Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Poppy Dunne

  “Is everything okay?”

  “My brother’s coming for a few days. He’s getting divorced. Needs some space.” I don’t want to drag her too deep into this. She nods.

  “Okay. Is there anything I can do?”

  Ladies and gentlemen, the lady surprises me yet again. I blink. “Ah. I was going to get you a car?”

  Why’d I make that a question? Cheeks flaming, she turns back to the pasta.

  “Oh. Right. I shouldn’t be here. Of course.”

  “Unless you want to stay?” Questions, man. I’m worse than an eighth grade girl asking out the middle school’s lacrosse champion.

  “I don’t want to intrude.” But she peeks up at me with—dare I say it—a hopeful look.

  “Honestly, Pete could probably use a pretty face and some sparkling conversation. I mean, beauty and wit that he’s not related to.” I can only be so humble. Dahlia giggles.

  “Okay. Hey, can we get supplies up here fast?”

  Everything in my life is a phone call away. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Does your brother like tiramisu? Dad taught us how to make a mean one.”

  She’s baking my brother a cake. As I call down to make sure I’ve got all the ingredients necessary, I sneak a glance at her as she runs upstairs to change. A perfect ass and grade-A tits are good. A lovely face, sleek hair, full lips? Incredible. But a good heart? That’s my favorite thing to see in a woman.

  I mean, not literally see. I’d either need X-ray vision or homicidal intent for that.

  There’s a reason I don’t tell people every thought in my head.

  Once again, Dahlia Rossi surprises and impresses me.

  12

  Dahlia

  It’s a little late to be FaceTiming my sister in Chicago, but she’s still at work. My God, kitchen times at the Drake Hotel seem to be round the clock. She picks up while wiping a tissue across her face—standing in front of several hot stoves for hours on end will do that to you.

  “Dolly. What’s up?” Her brows knit. “Is it Dad? Did he get in a fight with the neighbor again?”

  Dad and his neighbor, a psychotherapist, don’t get along very well. It all started during the Garden Gnome Apocalypse of 2014, and it’s been ongoing ever since. I shake my head.

  “Rosie, do you happen to have that tiramisu recipe off the top of your head?”

  She blinks. “That’s why you’re calling? Is this a late night sugar emergency?” She blows out her cheeks and tucks a stray curl of hair behind her ear, flashing her engagement ring as she does. Yeah, I set Rosie and her soon to be husband up back when we were all home for Christmas three years ago. I’m a good big sister. Which means she has to help me with this cake. It’s the code of sisterhood.

  “I’m making it for someone who’s coming over.”

  “You’re baking for a booty call?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t seem like the type to do either.”

  “It’s not that. Well, not completely that.” Crap. My face heats up as my sister’s mouth rounds into a perfect little O.

  “So there is someone in the picture? Mom’ll be pleased to know her ritual sacrifices have paid off,” my sister drawls, smirking. I don’t care if we’re in our thirties, next time I see her it is hair pulling time. We are just that mature.

  “Rosie, I have spent all day with a billionaire and his depressed brother is coming up in the private jet and I need to make this cake to help him feel better.” There. The whole truth, and nothing but. My sister frowns.

  “Look, if you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on, fine. Here’s the recipe. Got a pen?”

  I don’t know why more people don’t just tell the truth. No one ever believes you, anyway. I write the recipe down on a sheet of paper from Jack’s desk (and remind myself to show it to Mom as a sample for her business because hot damn this is finely milled) and go back to the kitchen. Jack’s got all his clothes on at last, more’s the pity. I brew the coffee, mix the batter for the sponge cake, beat the mascarpone, and in general try to enjoy the sensation of my stomach triple-knotting itself. What happens when I meet this brother? Will I really be the third wheel here? Maybe Jack wanted to get me out of the house and I stupidly shoved my way in with a promise of cake. Because what man with a drop of red blood in his veins can possibly ignore the seduction of baked goods?

  Not a man I want to biblically know, that’s for damn sure.

  “You and your brother are close?” For that dumbass question, I want to hit myself in the face with this mixing bowl. No, Dahlia, he’s flying his brother out here on the spur of a moment because he’s largely indifferent.

  “Yeah. He’s the younger one. You know, there’s that feeling to protect him and what not. Sort of like leopards in the jungle, or tigers.”

  “Aren’t leopards and tigers very anti-social creatures?”

  “We’re leopards who are sick of society telling them what to do and how to be.” He leans against the counter and watches me crack eggs in the bowl. “Another of your Dad’s recipes?”

  “My sister’s, actually. She makes this particular dessert for the Drake Hotel all the time. She’s made a real splash in Chicago.”

  “Older sister, or younger?”

  “Er, younger.” Screw it, I’m not going to lie. I’ll be honest, when your business is in matchmaking and dating and you’re a. over thirty, b. still single, and c. have a younger sister who’s engaged, people tend to look at you like you’ve done something wrong. But again, I don’t see any reason not to be selective. You want a relationship that’ll stand the test of time, after all. Like my relationship with this cake, which I am giving all of my attention to, because Jack’s gaze has settled on me again and I kind of don’t know what to do with myself.

  “Sisters. You two are close?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “When Rose took the job in Chicago, it was hard on the whole Rossi clan. First Dad worried that she was going to get kidnapped by bootleggers. Then, when we managed to convince him he’d watched The Untouchables a few too many times, he cursed out the Chicago Bears and fled to the garage to try sawing a plank of wood in half. Failed miserably. He’s attempted to get into carpentry in retirement; it’s not working out so well.”

  Jack laughs hard, throwing his head back and placing a hand on his stomach. Damn, even his laugh is panty-meltingly sexy.

  “You’re very family-oriented?” he says at last, returning his attention to my sponge as I slide it into the oven to bake.

  “Oh yeah. Both the Rossis and the Beauregards get together for Christmas. Mom’s side of the family,” I say as an explanation. “It’s all gin martinis and Italian turkey as far as the eye can see.”

  “Damn, I envy that,” Jack says quietly. His eyes take on a gentle focus. “Pete and I don’t really have tons in the way of family. Mom died right after I finished college, and Dad passed away two years ago.”

  My heart seizes just to think of that. I don’t know what I’d do. “But he’s got the kids, at least.”

  “Yeah. If we can make sure Evelyn gives him joint custody,” Jack grumbles. Shaking his head, probably to get rid of the unhappy thoughts, he takes a wooden spoon and dips into the mascarpone. “Now tell me: how much of this can I eat without ruining the effect?”

  “That spoonful?” I snatch it out of his hand, dump most of it back in the mixing bowl, and rehand it to him. “Indulge to your heart’s content.”

  Jack chuckles, and gets to tasting. Excellent. I like a man who can follow orders in the kitchen. That’s how it goes for a while, me baking the sponge, cutting it into thin layers, distributing the coffee and the mascarpone, layering, fretting, eating some of the mascarpone when Jack isn’t looking. It’s a process filled with anxiety and sugar.

  Sugar makes it better, of course.

  And then, there it is. The doorbell rings, and Jack goes to answer it just as I’ve finished sprinkling powdered chocolate on top. Oh boy. Here it comes. Setting the cake onto a glass plate and layin
g it on the center of the kitchen table, I listen as Jack opens the door. He says something, laughs once, then starts leading his brother into the kitchen.

  When Pete arrives, I can tell two things at once: he looks a lot like his brother, and he also looks like he’s had most of the blood drained out of him by a vampiric legal system. His shoulders are slumped, his light hair rumpled up in the back like he slept in a funny position. There are bags under his eyes, and he’s gradually slumping over the more he walks, like if Jack isn’t careful, his brother will take a face-first dive into the linoleum.

  I’ve seen enough heartbreak in my life to know when it’s walked through the door to meet me. Instantly, I want to get some food into this man, then maybe some coffee, then a hug, then a long and invigorating talk, then a hot shower, then some more cake before bed. I know how to do these things. My family has trained me in two great areas: eating your feelings, and hugging people who need it.

  “Pete, this is Dahlia. Dahlia, meet the better brother of the family.” Jack claps his hand on Pete’s shoulder, but the normal bravado-y tone of his voice is shaky. He’s looking at Pete like he knows said better brother is on the verge of collapse.

  “Nice to meet you.” Pete hasn’t forgotten his manners, which I always like to see. He sits down at the kitchen table like he’s a balloon that someone started deflating. However, he does happen to notice the tiramisu. “Wow. That looks amazing.” Some spark of life comes back into his eyes. The miracle of food.

  “That’s good, because we’re having a piece,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Pete frowns a little. Oh no. He’s not into this. Maybe he’s not a fan of eating sugar too late at night? Or maybe he is, it’s just that he’s not in the mood for tiramisu. So now I’m awkwardly sitting here, shoveling it down his throat while he wishes he could be anywhere else and then—then!—Jack will realize what a piece of work I truly am, what with my cake and my need to have everyone else eat said cake. But he knew, didn’t he? He knew I was baking the cake, and he allowed it! If he realized his brother hated this dessert so much, he could have told me! We’ll have to both go down, together, in the flames of my craziness.

  “I love tiramisu,” Pete says at last.

  Crisis averted! Everyone go back to being normal while I continue to stand here and send myself into convulsions of weirdness.

  “Great! Let me get you a plate!” I head into the kitchen and open approximately twelve cabinet doors while desperately looking for the plates. My God, how does one billionaire need this much crystal and these many bouillon bowls? He must have a lot of ritzy dinner parties, the kind where you place a twenty-dollar bill in your lap as a napkin.

  Jack finally, helpfully shows me the plates, winks, and picks up Pete’s bag. “I’ll take this up to the guest room. You two start without me.”

  So now it’s me and this darling, incredibly sad man who’s staring at a slice of tiramisu and getting all misty eyed. Could Jack have planned this? Is it all a test to see how well I respond to pressure? Am I getting a polygraph right after, to see if I’m lying about that recipe coming from my family?

  “Sorry.” Pete grabs a paper napkin and wipes his eyes. “It’s my daughter’s birthday soon. The sight of cake makes me a little weepy, I guess.”

  Shatter my heart, why don’t you? This poor man.

  “So. How long have you known Jack?” I ask, taking a seat. It hits me what a dumb question that is while Pete blinks and gently responds.

  “Erm. All my life? You know,” he says.

  “Brothers,” I agree. We say it in unison. Maybe if I open the window and crawl out, I can take a flying leap into the Hudson and do the universe a favor. But Pete’s mouth twitches; hell, I think he’s smiling.

  “You’re kind of nervous?” He seems to get a kick out of that.

  “Ugh, so nervous. Oh, not about you!” I hasten to add. I wave my hands in the air. “You’re awesome. I’m just worried that I’m barging in on Jack’s family time.”

  “Don’t be. If you weren’t here, Jack would probably have met me at the door with a bottle of whiskey and a loud Irish drinking song. I’m not in the mood to booze my feelings away.” He takes a forkful of cake. “Though I might be feeling that tomorrow, depending.” He tastes, and his eyes go wide. He slumps over—shit, did I accidentally put arsenic into the mix? I thought it was sugar! Jack shouldn’t keep his deadly poisons so close to hand!

  “This,” Pete says, swallowing and pointing a fork at the cake, “is perfection.”

  I blush. “That kind of talk will turn a girl’s head. But I like to hear it.”

  He laughs, then takes another bite. Already, there’s some life coming back to his eyes. Good sign. “When did you meet Jack?” he asks.

  “A couple of days ago.” I wince. If that doesn’t make me sound fast—from introduction to baking in his upstate New York kitchen in forty-eight hours flat—I don’t know what does.

  “Wow. Two days, and you’re already here?” Pete puts the fork down; he sounds quietly amazed. “He must like you.”

  Well, considering we’ve had wild, screaming sex twice now, I’d hope we were past the ‘Do you like me? Check this box for yes,’ phase.

  Footsteps sound, and Jack hustles back into the kitchen. “You two getting along?” he asks as he grabs a plate and takes a giant slice of cake. “Dahlia, this looks incredible.”

  “We’re all right. Dahlia’s a lot of fun,” Pete says, giving his brother a smile. Jack trails his hand across my back absently, but even that small amount of touch is enough to make me flush, and my skin tingle all over.

  “That’s me. Fun for the whole family.” I stop, because I hope no one’s taking that as an invitation to a three-way. Because I definitely don’t swing that far. But I don’t think I have to worry. Jack laughs, sits next to me at the counter, and we all dig into our tiramisu. The brothers chat about nothing much—baseball, the business, the kids—and I catch up and go along easily. While we eat, Jack’s hand lands on my back again, trails down a bit lower. Not low enough to be indecent while his brother’s here; just low enough to feel comforting, and warm.

  I feel like one of the team at this moment. I like feeling that.

  13

  Jack

  “Don’t be afraid! Keep your eyes open,” Pete calls to Dahlia as she’s about to go flying into the air. She’s got her life vest on, and is being a good sport about it. The parachute’s not going to kill her. Probably. Likely. If it does, hey: I’m insured.

  I tried that line on her earlier, to see if it would loosen her up. If by ‘loosen her up’ you mean ‘she tried to kill me with a can of Coors’ then yes. She was as loose as I’ve ever seen a woman.

  “Have you ever done this before?” she shouts, the wind carrying her words away. I steer the motorboat gracefully up the river, sun beating down and sparkling on the water, making me feel like a badass. I crane my neck around for a quick wink, which she can’t see because I’m wearing sunglasses. But it’s there, baby. It’s there if you can find it.

  “Jack’s a born sailor,” Pete yells. I feel him shove my shoulder. “Real shithead.”

  “I like it when you talk dirty,” I shout back at him. This is good. Abraham Lincoln voice is gone, and is being replaced by cheerful, back talking younger brother. We’re out of the danger zone now. With a squeal, I hear Dahlia unfurl herself and kick off into the air. I turn back again, very quick, to watch her soar up and up into the blue summer sky. Pete settles into the seat next to me, and we watch the river ahead. Never know when a rogue moose or something like that will come galumphing out into your path. Or an alligator. Alligators live in the Hudson, right? Alligators and moose, side-by-side, working in harmony towards a common goal?

  Again, I know technology, not biology.

  “Thanks, man.” Pete hits me in the shoulder, then pulls out a beer. When he showed up last night, I was afraid I was going to have to call someone professional to come take a look at him. Pete’s the slightly shorter, paler-haired, s
lightly less muscular version of me. The latter, muscular part is only because of my admittedly religious Cross Fit routine. Point is, he seemed on the verge of falling over onto his luggage.

  Then Dahlia showed up, plate of tiramisu in hand, and everything changed. He got a little sugar and coffee into him, and a lot of attention. Christ, I never thought I could have so much fun with a woman without, you know, sexy fun being involved. She didn’t probe Pete about the divorce or the kids. We all had a nice, light, easy conversation, one that I think he needed. By the time everyone fell asleep downstairs at two in the morning, she’d yanked Pete out of the most dangerous part of the depression spectrum.

  “Glad you’re feeling better.” I’m tempted to slug him in the chest, but I’m driving. Otherwise, I would totally punch him in the chest, or maybe the arm. Affection. That’s how brothers do it.

  “Hey. About her.” Pete points at the parasailing woman. “Didn’t get around to asking last night. Where’d you meet her? She doesn’t seem like the typical girl you chase.”

  “Oh? She’s got a college education? She owns a successful business?” I slow down a little; time to bring Dahlia back to earth. Or water.

  “She’s a brunette.” Pete takes a sip of beer, and winks. “And yeah, she’s got all those wonderful, grown woman qualities you mentioned. You may not want to hear this, but I like her. She seems good for you.”

  Normally when my little brother starts to like any of my ladies—which admittedly has not happened all that often—I get the urge to cut them loose. Who wants to be thirty-four, worth billions of dollars, and tied down? What if it doesn’t work out, and she tries taking you for half of what you’re worth? Life’s too chaotic and unknowable for that.

  But when Pete says he likes Dahlia, there’s a moment of…relief. I wanted him to like her.