Auctioned to Him_Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

“I can’t believe that he agreed to it.” I shake my head.

  “I lent him the money that he owed, and he’s going into treatment for gambling and alcoholism soon. Father isn’t happy about any of this, but then again, he’s not in charge.”

  I nod.

  “So what I want to say to you, Annabelle, is I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was a terrible person, and I shouldn’t have done any of that. You were the best thing that happened to me, and I just threw it all away. I want you to come back to work. I want you…”

  He let his voice trail off. We both know what he means. But all of this is too much for me. I’m happy for him, but as for the job and the relationship, I can’t quite comprehend any of it right now.

  “I think I need to lay down,” I say. I have been standing for some time, and my legs are starting to feel weak.

  Gatsby helps me to my bed. He undoes the covers and tucks me in.

  “Would you mind if I stay here with you? I can just sit in this chair. I just want to stay,” he says.

  I nod. The medication they gave me at the hospital is finally taking effect. I want to keep my eyes open and ask him a million questions about everything that has happened, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.

  I wake up a few hours later. Gatsby is fast asleep on the most uncomfortable chair in the entire known universe – my desk chair. This isn’t the soft leather recliner on which I sit on at work. No, this chair is made of wood and has only a thin layer of padding on the seat.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” He gets up when I sit up in bed.

  “Yes, so are you.” I smile.

  “Oh, I just drifted off for a second,” he says. By the way his body is contorted, I can see that he was asleep for some time.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sore,” he whimpers.

  “That’ll teach you about sleeping at my desk,” I say with a laugh.

  “How can you get anything done here? This chair is awful.”

  “Eh, maybe. But that chair was only ten dollars at Rite Aid.”

  “That’s it. As soon as I get back home, I’m ordering you a proper chair. It should be illegal to sit on something like that.”

  We both start to laugh.

  “Come, sit here and I’ll rub your back,” I say without a second thought. He jumps into bed next to me, and I rub his lower back. He pulls up his shirt, exposing his strong, powerful, tanned back. I rub it for a few minutes and then stop.

  “Better?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well, that’s all you’re getting.”

  He gets up and frowns at me. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. All the things left unsaid between us are building. The atmosphere of the room is getting thick with the tension.

  “Gatsby…” I start. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I have to say something.

  “Annabelle, I just want to say again. I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. I was an asshole, and you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who loves you, cares for you, and doesn’t have all this shit around him all the time. And yet, I still want to ask you…”

  “Ask me what?”

  “Ask you to give me another chance. Even though you deserve so much more. So much better.”

  “I do deserve better. You were such a dick. You had no right to fire me. I was just trying to help you.”

  “I know that now. I know.” He hangs his head. “Just please, please, give me another chance. I want to be with you. I need you.”

  “I don’t want to be with you just because you need me, Gatsby. I can come back to work, but…”

  “No buts, please.” He puts his finger to my lips. A surge of electricity rushes through my body. His touch does crazy things to me. I want to push him away, but I don’t.

  “What I’m trying to say is that…I love you.”

  The words hang in the air in between us. I’m not sure if I heard him right. Gatsby looks me straight in the eyes and repeats himself.

  “I love you, Annabelle,” he says. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid my eyes on you. I love you. I just could never say it before.”

  These are the last words I expected to hear from him.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper. I’ve wanted to say that to him for so long. I just didn’t have the courage or the strength. I wasn’t sure if he would say it back to me.

  “You do?” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me close to him.

  Our lips touch, and sparks of electricity course through my body.

  “I love you,” he whispers, pulling my head toward his.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper and bury my hands in his hair.

  “I love you,” we say together and fall back onto the bed.

  * * *

  THE END

  The Stranger (Billionaire Matchmaker Book 1)

  After selling his banking start-up to Google, Logan Davenport is officially a billionaire. He’s swimming in money and sex, and that is the way he likes it. But he needs a respectable date to his brother’s engagement party. So he finally gives in and lets his eccentric aunt, Dolly Monroe, find him a date. Much to his shock, she sets him up with an opinionated, average-looking, floral shop owner who seems impervious to his charms. Avery doesn’t want him, and that makes him want her even more. Before he knows it, he falling in love for the first time ever.

  But Logan is keeping a secret. No, he isn’t married. No, he doesn’t have a child. No, he doesn’t have cancer. It’s worse than that. Much worse. And when Avery finally finds out, he risks losing the only person he has ever really cared about. Can their love survive his secret?

  **WARNING: Steamy scenes, NO Cheating, HEA!

  Prologue

  My name is Dolly Monroe and I’m a billionaire matchmaker.

  I am 5’10’’ when I’m awake and 5’5’’ when I’m asleep. I’m suspicious of women who don’t wear heels, just as I’m suspicious of people who call me out of the blue asking for favors.

  I have a strict policy when it comes to my hair, one which I’ve abided to since I was a little girl in West Texas – the bigger the hair, the closer to God. My hair is as platinum as some of my clients’ records, and it perfectly offsets the 10-carat diamond ring on my left hand.

  I never let my waist get bigger than 22 inches, and I do not have the same restrictions on my breast size. The girls were 36 DD three years ago, and now they’re 36 EE. Who the hell knows how big they’re going to get in another decade?

  I like my men the way I like my purses: in a variety of colors and styles and with a high price tag. My husband, who’s also my high school sweetheart, doesn’t mind, of course, because my little business makes more than a hefty penny and keeps him in a 20,000 square foot Malibu beachfront house and allows him to spend his days surfing and golfing.

  You see, I’ve been at this for a very long time. I was 13 the first time I did my first set up: my second cousin with my best friend from middle school. They dated through 10th grade, married in 11th, and celebrated their 40-year wedding anniversary last year.

  I started my matchmaking business when I was 20 and, at first, I set up average folk like my cousins, then wealthy folk, then millionaires, and now billionaires. This is the only thing I’ve ever done, and I’m pretty damn good at it. People aren’t that different you know. Of course, billionaires come with their attitudes and highfalutin opinions of their own importance, but at their core, they want the same thing everyone else wants: for someone to give a damn about them, not just their money or power. What typically ends up being the problem, however, is that the billionaire (both men and women) think they’re going to get this thing from some 20-year-old, 5’11’’ bimbo, but that’s rarely the case. That’s where I come in.

  Why do I do this?

  I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. I believe everyone deserves one, and I can get it for them, if they just get out of their own way and let me.

  How can I be so sure?

>   I have a great track record. I have successfully set up 3,988 couples. That’s more than 130 couples per year over 30 years of matchmaking. Not all of them were billionaires, but over the last five years a huge portion of them were. Close to four thousand couples now are living their happy ending because of me. It feels damn good to say that.

  And then I made a mistake. I told my publisher friend about this, and she went wild.

  “You have to write down some of your favorite stories, you absolutely must. People will go crazy over it!” she said.

  So, that’s how we got here. This series depicts some of my favorite couples from the last few years. Their names have been changed to protect their privacy, but everything else is as true as it happened from my clients’ perspectives. Though each couple eventually found their happily ever after, the road to get there was often difficult and treacherous. But what would life be without a little intrigue and turmoil, right?

  Chapter 1 - Logan

  I wake up in the middle of my California king bed with a splitting headache and an aching groin. There are two women lying next to me, both dead asleep. They don’t look as gorgeous as they did last night at the club, but I’m used to women’s trickery and mystique when it comes to makeup. All those contouring tutorials on Youtube may confuse most men, but I’ve got three sisters. I know when a nose is made to look a little smaller, lips fuller, eyes larger. And that’s okay. Why not look more beautiful if you can? It’s pleasing to the eyes, even if it’s a little deceitful. But women aren’t the only liars. We all are. Men constantly lie about how much is really in their bank accounts by leasing cars that they have no business driving based on their paychecks. And why? To impress women, of course.

  I’m lucky this way. I recently sold a small start-up that I founded after college to Google, and the sale officially made me a billionaire. The app allows people to make personal loans to their friends, family, and strangers just like banks and credit cards do and charge interest. It’s called BankMe, and whenever I mention the name people generally pretend to have heard of it, even though most of them haven’t. I don’t mind. It doesn’t really matter.

  Threesomes are fun. I try to have a couple once or twice a month at least, because they keep me on my toes. Most men want to have two women at once, but I don’t want to be just a user. I want the women to have a good time and to enjoy themselves. So, it’s important for me to make sure that they do. Last night, however, I made a mistake. I make it a point to always fall asleep on one of the sides of the bed so that I can sneak out without waking anyone up. But last night, for some reason, I fell asleep in the middle. Now, I have to carefully climb out from beneath the blankets without waking either of them up.

  I decide to go left, toward the ocean. The girl on the left is turned away from me. I carefully lift the sheet and slide out. Then I climb over her, making sure that I don’t pull the sheet too tight so I don’t risk waking her up. Just when I’m almost scot-free, she snores and turns around. I hold my breath and freeze. I’m draped over her on all fours, holding myself up by fingertips and tiptoes. Luckily, she doesn’t wake up. A moment later, I throw my legs over her and land silently on the floor.

  All of this maneuvering is an absolute requirement. I hate morning conversations and make it a point to never talk to the women who sleep over. I’m not so rude as to make them leave in the middle of the night, but I also don’t hang around to make them breakfast. Instead, I go outside, grab my board and surf until Marilyn comes by at 8 a.m. to clean, make me breakfast and kick the girls out.

  Marilyn is the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a woman who isn’t related to me. Marilyn is from El Salvador, and she has been with me since I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood. Even back then, when I made only $2000 a month and paid about $1300 in rent, I wasn’t much of a housekeeper and chose to spend $50 a week on her rather than getting out the vacuum cleaner and doing it myself. My oldest sister likes to say that even back then I was thinking rich. Maybe she’s right.

  I stumble a little down the stairs on the side of my porch. I live in a 5,000 square foot, four-bedroom house on the beach in Malibu. After the deal with Google, I can afford to upgrade, of course, but this place is enough for me right now. I love it here. The beach is only a few steps away, and it’s in the quieter part of Malibu, away from the tourists and the paparazzi. The paparazzi usually don’t bother me (who cares about rich techies, right?), but I have been out with more than a few models and celebs and now they’re starting to get a little nosy.

  I grab the pair of swimming trunks that I keep under my porch along with my board and change into them right there. This has become somewhat of a habit of mine – there’s no one out here this early, and I don’t think anyone can see me under my porch. Mainly, I change out here because I don’t really give a shit. I doubt that anyone will really complain about seeing my 6’1’’ tan body, my six-pack, which looks like it has been chiseled out of stone, or my large dick.

  I grab my board and head toward the water. My head still feels like someone’s hitting it with an ax. I definitely had a little bit too much to drink last night. I think it was all because of Allison. Allison was the one sleeping on my right. The thing about threesomes is that usually one of the girls just isn’t as hot as the other one, and a part of you has to settle because two are frankly better than one. So that’s pretty much what I was expecting when Allison asked if I was interested in partying with her and her friend Samantha last night. But then I saw Samantha. Both of them are equally stunningly beautiful with light green eyes and full, soft lips. They both have infectious laughs, bubbly personalities without being bimbos, and high sex drives. The only thing that’s different about them is their hair color – one is light blonde and the other is a dark brunette. As soon as I saw them, I was in heaven, and that was even before they came over and did all those ungodly things to me and each other.

  Still, no matter how hot the girls, I have rules for myself for a reason. I follow them religiously for a reason. Let them sleep over, but go surfing before they wake up. Let Marilyn wake them up and put them out. Marilyn is great at delivering early morning excuses and explanations about why I’m not there. He’s surfing now, and then he has an early meeting with clients, is her usual one. Today, she’ll have to be more creative. Allison knows that I’ve sold my company and don’t officially have a job or any clients to meet with anymore. I’m sure she’ll think of something.

  I enter the freezing water. There are a few surfers out, and they’re wearing wetsuits, but I like the feel of the cold water on my bare skin. It’s refreshing and exhilarating. Mornings in Malibu tend to be overcast and a little dark, and the water is colder here than in the rest of Southern California. But I’ve been living here for close to two years now, and I’m pretty used to it.

  When I dip my long yellow board into the first wave, my headache vanishes immediately. I ride the first wave all the way to the edge of the sand and then paddle back out into the blue. I ride another one and another one and another one, and each one makes me feel more alive than the one before.

  I stay in the water for close to an hour. Then I shake my hair out before grabbing the board and walking back upstairs. This is one of the perks of having a house on the beach. Back when I lived in West Hollywood, I used to get up at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic, drive forty minutes, park and surf for forty-five minutes before heading back into the traffic and the grind of my life. The irony is that back then I had a job that I needed to get to and had to squeeze my surfing in before it. Now that I don’t have a job and actually have time to waste my life in LA traffic, I live right on the beach and don’t have to.

  Chapter 2 - Logan

  “Hey Marilyn,” I say walking into the kitchen, dripping wet.

  “Oh, Logan, you’re getting all the floors wet!” she exclaims and runs over with a towel. Marilyn is a small, round woman with curly hair who speaks in a thick Spanish accent.

  “Sorry about that,
” I say.

  This is a game we play every morning. For some reason, Marilyn doesn’t believe me that the bamboo floors will be perfectly fine if they get a little wet, and I pretend that I’m actually sorry about it.

  She has already made my smoothie, and it’s sitting at the end of the kitchen island. One thing I can tell you is that Marilyn was not happy when I insisted on having smoothies for breakfast. I don’t know if it has anything to do with being born and raised in El Salvador, or if it’s just a Marilyn thing, but for some reason she doesn’t approve of fruit being mashed up into tiny pieces.

  “The fruit lose all of their nutrients when they’re processed like that,” she used to say. “You should eat them cut up, but not processed!”

  To which I would smile and laugh and insist on it anyway, even if they no longer had the nutrients. Her response was a shake of the head and something that sounded like a curse to the devil in Spanish.

  Luckily, both of us have begrudgingly agreed to disagree, and she no longer tries to convince me to have hot tamales for breakfast. Even though, those suckers are to die for. If you ever the chance to have one of Marilyn Abarca’s tamales, do not pass up the chance. You’ll think that you died and went to heaven.

  “Delicious,” I say, taking generous gulps of the berry banana green tea smoothie. Even though she hates the idea of smoothies, Marilyn is the type of person who takes immense pride in her work, and since she must make smoothies, she makes the best fucking smoothies on the planet. Lucky for me!

  “Thank you for asking the women to leave,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she shakes her head. “Logan, you’re 30 years old. Rich. Handsome. Why do you need two women for a night? Why don’t you try to find one woman for the rest of your life?”

  It’s funny. My mom asks me the same kind of questions, except that she doesn’t exactly know about the threesomes. Something about my mom asking me irritates the hell out of me. When Marilyn does it, I don’t really mind. I find it kind of humorous.