum. I can honestly say it’s the most fulfilling work I’ve ever been a part of, and I’m only sad that I’m just the guy who writes the checks.” I frown; fuck me, I have an honest to god emotion coming on. “I’m the jerk who writes the checks, but somehow I’m the one who’s honored tonight. Why? Because I have the money, and the connections, and I’m told I have excellent cheekbones. Hell, any reflective surface can tell me that. I look good in the newsletter.”

  Small ripple of laughter there. Shit, I’m serious.

  “But I’m not the one working overtime at the hospital, dealing with families, exploring new avenues of research. I’m not the one who took a massive pay cut and left a cushy practice to make the lives of deserving children better. I’m not the one who puts in the time.” I lift up the award next to me, which is some amorphous glass blob mounted on a platform. It sparkles nice, though. “So, I’ll accept this award, but only on behalf of doctors Amar Bharara and Stella Bukowski, who are on the forefront of this research. They’re in the audience tonight and look like they want to murder me right now.”

  That’s not entirely true, but Bharara and Bukowski are sitting at the table right in front of me, each looking like they swallowed a snail. But, as the applause rings out and they stand up for a very shallow bow, their faces relax. The chairmen and women in front of me have lips as puckered as their assholes must be right now, but so what? And besides, the crowd loves me. My eyes have adjusted to the harsh stage lights, and
I look over a sea of delighted faces. They even stand up, cheering on the doctors.

  Everyone’s cheering, all except one particular face.

  I catch sight of her as my eyes scan the room, and I freeze. Black hair in a messy up-do, tendrils falling around her face; dark, snapping eyes; a sumptuous, red-lipsticked mouth, the corners tightening with what looks like disapproval.

  Her arms are folded across what I can tell are a knockout pair of breasts.

  Am I giving a speech in front of New York high society at the goddamn Carlyle hotel right now? I get the feeling I should be composed, but I want to get the hell off this stage and go talk to this woman in the crowd. Talk to her, get to know her, then if all goes well, take her upstairs and get to know her even better.

  My dick, ladies and gentlemen. Let it lead the way.

  3

  Dahlia

  Well that sure as hell wasn’t what you’d expect from a philanthropic speech. Not that I wasn’t glad Billionaire McGee up there honored the doctors—honestly, that part was one of the best things I’ve ever seen. But you could see the frustration and surprise on the board’s faces. That speech didn’t play by the rules, and it left them looking shallow and ungrateful.

  So. Plus and a minus. I can’t help frowning at it.

  Then the guy—Jack Carraway, who I have to admit looks pretty damn delectable—catches my eye as he’s leaving the stage with his glass-blob-trophy thing. Then a flush of…well, something comes over me. His eyes are a bright, snapping blue; I find myself holding my breath until he finally saunters off the stage. Blinking, I rub my eyes. Crap, I hope I didn’t smear my makeup. That’s the last thing I need right—

  “Dahlia! What do I do?” my client hisses in my ear.

  And just like that, I snap back to the Carlyle hotel’s swankest reception room, and the ten thousand dollar plate of crab sitting in front of me. That must be the ritziest crab of all time, and it’s a damn good thing my client is paying for it.

  “Dahlia! When do I make out with him?” she hisses again. Her date, Gerald, leans in to the conversation.

  “I’m…right here,” he says, sounding appropriately befuddled. Edith Montgomery, my client, shoves Gerald’s face away with an impeccably manicured hand. Edith’s the heiress to a high society type of fortune. Think a penthouse near Gramercy Park and a vacation home in the Hamptons that sleeps twenty. Unfortunately, all the money in the world can’t buy you love, especially when you grew up a very spoiled only child. Edith’s the type who didn’t just want pony rides for her fifth birthday—she wanted to ride a Bengal tiger.

  And she did. Took a couple of dead handlers to do it, but she did.

  At least she wants to figure out a loving, solid relationship now. Gerald’s a primate specialist in the Bronx Zoo. They met when Edith got into an incident with a howler monkey—apparently Edith didn’t realize that blowing air kisses is monkey code for ‘yo mama’ and got her hair pulled. Then the monkey snatched an expensive diamond necklace, family heirloom and what not, and Edith climbed into the pit to chase the bastard down. It ended well, actually. Edith adopted the little creature, and Gerald got her phone number, whether he wanted it or not.

  I’m starting to realize that Edith has too much interest in exotic zoology, but hey. I’m getting paid, and I’m eating crab. We’ll make her eccentricities work.

  “When do we make out? I need to plan ahead. I haven’t seen my diaphragm in ages,” Edith says a lot louder than she should

  “Excuse me?” Gerald puts down his roll. I pull Edith into a close, girls-only huddle.

  “Second date’s when he gets to kiss you. That’s next time. Tonight, talk to him about his job. Ask him questions. Maybe get another drink in him.”

  Gerald is fast sipping at a tall scotch, neat. He’s looking pretty nervous. Damn. I know Edith’s hot and all, but this poor guy’s going to need some reassurance that things are normal.

  Then a monkey climbs out from under the table. Edith was only able to get a seat for Sir Reginald Buttersworth—yes, the howler monkey that took her great-great-grandmother’s diamond—because she bought two extra 10k dollar plates for him. One for eating, one for pooping. I’m not making this up. This is my life.

  Of course, Gerald’s actually happy to see Reggie. The little guy clambers up onto the human’s shoulder, and Gerald starts handing over bits of bread. I nudge Edith.

  “See that? You both love monkeys.”

  Her face lights up to see the two of them together. Aw. “We do.”

  “Great! Order up some bananas foster and talk amongst yourselves. Remember, light and airy conversation on the first date.” I pat her shoulder and step back while she starts talking to Gerald. Edith takes a proffered piece of bread from the zoologist, and hands it to the monkey. The pair of them laughs as Reggie chows down. Then…there it is. They smile at each other, and it’s the warm, genuine smile of two people having a good time.

  Sir Reginald smiles, too, but that usually means he’s about to attack. I hightail it to the bar to give the pair of them a little space…and get out of the bite zone.

  I leave the main ballroom and head into the carpeted foyer, where the bartender is hard at work. The wall is a polished mirror, with candles flickering along the shining mahogany bar. Ah, nothing better than the siren song of a cocktail shaker. Takes me right back to Mom’s tequila and tango nights. The more they drank, the louder they danced. Once, a neighbor called the police. Truly, those are the moments you treasure.

  Sliding onto a stool, I wave the bartender over. “Dirty vodka martini, please.”

  “A woman who likes things dirty? I can appreciate that,” a man says as he sidles up next to me at the bar. The voice is low, delicious, and instantly recognizable. I just listened to him wing a speech that still has the audience buzzing.

  Heh, a dirty line? Two can play at that game.

  “Well, if I like things,” I say, spinning on my stool to face him. Then my whole body feels like it goes limp, and I swear my mouth falls open and my tongue’s a half-second away from rolling out.

  I have seen pictures of Jack Carraway before. He’s in plenty of magazines, since he’s young, good looking, and owns half of Silicon Valley at this point. Also, having at least sixty percent of Hollywood’s young and willowy A-list on your arm at various points gets you in good with People magazine. So yes, I know what he looks like.

  I just didn’t know how good he looked until I was two feet away from him.

  Like I mentioned before, his eyes are pale blue and snapping. His dirty blond hair is slicked back artfully, tousled just a little. Just enough to give you the impression he took a waterfall shower on a private jet and doesn’t much care what he looks like. His dark suit seems to have been perfectly molded to his body. What a body, first of all. Second, getting him out of that suit must be pretty damn fun. Quite a challenge…

  I’m drooling. I feel it. Oh god, spin away.

  “Things?” he asks as I spin myself around, dry myself with a cocktail napkin, then face him again like that last thirty seconds didn’t happen.

  “Things,” I declare triumphantly, putting my black satin clutch on the bar as my drink arrives. “I like things,” I say with sultry confidence.

  “I’ve learned so much about you in such a short time.” He says it with cool, cocky arrogance. I’d get mad, except I got lost on the word cock. I’m rebooting now, please hold.

  “And I’ve learned a lot about you. That speech was very telling.” I take a sip of my martini, and I manage not to dribble it on myself. I’m on fire tonight.

  “Oh? How magnanimous I am? How self-effacing? That’s kind of you.”

  Okay, hot-but-arrogant-but-hot. Hold up. “How grandstanding? How much you clearly like to push people’s buttons?”

  He doesn’t smile, or frown, or have any reaction at all. It’s cool, collected, laser focus. My skin heats with his gaze. “Think those doctors didn’t deserve any recognition?”

  “Of course they did.
That part was awesome.” I mean it, and he knows it. “But you kind of threw the board under the bus, didn’t you?”

  I pay attention to my drink while he’s silent. There. Pissed him off, and now he’ll go away and leave me to my glorious booze. Just the way I like it. Yep. Happy with that, am I.

  “I never take the bus. Otherwise, I see your point.” He grins, shark-like and scorchingly hot. I’mma need more vodka to get through this without combusting. I wave the bartender back. “Please. I’ve got this,” Jack says, waving me away. Oh, so the woman should just throw her head back and swoon at the promise of a free drink? I think not, buster.

  “Actually, I’ll handle it. I may not have billions, but I can manage.” Putting my chin in my hand, I smirk. “What’ll you have?”

  “Very take charge.” I can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. Then, the small, rakish smile. “I like a challenge. Scotch, neat.”

  “Trust me, I’m very challenging.” No one gets out alive when it’s Trivial Pursuit night at my house. I give the bartender the order, then, with bravado, “Put it on my tab.”

  “You, ah, didn’t give me a card yet, and the drinks are complimentary.” The barkeep gives me a sly wink, then goes about making the booze as my face heats up. I meant to do that. Totally. Besides, what the hell was I thinking? Rule 2 states very clearly that the man pays on the first date.

  Which of course is absurd, because this isn’t a date. This is a non-date. And he’s not even a man. I mean, well, he is. He certainly, certainly, certainly is…I’m drooling again. Point is, he’s not my type of man. I’ve never found the right one, but I know exactly who he is: six foot, dark hair, likely works in management or real estate, enough of a traditionalist to meet all my guidelines but also enough of a modern man to accept that I love my career. He’ll want two kids, one boy, one girl, three dogs, and he’ll also want to move to Long Island to be near my family. His family will also probably have to be from Long Island.