Charmed by the Billionaire

by Jessica Lemmon

“I don’t count,” he informs her.

  “I’m helping her out,” I explain, sweat prickling the back of my neck.

  “You are?” Vivian asks. I’m surprised she didn’t know. I thought she and Cris talked more often than Cris and me.

  “Yeah. We’re doing postmortems after her dates. Sometimes she comes over hungry and I have to be ready.”

  “So, she leaves her date and then comes to your place for dinner and drinks?” Viv’s eyebrows leap over her dark sunglasses, her slight smile almost accusatory.

  “What are friends for?” I say with a shoulder shrug. Cris is at my house a lot. Now, a little more than usual. I’m not seeing the big deal.

  “Be good to your life assistant,” Nate warns, his mouth screwed into an amused tilt.

  “Life assistant coach,” I correct automatically.

  He laughs. I wish them well and turn to leave. Nate has been giving me shit about Cris for a while now. He maintains she has an incurable obsession with me, but I can’t let the idea take root. She’s my best friend. Did that sound defensive? Anyway, he’s my oldest brother and ribbing me is part of his job.

  At home, I stash the sushi in the fridge and glance at the clock. If things go bust with Rick tonight, Cris will have the finest sushi to ever touch her tongue. Nate doesn’t fuck around when he puts businesses in his live-work facilities. They are top-notch or bust. Probably because the big bastard likes to eat. I’m grateful to any restaurant making amazing food because I also like to eat. And I really don’t like to cook.

  At my countertop, I drum my fingers on the surface and consider the clock on the microwave. Six thirty. I wonder how her date is going. If he picked her up or she met him there. If they are laughing over a glass of wine, or she’s fretting about how long she should stay to be polite before leaving and coming to me.

  My mouth shifts into a sly smile. Before I know it, I’m hoping she has a reason to run to me from her (likely shitty) date. Not that I want Cris to fail, but honestly, like one of these chuckleheads could be good enough for her? Highly doubtful.

  Then another thought hits. What if the date’s going well?

  What if she’s touching his arm and telling him how much she enjoys talking to him? I saw a photo of the guy and even I can admit he’s not unattractive. Unbidden, a vision of them at a candlelit dinner pops into my head. What if they finish off a bottle of wine and then order a second, lingering over crème brûlée? What if they leave the restaurant hand in hand, her rosy-cheeked and doing that cute eyelash-batting thing she does, while he slides an expectant, feral gaze down her body…

  Wow. That got dark.

  I stop drumming my fingers and stand. I’ll reroute my nervous energy and grab a workout and a shower. Or maybe a swim and then a shower. I debate for a few moments before deciding a swim would feel better. It’s cool-ish outside but the pool is heated. And concentrating on laps will quiet my lizard brain.

  Anything to keep from imagining what might happen if the next few hours pass and I end up eating sushi for two alone in my kitchen.

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later, I’ve swum, showered, and returned to eyeing the clock. I poured myself a glass of wine a few minutes ago, having given up on Cris showing. I’m guessing her date went well. I resisted texting her for a status update.

  Barely.

  But then her telltale knock comes—three in quick succession. I race to the door trying not to look like I’m racing for the door.

  “Hey.” I sound a little out of breath. I check her person for signs she’s been kissed within an inch of her life—or closer—but her curls are un-mussed, her lipstick on, and her black dress pants and flowy red shirt are in pristine condition. There are no wrinkles suggesting the outfit was recently plucked off the floor, which is a big fucking relief. I’m not ready for that discussion. (If ever.)

  “Hey,” she says, her tone muted. I love that her tone is muted, and hope it’s because she’s disappointed. I realize this makes me sound a dick. Trust me, I don’t want Cris to have a horrible life. I want her to have an incredible life, complete with her knight in pressed khakis. I just don’t think she’s going to find him on a freaking dating app.

  “How’d it go?” I shut the door behind her and rub my hands together, realizing I might’ve assumed too much. She could be disappointed because she had sex with the bastard and it was bad. That…I really don’t like thinking about.

  “Well, we made it to dinner.” She lets out a gusty sigh and drops her purse on the sofa. “And then he drove me home.”

  I tense.

  “He was such a pretentious asshole. I should have run out before dessert, but like an idiot, I let him pick me up so he was my ride.”

  “You could have called me,” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend. “You can always call me. Tell me you know that. You’re not at the mercy of some douche-nozzle because he shelled out money for dinner.”

  Her cupid’s-bow lips curve into a soft smile at my creative insult. She pats my chest, the warmth of her palm leaving an unexpected imprint on my shirt. “You think he paid for dinner. That’s cute.”

  I clench my jaw.

  “There’s one thing I didn’t have my fill of tonight. Wine. Rick was a self-professed teetotaler. I followed suit to be polite.”

  “I have a lot of opinions,” I let her know. “I won’t start my lecture until after I’ve poured.” I point to my glass. “Red?”

  “Is white too much trouble?”

  “Not even a little.” Nothing is too much trouble for her.

  Her phone rings from her purse and she pulls it out to check the screen. “Vivian,” she informs me. “I’ll be fast.”

  “Take your time. I’ll pick out the perfect vintage.”

  She heads out to the pool, sliding the patio door shut behind her. I jog downstairs, whistling as I go to the large wine cooler and study the contents. I feel a hell of a lot better knowing she didn’t sleep with the guy, but he better not have done anything untoward or I’ll have him killed.

  I’m kidding.

  I’ll kill him myself.

  Upstairs I uncork the wine and pour a glass. I stick the bottle in the fridge, palming her glass and mine to take them outside. The night is cool and pleasant, and the pool sparkles, lit from below with soft violet bulbs. She’s still on the phone, arm crossed over her middle, eyes on the water. I slide the door aside and open my mouth to ask if she wants me to leave her glass for her when I hear:

  “It wasn’t the worst date ever, but close. He expected a kiss good night. Ha!”

  I freeze, my interest piqued. I listen in for a second. Just long enough to feel relief that her derelict date didn’t get a kiss good night. Idiot. I pull in a breath to announce myself, but what comes out of her mouth next causes my tongue to stick to the roof of my mouth.

  “At this point I’d pay a thousand dollars for an orgasm from someone other than myself.”

  Swear to God that’s what she said. I nearly face-plant onto the patio and give myself away. Her sweet, musical laughter draws me in as my mind spirals to the gutter. I don’t know what’s more appealing. The visual of her giving herself an orgasm, her legs spread wide on her bedsheets, her mouth open in a moan or…

  Yeah, that’s the best visual. I can’t come up with a single better one.

  “Vivian!” she admonishes with another laugh. This one is playful, open, and a touch naughty. Cris is not naughty. At least I haven’t heard her say anything naughty. I lean out the door further, too rapt to turn back now.

  “Oh great idea, Viv,” she says, the words heavy with sarcasm. “Should I mosey down to the wine cellar? And then what? Slink up to him—” Her hand goes to her hip and she shimmies, making her black dress pants look a lot sexier than they should.

  My eyes move over her pert ass and up to where her curly hair brushes her shoulders. I make no move to go inside or announce my presence. I have to hear what comes next or I’ll explode like a confetti cannon.

&nbs
p; “And then I’ll soften my voice like this—” Her voice slips into a seductive husk I’ve never heard before. Her red shirt is cut in a V, revealing her bare back—no bra strap. All I can think about is how silky her skin would feel under my fingertips and how good her blond curls would smell if I buried my nose in them.

  My brain goes offline when she purrs, “Excuse me, Benji…” But her eyes are still on the pool, her purring only for Vivian. I’m riveted, mouth agape, frozen with one foot on the patio outside, my palms strangling a pair of wineglasses. I take a shallow breath and another, anticipating what might come after hearing her say my name so sensually.

  She doesn’t disappoint.

  “How about you slide one of those talented hands into my pants…”

  Beads of sweat form on my forehead while I hang on to the word “pants” with both hands. I find myself wishing this was a choose-your-own-adventure story. I lapse into a fantasy about sliding my hands into her pants, which is probably why I didn’t notice she turned around.

  Her voice trailed off some time ago. Now she’s staring at me, phone to her ear, her mouth gently agape—ironically not unlike the Cris in my debauched fantasy. And here I am, in limbo at the open patio door, statue still. It’s painfully obvious I’m eavesdropping.

  Well. Painful for her. I’m so intrigued I can hardly think straight.

  “I have to go,” she says to Vivian. Then in a harsh whisper adds, “Call you later.”

  She ends the call and slides the phone into the pocket of her pants. The same pants she suggested I slide one of my “talented hands” into.

  Her smile brightens as if by force. “Hey! Change of plans. I’m going to head home after all. I am beat. Sorry to make you go through the hoops for the wine.” She laughs, but it’s not the sinful, playful trill from before. No, no. This laugh is bordering maniacal.

  “What a night!” she says. Loudly. She steps around me, careful not to bump the wineglasses or brush against so much as my arm.

  Surely she’s not going to pretend she didn’t say what we both know she said—what she has to know I overheard.

  I follow her brisk steps into the kitchen.

  “Sorry again about the wine,” she calls, moving away from me as I set down our glasses on the bar. She shoulders her purse and walks away. I jog to catch up.

  “Oh, hell no.” I press my hand against the front door as she attempts to pull it open. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you explain what just happened.”

  Chapter Six

  Cris

  Crap. I knew that wouldn’t work.

  I turn slowly to face him. He’s close. Too close. Regret surfs on the crashing waves in my stomach. “I should go.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not leaving until we talk about your date.”

  The date. He wants to talk about my date? Maybe he didn’t hear what I told Vivian. Maybe there was a blip in the universe, and the words I thought were overheard instead frittered off and vanished into the atmosphere.

  Then he tacks on, “And whatever you said about your pants.”

  Double crap.

  This is Viv’s fault. She called to say she felt betrayed because I’ve been giving Benji the lowdown on my dating life rather than talking to her. In my defense there wasn’t much to tell. She then accused me of using the postmortems following my dates as an excuse to date Benji. I laughed and explained those were his idea, and then possibly protested a wee bit too much.

  To throw her off my trail, I recapped my date with Rick Backer, who might be the penny-pinchingest man I’ve ever been in the presence of, and I’m including my maternal grandfather who died a millionaire and left his money to my uncle—my mom’s brother—but lived eighty-eight years as a miser.

  Vivian then mentioned I’d better step up my frequency of dates since I needed to cash in my V-card (the V is for virginity), and that’s when I blurted out I’d love an orgasm. She suggested Benji. I laughed again and acted as if it was a ludicrous suggestion. She is engaged to Benji’s brother. I don’t want how I feel about Benji getting back to Nate.

  “Have a seat.” Benji tips his head toward the bar where our abandoned wineglasses sit. I shake my head. “Cris.”

  “Benji.” I guess I can be thankful I didn’t mention the V-card thing or else I’d have a lot more explaining to do. Although judging by the look on his face, I already have plenty of explaining to do as it is.

  Viv loves to tease me about him. I’ve done a good job pretending I don’t find my boss attractive since I met her, but she doesn’t believe me. I’m a horrible liar. On the phone, she suggested I solve my orgasm issue by approaching him, and I deflected. But my joking might’ve gone too far by the time I committed to the character of seductress, and wouldn’t it figure that Benji was standing right behind me when I spun my R-rated fairy tale.

  The key to problem-solving is to start from the square you’re in, which means I can’t deny what he heard. He’s too smart for that. Even if he was as dumb as a brick, I’m transparent. Any claim he misheard me would be an obvious lie. My remaining option, which he is thwarting, is to flee.

  “Can we do this later? The wine went to my head tonight.” I pin a smile into place and try option C: reason.

  “You didn’t have a drink at dinner because Rick is a teetotaler.” Benji’s eyelids lower into a deliberate blink. He points to the full glass of white wine sitting next to his red on the counter. “And you haven’t touched your glass yet.”

  “Benji, please,” I whine. Begging is all I have left. I put my hands in prayer pose. “Please can we forget this happened?”

  His full, delicious mouth tips up at one corner. “How’m I supposed to do that?”

  “Easy, you shake your head like this.” I demonstrate, shaking my curls and closing my eyes for effect. I smile brightly. “Voila! All gone!”

  He takes my hand and leads me past the sofa and to the counter, then spins to face me. He’s not as close as before, which is good. I really needed to take a breath not steeped in Benji. He drops my hand.

  “You can’t say…” He pauses, and I pray he’s not going to recap. “What you said while looking like you do and expect me not to think about it.”

  I blink at him, stunned. “You…thought about it?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.” He adjusts his fly rather deliberately and my eyes follow the movement. I don’t mean to look but here I am, looking. I’m not saying there’s a flagpole down there, but there is a bit more, um, lift where there wasn’t before.

  “Oh my God.” Did I do that? I don’t know whether to cry or throw a party.

  “You understand my dilemma,” he rumbles. His voice is raw and sexy. My nipples tighten and press against the silky fabric of my bra.

  Triple crap.

  “Cris, I am capable of giving you an orgasm.”

  Whimper.

  “Uh, that’s okay. I’m okay. It’s okay.” Next tactic: denial.

  His expression reads “bullshit” but what he says is, “I wouldn’t charge you a thousand bucks for it either.”

  A laugh stutters from my lips. I put my hands over my face and literally hide. He pulls them away, which brings him closer to me. I’m so humiliated I might spontaneously combust. I open one eyelid a crack and admit, “This is so embarrassing.”

  “Wine. You’re overdue.”

  I’ll say. He takes my purse and drops it on the couch, and then hands over the glass of wine he poured for me. Resigned to my fate, I accept. Clearly, he’s not going to let me exit his house before he’s given a reasonable explanation. Drunk was a convenient excuse but with that off the table, I find myself reaching for another. Insanity? Would insanity work?

  I take an unladylike gulp of my wine. He notices.

  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “What a relief,” I say, deadpan.

  His laugh is rumbly and gentle. I wish I could vanish into thin air, but alas…

  He pulls out a stool for
me. I don’t want to sit, but arguing is futile. He settles onto the stool next to mine. “So this Rick guy left you sexually frustrated?”

  “What? No!” I can’t help laughing at this entire absurd situation. Me, busted after Vivian suggested I seduce my boss-slash-best-friend who’s determined to continue the date’s postmortem in order to deduce the reasons behind my mentioning his hand in my pants.

  Groan.

  “Cheapskates who do nothing but talk about how smart they are, and brag about the awards they won at work don’t do it for me.”

  “And I do?” He smirks. Before I can have a panic attack, he frowns. “Was he inappropriate with you?” He’s angry at the idea of Rick being improper with me, which makes my tummy grow as warm as my cheeks.

  “No. He tried to kiss me, but when I refused he didn’t press.” What he did was shrug and say “whatever” before walking off my front porch. Then he loped back to his car and gunned the engine, his tires squealing as he sped down the street. I don’t mention that.

  “And then you drove here.”

  “Yeah. I thought it’d be nice to finish the night on a positive note.” My voice is small. The truth ekes out next. “It’s depressing to think I can’t meet anyone halfway decent.”

  He consoles me, his voice gentle, but it takes me a second to unpack the sentences he says because they are not the ones I expect.

  “You’re a woman with needs, Cris. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. All you have to do is ask. If that’s what you really want. Is what you said out there what you really want?” He tips his head toward the patio door, the pool’s cool violet lights glowing beyond.

  I try to laugh, but a thin wheeze exits my throat.

  “This doesn’t have to be weird.”

  “Too late!” I try to sound offended. I’m not offended. I’m so turned on I’m in danger of setting off the smoke alarms.

  “Sex is a basic need. If you meant what you said…” His non-question is more of a challenge.

  “I was just…” Nothing comes after those words because I wasn’t just anything. I wasn’t kidding, even though I tried to convince Vivian that I was. I have been sexually frustrated for a number of years. I haven’t done much of anything with anyone to know what it would feel like to have relief from that frustration. Which is, well, frustrating. The prospect of a stranger’s hands on my body below the waist is terrifying. The thought of Benji’s hands down there…