Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire

by Pamela DuMond

  Holy crap did he just say what I thought he said?

  I gazed up at his face into the bluest eyes I’d seen in my entire life. The highest cheekbones. The blackest hair that was cropped in a medium-length-style with one disheveled lock that fell onto his forehead.

  Hello—this might have been the best-looking man I’ve met in my entire twenty-one year-old life. I inhaled sharply.

  And quickly realized I was being a complete dork and gave my head a shake. Get a grip, Lucy, I admonished myself. Elizabeth, Zara or Mr. Philips would have shown me this guy’s picture if he were at all important. This had to be a fluke. An accident. At the worst—a chance encounter. “I think you’re mistaken.” I decided to hedge my bets. Elizabeth might have hired a down-on-her-luck girl, but not a dumb one. “Do we know each other?”

  “There you go with that dry sense of humor I always enjoy. Breathe, Lizzie. Takeoffs and landings always frighten you. Do you want me to help you through it? Just like I used to?” He held out his hand and regarded me with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Kristine the flight attendant stood at the front of the plane and spoke into the intercom. “Welcome to British Air Flight 1509 from Chicago O’Hare International Airport to Heathrow, London. In a few minutes we will be pulling back from the gate. Please take a moment to review the following safety information for this plane located in the seat pocket in front of you. While our captain and co-pilots are tip-top, we’ll obviously be passing through bumpy weather as we depart the Windy City.”

  “Um.” I wondered why my tongue suddenly felt awkward inside the confines of my mouth. “Um…” Earth to Lucy. You are being paid a king’s ransom. Do not screw up this job for a stunning pair of blue eyes, a little pitter-patter in your heart and a tingling in your nether-regions.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A short, coiffed, helmet-headed Barbara Walters type peered down her nose at us. “I’m so sorry, but I think you’re in my seat. 3B?” She peered at her ticket stub. “I do believe I am in 3B.”

  “Oh.” He pulled his ticket stub from his pants pocket and checked it. “You’re right, Ma’am. I’m in 4A.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I must have been hypnotized by this young woman’s beauty.”

  Phew! Lucky for me I wasn’t going to be stuck next to Mr. Cocky for the next nine hours.

  He leaned his head toward mine and whispered, “I know you’re disappointed Lizzie. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. There’s always the Mile-High Club. I do believe you once said those very words to me. I’ll never forget my initiation. Thank you. Seriously, thank you. That was a defining moment in my life.”

  I coughed, clamped my hand over my mouth and collapsed forward—my boobs slapping my thighs.

  He grabbed his leather duffel off the floor and stood up. “Can I help you with your bags?” he asked the woman and moved into the aisle.

  “You’re not only handsome, but a gentleman. Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I’m good. My name’s Jane Dawson. I could swear I’ve seen you before. I’m bad with names, but I never forget a face.” She plopped down into the seat next to me, looked up and winked at him. “It’ll come to me.”

  He held out his hand to her. “You can call me Nick.”

  Jane smiled and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Nick. I’ll figure out how I know you. I’m good at this!” She leaned down and pushed her carry-on under the seat in front of her.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and then realized I was going to be seated next to the Jane Dawson—the famous news reporter whose career spanned decades. I clenched my hands together and gazed out the window as the plane backed away from the terminal.

  “You look familiar too, miss.” Jane said. “Albeit like you’ve seen a ghost or recently had food poisoning. First Class on British Air is practically like opening a copy of People Magazine. You never know whom you’ll bump into here.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dawson. You’re an amazing reporter and your career is spectacular. My name is… Elizabeth.” I leaned close to her and whispered. “Thank you for saving me from that man. I’d much prefer to sit next to you during this incredibly long flight.”

  “Luck of the draw, Elizabeth. I was in 3B after all. Are you nervous during takeoffs dear?”

  “No. I’ve done this a million times.” The plane taxied onto the runway and I gripped the armrests like a young gold-digger holding tight to an octogenarian billionaire’s arm in a Vegas wedding chapel. The aircraft paused for a few moments as thunder boomed and lightning struck in the woods and neighborhoods in the near distance.

  A piece of paper shaped like a tiny airplane flew over my head and crashed onto my lap. I unfolded it and read:

  My dearest Lizzie:

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Do we need to do something about that? I’m happy to help.

  Always,

  Nick

  I scrunched the paper into a ball, flung it over my seat back toward him and heard a low chuckle. “I’ll be just fine, Ms. Dawson. Nothing out of the ordinary or unusual about today.” I smiled at her, inhaled deeply and held my breath.

  Except that everything about today was out of the ordinary and unusual. Because this was the biggest day of my new part-time job. And I was indeed the poster-child for Ms. Liar, Liar, Pants-on-Fire.

  I closed my eyes, leaned back, tried to ignore the hot guy kicking the back of my chair and I remembered how I got here…

  *

  Part-time Princess is on shelves now and available in Audio.

  Part-time Princess: (Royally Wed Romantic Comedy: Book 1) Copyright © 2014 Pamela DuMond ~ All rights reserved.

  Sneak Peek of The Story of You and Me

  PRAISE:

  *

  “…by far one of the best books I have read…after Beautiful Disaster…” Goodreads Reviewer

  *

  “It is a beautiful story that made me believe in the power of true love and the miracles it can bring you.” Summer’s Book Blog

  *

  “THIS BOOK…. If you are reading some other NA book, put it down and start this one right now.” Bianca ~ Goodreads Reviewer

  Description:

  How far would you go to save someone you loved?

  *

  My name’s Sophie and I’m nineteen-years-old. I planned on college and keggers—not MS. I told people, but they started treating me differently, so now I keep it secret. I probably have many more years to live with this disease, but my grandmother does not.

  *

  So I traveled thousands of miles to L.A. to look for healing: stem cell studies, acupuncture, shamanic vision quests. I’d try anything. I’d risk it all, because I was fighting for our lives.

  *

  My first night in L.A. I landed in the middle of a campus bar fight. The most beautiful man I’d ever met, Alejandro, rescued me. He took me to the ER, drove me to my new home, and even washed my beer-drenched hair. On my second day I got lost in a dicey part of town and was attacked by gang-bangers. I escaped—this time. So I hired Alejandro to drive me to my appointments; be my BODYGUARD. He made me laugh. He sheltered me. My heart started cracking open…

  *

  I wish I had told him my secret. When I discovered—he hadn’t yet told me his…

  *

  A Story of Hope. A Story of Love. A Story of Redemption.

  Chapter 1

  “Screw you, Alejandro!”

  The beer bottle whistled past my ear and smashed into the wooden bench behind my head, showering me with shards of glass. I dropped my e-book reader and ducked as a second bottle flew over my head and exploded onto the booth behind me.

  “Thanks for asking, but you’re not my type. Give me your keys,” a guy said.

  Multiple slivers of pain popped on my head and face. I mopped back my beer-drenched, long, chestnut-colored hair that was plastered onto my cheek and glanced down—my fingers were now covered with specks of blood.

  “I SAID I ams fines for the drivings,” the screw you boy s
lurred.

  I wasn’t all that thrilled about leaving my mom, Nana, friends, my safety net and moving to Los Angeles for a couple months. I certainly hadn’t come here to be in the middle of a bar fight. I could do that back in my hometown in Wisconsin. Even an average Wisconsin chick could throw a punch.

  A twenty-something, curvy, African-American waitress maneuvered her way through the crowd of flip-flop and T-shirt attired college students who’d suddenly shut up and stared at me. She hustled to my booth wearing a heavy dose of concern on her face. “You okay, baby girl? Oh, no. You’re bleeding.” She turned around. “Thomas Taylor, so help me God, you’re not coming back in here until you clean your frat boy ass up. Get him out of here, Alejandro. Now!”

  There was scuffling and more slurred swearing. “Dude, you’re three sheets to the wind,” the guy—Alejandro—said. “You’re not driving. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

  The pretty waitress squinted at me through black-rimmed glasses. “Honey, you don’t look all that good.”

  “I’m fine, I’m sure I’m fine,” I said. “Just one tiny cut.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “That is way more than just one cut.” She turned toward the bar and snapped her fingers at a portly balding man. “Freddie. Call 911. This girl needs to go to the ER.”

  “No. No.” I waved my hands. I hated hospitals. I tried to avoid them like the plague. “I’m not going to the hospital.”

  “You have to. It’s close,” she said. “Only a couple blocks away.”

  “I know. But—” I looked down at my e-reader. The screen had gone black. I tapped it. Dragged my finger across the screen. Nothing happened. I sighed. “It’s been a long day. I’ll clean up when I get home.”

  If I could find my way back there.

  It took the whole day to travel from my home in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin to L.A. I cabbed it from the airport to the realtor’s office where I picked up the keys to my summer session sublet that was about ten blocks from the USCLA campus. I asked the assistant for a recommendation to a local eatery where I could score a decent meal without breaking the bank.

  I deposited my bags at my new crash pad and called my mom to tell her I arrived safely. I changed out of my sweaty traveling clothes into a modest sundress and grabbed my jean jacket. I bolted the lock, threw the keys in my purse and said hi to my new next-door neighbor—a handsome metrosexual named Cole who clutched his scrap of a dog. “This is Gidget,” he said.

  “Oh, hey, cute furball. My name’s Sophie. I’m your new summer neighbor.” I wiggled a couple of fingers at the dog.

  Gidget narrowed her eyes and growled at me in a soprano tone.

  I pulled my hand back. “Sorry,” I said. “Animals usually like me.”

  “Oh, she does!” Cole said. “Gidget only growls at new people she thinks she might like.” He scratched her ears. “Everyone else she simply ignores.”

  “Oh good!” I said.

  Funny. That description sounded a bit like me.

  By the time I walked to the Westwood Grill the sun was setting and I was exhausted. Based on the assistant realtor’s description, I’d expected a semi-quiet night with a good book and a decent but not great meal. I didn’t expect to be soaked in beer with glass shards embedded in my face and head. I pinched my forefinger and thumb together and attempted to pull one out of my cheek. Something squished and I felt a little woozy.

  The waitress blinked. “Those wounds need to be flushed,” she said. “You might be Wonder Woman for all I know, but you can’t do that on your own.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me to standing. “Will someone please call 911?”

  “No! Don’t. I’m all right.” But she pulled me up too quickly and now I was definitely dizzy. I swayed for a few seconds when someone else with bigger and stronger arms grasped my shoulders from behind.

  “You okay?” a guy asked.

  “How many times do I have to say I’m fine?” I tasted blood trickling into my mouth, my knees buckled and just like that—I was falling.

  But he caught me. His strong hands that had been holding my shoulders wrapped tightly around me—one circled my waist, the other crossed my chest as he pinned me back against what felt like his brick wall of a chest.

  “Right. Because everyone’s who’s ‘fine’ collapses,” he said.

  I looked down. A complete stranger with built forearms and tan muscular hands was holding me up. Way to go, Sophie. This was such an auspicious start to my most excellent adventure in the City of Angels.

  “I got you,” he said.

  “Thanks. You can let me go.”

  “You need to sit down. Cheyenne—pull out a chair, please. This booth is soaked.”

  The waitress pulled out a vinyl chair from an unoccupied table. “Where’s Thomas? You didn’t let him drive? I do not want that frat brat back in this bar, but I don’t want him dead, either.”

  “Me either. Freddie locked him in the storage room.”

  “Freddie’s got a hernia. No way Freddie could have carried Thomas “The Incredible Hulk” Taylor into our storage room.”

  “Freddie’s hernia did not prevent him from locking the door after I pulled Thomas over the bar, dragged him into the storage room and propped him against the wall next to a large sack of potatoes.”

  “Hello?” I tapped my index finger on the guy’s hand that was firmly planted between my boobs. “Do you people not realize that you are talking about stuff like I’m not here?”

  “Oh, I definitely know you’re here, Bonita. While I think the cute fingernail thing you’re doing to my hand is kind of sexy, I’m not thrilled that you’re bleeding all over my favorite Rolling Stones T-shirt.”

  “Sorry!” The Stones? A grandpa-aged dude had his hand between my boobs and was practically feeling me up? My new life was totally not starting out the way I had hoped. “Thanks for catching me, Mister. You can let me go. Now.”

  “Mister?” He lifted me up six inches off the ground like I was a stuffed animal, or a cat, walked me a couple of feet over to the table and deposited me gently onto a chair. “Mister is a word people use for someone’s uncle, or a disheveled man on the street who hits you up for spare change. I’m not old enough to be called ‘Mister.’” He released his grip on my waist and chest and shifted one large, firm hand onto my shoulder. “Hold still. You’ve got a piece of glass sneaking down the front of your dress. I’m going to save you from another cut. You can thank me later.” His fingers inched down under the neckline of my sundress, brushing my skin, under my collarbone, headed toward my bra.

  Seriously? Thank him for copping a feel? I held my breath.

  “Breathe. I almost have it.”

  I glanced around. The young California flip-flop diners were staring at me like I was one of those embarrassing videos on YouTube. Oh crap, one guy actually had his iPhone pointed at me—I was going to be on YouTube. I probably looked like a bleeding, drowned rat and really hoped my mom wouldn’t stumble across this online.

  “Got it.” His hand pulled out from the top of my dress and flicked a piece of glass away.

  A round of applause and a few wolf whistles erupted from the crowd. “Chalk up another save for Alejandro!”

  “Dude, she’s bleeding all over your T-shirt and you haven’t punched her. When I spilled my margarita on your Sticky Fingers T-shirt you punched me.”

  “I punched you, Paul, after you took three swings at me when you were hammered at the Memorial Day picnic.”

  “Whatev. I think this means you like her,” Paul said.

  “Hey, Alex!” A sun-kissed blonde girl wearing a plunging halter dress that displayed a scary amount of bulging cleavage placed the back of her hand to her forehead, batted her eyes and pretended to swoon. “If I happened to fall, would you catch me, too?” Three nearly identical Barbie friends seated at her table giggled.

  I winced and turned my head away from the onlookers. Could this get anymore embarrassing?

  Cheyenne caught my look, turned and snapp
ed her fingers high in the air. “Show’s over,” she said. “Get back to it.” They returned to their drinking, eating, hair tossing and flirting.

  “Where’s my purse? I need to pay for my burger,” I said. My face was starting to burn more.

  “Your burger’s on Thomas’s tab,” Alejandro said. “Along with a new e-reader and your visit to the ER.”

  “I’m not going to the ER.” I tended to be stubborn about these types of things.

  “Hey, Cheyenne! Can I get another round over here, please? Some chicken wings, two veggie wraps and a Caesar salad with the croutons and dressing on the side?” Blondie shouted from the opposite side of this smallish, informal bistro.

  Cheyenne regarded me with one eyebrow arched.

  “Go. I got this,” Alejandro said.

  She nodded and walked away.

  It was beyond time I called it a day. I had an appointment with a pair of tweezers, some rubbing alcohol, drugstore antibiotic creme, as well as shampoo and conditioner back at my new apartment. If I could even remember where that was. “Thanks for your help, Alejandro.” You big, strong, sweet and kind, Rolling Stones’ loving, old grandpa. I stood up. “You can take your hand off my shoulder.”

  He did. “Let the record stand that I do so reluctantly.”

  “Sorry for ruining your T-shirt.” I plucked at my dress’s neckline and shook off some glass splinters. “Why don’t you give me your e-mail? I’d like to reimburse you.”

  “Even better, why don’t you give me your name, number and e-mail?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and frowned. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe coming to L.A. wasn’t the smartest move in the world. I ground my teeth, but that hurt my face. “My name’s Sophie. You’re a nice guy and all but I keep the other stuff private.”

  I turned toward him. My gaze traveled up about six inches until I looked into the most stunning pair of hazel eyes I’d seen in my entire life. Alejandro wasn’t a grandpa—he was close to my age. His black, shiny hair curled behind his ears, tapering down his neck. His cheekbones were high, his lips bite-able—I meant—full. His V-neck T-shirt revealed a hint of that wide, rock solid chest that had sheltered me for a minute or so. “Maybe I can Play pal you.” I bit down on my lip. “I meant PayPal.”