Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance

by Benjamin, Christina

  “So, what’s going on with her?” Chloe asks, looking strangely unhappy that I’d discovered true love.

  The corners of my lips tug down. “It’s a long story, but I think I may have blown my chance.”

  Suddenly, Chloe looks hopeful again. “Well . . . this is your lucky day, Eric. I was just telling Donovan that it would be fun to have a group date. My friends are awesome. One’s a model. She’s gorgeous. Here, let me show you a picture—”

  “I don’t want to see a picture of another girl,” I grumble, sticking a hand in my pocket to withdraw my flask. I pop open the lid of my cup of coffee and add some whiskey.

  “Eric,” Donovan says quietly. “It’s eleven in the morning. Do you really need that?”

  I scowl at him, firmly shoving the lid back on the coffee and tilting the paper cup toward my face so I can drink it. The whole thing spills, sending booze-infused coffee down the front of my shirt. I stare at it with blank eyes for a moment before giving up on the coffee and lifting the flask to take a hearty gulp. Why even dilute it with java when I could just feel the burn straight up?

  Maybe, just for a second, I’ll forget everything that hurts. My calloused fingers, my heart, my past. The whiskey helps it blur away for a little while, but when I put the flask down, Donovan and Chloe are staring at me with matching looks of veiled worry. I don’t care. I just take another gulp. Eventually, those expressions will blur away too.

  “Chloe, can you get us some napkins?” Donovan asks, his tone unsubtle.

  Even working on my buzz, I can see right through it. Chloe pauses for a moment before nodding and scampering out of the office.

  When she’s gone, Donovan leans toward me. “You doing okay, E? You look . . . I don’t know . . . down. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you like this.”

  Ha! As if he cares.

  Donovan can’t even be bothered to show up at my gig but now he pretends to care? A day late and a dollar short buddy!

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Our relationship has always been this way. Still, the liquor in the flask loosens my tongue. “Yeah, D, I am down. I can’t be sunny all the time, especially not when all I can think about is this girl and how I screwed up.” I squeeze the back of my neck in frustration. “It’s like she’s taken over my brain. Every time I close my eyes I see her, every time I fall asleep I dream about her. I have no idea who she is and I’m going crazy trying to figure it out.”

  Donovan’s eyes go slightly distant, his gaze shifting toward the closed office door that Chloe had vanished through. When he looks back at me, he’s smiling faintly. It makes me want to chug the rest of my flask.

  “Actually,” he murmurs, “I know that feeling well, Eric.”

  “Then you know why I can’t go out with whatever bimbo model Chloe is trying to set me up with. I need my mystery woman. She’s an angel. My angel.”

  “You can’t keep chasing a fairytale, E. You don’t know who this chick is and in a city this big you’ll never find her.”

  “But she was perfect!” I argue.

  “Yeah, probably because your time together was cut short. Had it gone longer, you would’ve found out that she’s a stalker or worse, one of those nut jobs who dresses her pets up in baby clothes and pushes them around in a stroller.”

  “What kind of weirdos have you been dating, man?” I mutter, frowning at the billionaire until he bursts into laughter.

  “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You lay off the booze and go on this date and I’ll come to that big show you have at the stadium. I promise, and you know how I am about promises.”

  I stare at him, trying to keep the edges of my vision from blurring. I can see the concern in his eyes and the hopeful smile on his normally somber face. I want so badly to deny him. I don’t need his pity or his favors, but Donovan is my oldest friend, and I can tell he’s worried about me. In his own strange way, I guess this is how he thinks he can help.

  Plus, with this agonizing heartache and stress about the stadium show, maybe I could use a little distraction. Perhaps if I get out for a little while, the hollow feeling in my chest will ease.

  “Okay,” I murmur, though the idea of being with another woman makes my stomach turn.

  As soon as I agree, I regret it.

  Chapter 12

  Morgan

  The walls of Hanson’s office are slowly shrinking in on me. The halls are lined with photos of his most successful models with their stunning smiles and promising futures. Then there’s me, who will never be a picture on Hanson’s wall. I’m starting to think I’ll never be a picture on any wall.

  What will I do if modeling falls through? Who will I be?

  I can’t breathe. All I’ve ever wanted to do is model. Some girls dream about being president or a veterinarian or a ballerina . . . but I knew I wanted this. It was a dream my mother had for herself, but she didn’t get the chance to carry it out. That’s why I have to succeed. All of this is for her.

  “What?” I ask when I realize Hanson has asked me a question, his words drowned out by my buzzing worries.

  “Morgan, all I’m saying is that we need to do something to get you back on track. You look like you’re tipping the scales. This is a weight sensitive industry,” Hanson explains smoothly, his glaringly white-toothed smile making my head ache. “The trend is lean and mean again. If you can lose an inch or two maybe we can turn your go-sees around.”

  I smooth my palms self-consciously over my hips, feeling the ridges of bones through my clothes. I’m so careful about what I eat. There’s no way I’ve gained weight. My stomach is constantly, achingly empty.

  “I was just measured again last week and my numbers haven’t changed,” I answer, trying to find a firmness in my voice though the fake sympathy in my agent’s gaze makes me waver.

  It’s that moment that I realize I’ve already lost this battle. It’s not that I’ve gained weight. It’s that Hanson doesn’t want me anymore. The worst agent in New York City doesn’t want me.

  Ouch.

  But I suppose it’s not that big of a shocker. Last minute, I’d been cut from the car show I’d been prepping for all week. The last thing I expected was to have that taken from me too. Those demeaning shows were my only reliable jobs in the last few months while I tried my best to land an ad campaign or a shampoo commercial.

  Hell, I’d even take a hemorrhoid cream ad at this point! I have bills to pay!

  “I’ve been thinking, Morgan . . .” Hanson starts.

  This is it . . .

  Just as I am trying to convince myself not to burst into tears while I’m being fired, there’s a knock at the door and Hanson is distracted from ending my career for the moment. The door to his office nudges open and Charlotte’s lovely face peers inside. She smiles at me, her silky auburn hair curling around her shoulders. I try to smile back but I can tell it’s more of a grimace.

  Does she know what’s happening?

  There’s a tautness to her smile that doesn’t sit well with me, and I noticed she’d been curt during our interactions lately.

  “Charlotte!” Hanson says with a joviality that feels like a punch to my gut, gesturing her forward. “Come here for a second. You can help me out here.”

  Is he going to have her fire me? How much more humiliating can this get?

  Even though the beautiful woman claimed she was being scouted for other agencies, she’s still here. It’s been two weeks since we had that discussion in the bathroom—I know because that’s the day I met my rockstar. But Charlotte hasn’t mentioned her potential move since.

  Maybe she likes being the big fish in a small pond. I’d like to be a fish in any pond at this point.

  “Look at Charlotte,” Hanson says, not even disguising the worshipping tone of his voice as he takes her hand and gives her a slow twirl, reminding me of those diamond ads where the perfectly cut gem spins slowly on a rhinestone-studded plate. “Isn’t she dazzling?”

  Charlotte preens, soaking up the praise and attention like
a desperate sponge. It’s apparent that I was right in my assumption that she likes the security of this agency, where she is the top earner and Hanson would do anything to keep her. She doesn’t have the stones to take a leap of faith to see if she could make it in a more competitive agency.

  Little does she know Hanson will tire of her eventually. He always does. She’s not the first sparkly thing to catch his eye. I would have tried to warn her but she’s gazing at me now as if she wants nothing more than for me to walk out that door and never return.

  “Morgan here needs your help, Charlotte,” Hanson continues. “Can you tell her what you do to keep your figure so flawless?”

  Charlotte appraises me as though I’m a horse up for sale. I keep my chin high despite their scrutinizing stares. Charlotte bats her lashes at Hanson. “Oh, the usual. Yoga and running.”

  Hanson’s eyes turn toward me. “And you?”

  “The same.”

  He turns his attention back to Charlotte. “You must have a secret, darling. I mean look at you, you’re perfection.”

  “I wish I had a secret to share, but my figure is mostly natural,” she explains with another haughty look at me.

  Where did all that kindness from before go? Was she only being nice because she was entertaining the thought of leaving the agency? Now that she was staying, perhaps she wants me to be the one to go. It would mean less competition for her—not that I’m considered competition these days.

  “Of course,” Hanson sighs. “But Morgan just doesn’t have that luxury.”

  Charlotte nods. “I’ve actually been trying this raw food diet recently. Only unprocessed, uncooked vegetables. I could get you a recipe book, Morgan.”

  “I don’t need to diet!” I snap back, my tongue escaping its leash after trying to keep quiet.

  Charlotte purses her lips, her arms folding over her chest. “Maybe it isn’t just your weight that’s costing you jobs. Maybe it’s your attitude.”

  Anger floods me with heat. “Excuse me?”

  “I tried to be nice to you, Morgan, but I think the nicest thing I can do is give you a harsh reality check, sweetie.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Not everyone’s cut out for modeling. Right, Hanson?”

  My jaw drops slightly, my eyes turning to meet Hanson’s.

  “Well, that might be true,” he stammers, “but I think if Morgan has the grit to keep fighting, we should let her.”

  He smiles at me as though he’s being helpful, but his words lodge like a knife in my ribs. Even though I want to go off on him for insinuating that I’m anything less than good at my job, I simply turn on my heels and march out of the room.

  A second later I hear Charlotte following. She corners me in the bathroom while I splash water on my face, hoping to cool my flaring temper. No matter what I want to say or do, I need this job more than I need the last word. It’s my dream.

  “I’m sorry I was blunt with you,” Charlotte says quietly from behind me, though her eyes in the mirror are decisively unapologetic.

  I note she isn’t apologizing for her words, but for her tone. It’s almost commendable.

  “It’s okay,” I answer rigidly, forcing the words out from between my teeth.

  “It’s just that not everyone has what it takes to work in this field. You have to recognize your limitations. I would want someone to tell me if I wasn’t cut out for this.”

  Slowly I straighten, my face still damp. “So, you really don’t think I can model?”

  She lifts her chin, green eyes blazing into mine. I can’t believe I’d thought she was kind earlier. Charlotte might be beautiful on the outside, but she’s nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing . . . and in my opinion, that’s the ugliest thing someone can be.

  “When was the last time you booked a meaningful job, Morgan? How much longer are you going to drag this out, starving yourself while you get edged out by the younger girls every day? I mean, you can’t even keep a car show. I feel sorry for you is all.” Charlotte offers a phony smile and pats my shoulder. “It’s not too late to find something else you're good at.”

  Before I can grab her by the beautiful red locks, she’s gone and I’m left staring after her in humiliated shock.

  Who does she think she is to speak to me that way?

  My phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket, and through my stunned haze, I lift it and answer as Chloe’s cheerful voice meets my ears.

  “Hey, Morgan!” Chloe says. “I finally found some guys for you and Stacy. We’ve got someone from Donovan’s advertising firm for Stacy and one of Donovan’s friends is a musician so I figured that would scratch your itch for your guitar playing one-night stand. Sound good?”

  “Never sounded better,” I whisper through gnashed teeth, eager to eat some real food for a change and wash it down with a stiff drink so I can forget this happened.

  Even though I’m still not particularly interested in this date, I need to get out and let loose or I’m going to explode. Besides, after this craziness with Hanson, I need something to look forward to, even if it’s an awkward blind date. I know I’ll be thinking about another musician the entire time, but maybe my friends are right. Maybe the best way to get over him is to get under someone else . . .

  The thought is unhealthy and it makes my heart ache but it’s all I’ve got at the moment, so I cling to it with all the hope I have left.

  Chapter 13

  Eric

  ‘Dinner tonight at 7. Don’t be late. La Folie. Wear a suit.’

  I stare down at the text from Donovan, jaw clenching and unclenching irritably.

  Seriously? Did Donovan have to pick the most uptight French joint in Manhattan?

  He knows how much I hate those stuck-up places. The last time he tried to drag me to one I ended up spending all night at the bar trying to convince the bartender that forty bucks for a shot was madness and if she was going to charge me that much, I should get a little side action along with it. I ended up getting myself and Donovan’s whole group of yuppie friends kicked out.

  That’s the last thing I want to deal with tonight. But I can’t help myself at places like that. I’m not made of money and even if I was, I wouldn’t blow it on drinks with pretentious prices just because they happen to be hip. Not to mention the idea of suiting up and pretending to be interested in one of Chloe’s friends is about as appealing as a root canal.

  It doesn’t help that the only suit I own is the one I got three years ago for my dad’s funeral. Putting it on will only make me revisit the memories of that emotional day that I’m still trying to avoid.

  Plus, if this mystery model that Donovan set me up with turns out to be anything but a total snooze-fest, I don’t want her thinking I’m made of money. I’m not. And I definitely don’t frequent places like La Folie, where the plates range upwards of two hundred bucks for little more than a salad and an ounce of weird puréed meat.

  It’s not like I’m expecting to have a connection with this chick, but I also don’t want to lead her on. There’s nothing I hate more than a fraud and I refuse to be one.

  I rub my temples wondering if there’s any way out of this date. If this were anyone other than Donovan playing matchmaker, I’d just admit funds were tight and dip, but I know he’ll brush me off and insist on paying. That’s what he always does.

  Normally, I’d be more than happy to let him flaunt his wealth as repentance for dragging me out to such an insufferable place to begin with, but it’s a slap in the face to do so in front of a girl. Then again, I guess it’s not like I’m trying to impress her. Not when I still can’t get my angel out of my head.

  I stare down at the text again and sigh. Can’t we for once just go to somewhere normal? What happened to getting a good, old-fashioned American meal? Like cheeseburgers and beer? Is that too much to ask?

  When my phone buzzes two seconds later I assume it’s Donovan calling to see if I’m getting ready yet, but to my surprise, it’s Logan from the dive bar tha
t James, Alex and I played at a few weeks back. I’d been going every couple of days to drown my sorrows and hopefully run across my mystery woman, but no such luck.

  I answer it swiftly, cupping the cell to my ear.

  My phone is an old one. Until the band and I make it big, I’m going to have to keep my second-hand things alive. Even my house is secondhand. I’m subletting it from a college student out of town for the summer since I was too stubborn and proud to take the house I inherited from my dad.

  “What’s up?” I grunt, kicking my feet up onto the glass coffee table after easing down on the couch.

  I know I should be getting ready for this fancy dinner and this supposedly gorgeous model waiting for me, but I can’t seem to muster up any enthusiasm. Maybe all my years of being Easy E have left me feeling a bit jaded in the skirt-chasing regard.

  “Have you heard?” Logan asks grimly.

  He and I had formed a tepid friendship mostly spurred by sharing drinks at his bar. I’m not sure if we’re friends or if he’s just glad to have another customer, but I appreciate him pulling me into his circle. Booking gigs in the city isn’t easy, so I’ll take any I can get.

  I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out if I’d left the bar the other night without paying my tab or something. I’d gotten pretty hammered the last few times I was there. “Heard what?”

  “Ah, hell. Why do I have to be the one to tell ya? Reggie was supposed to call you earlier today.”

  “Reggie?” I ask hesitantly. “As in Reggie Smith, the event planner at Lancaster Stadium? The one who got us our gig there? Why would he be calling me?”

  Logan gives a low groan. “I really shouldn’t even say anything . . .” He sighs, though there’s no way he’s getting off this phone without telling me what the hell’s going on. “The only reason I called was to see if we needed to double our whiskey inventory for you tonight.”

  “Why would you need to do that?” But my heart is already in my stomach as my mind whips through every terrible scenario that would drive me to drink.