“This has nothing to do with work then?” He places his hands on his hips, and now, the corners of his mouth are tugging upward. He’s trying not to smile.
I would hate to ruin that smile, but I’d rather not go through this again. It’s not an easy decision to make really. Because I want him to like me. I want this date to go well. And not only because of the book I’m supposed to write based on our interactions.
“Well, maybe just a little bit, and please, don’t get mad at me again,” I squeak in a tiny little voice, squinting until my eyes are practically closed. “I need to write something new. Something different. My editor’s sick of sweet romance, which is what I write. She suggested I … start dating around. Expand my horizons and all that.”
“So, she suggested you go out with me? To improve your writing?” He cocks an eyebrow. “That sounds … strangely wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“She didn’t suggest you in particular,” I sigh, throwing my hands into the air. “Just different men.”
He doesn’t need to hear the word sexcapades. That would take this night from a moderate disaster all the way to, like, the perfect storm of catastrophe.
“So, you’re doing this for your career, just not the way I thought.” He strokes his chin. “And you’re going to write about me?”
“Not you. Not even me. Two different characters, but … yes … based on …” I point to him and then myself, back and forth.
“Is it true you were asked to write dirtier books?” Now, he’s straight-up smiling. “Hey, when you’re the big boss, you can find out anything you want to know.”
“Oh. Oh!” My face basically bursts into flames. “We’re not—I mean—you know. I’m not trying to write about that sort of thing. We don’t have to …”
“Come on.” He snorts, taking my elbow. “Let’s sit down. I want to hear more about this. It might be the only thing I’ve had a good laugh about today.”
He’s in a better mood now, thank goodness. More like his usual self.
“I’ve pretty much told you all there is to know,” I sigh, sitting again. “My editor pointed out that my worldview is fairly limited. I can’t keep writing the same stories again and again—obviously, as proven by my latest book sales.”
I stop short of burying my face in my hands, only because I spent a lot of time on my makeup and hair and would rather not ruin both.
“I’m sorry things have gone downhill for you. Really, I am,” he insists when I shoot him a dirty look. “Like I said, my sister’s a huge fan, and she’s got good taste. Clearly, you have a big fan base or else you wouldn’t have already sold so many books.”
“The publishing world is fickle.”
“You’re telling me?” He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “At least we’re being up-front with each other now. That’s a relief. I would like to get to know the real Kitty, not the version of Kitty who feels like she needs to be prim and proper just because I own a few companies.”
“A few companies?” I have to giggle just a little. “Hating braggarts is one thing, but there’s such a thing as undervaluing yourself too much.”
“But you won’t deny, you were acting a little stiff and self-conscious.”
“Who doesn’t act that way on a first date, for Pete’s sake? And excuse me, but you’re the first wealthy man I’ve ever gone out with—no, even better, you’re the first wealthy man I’ve ever met. I mean, you’re a billionaire. With a B. There aren’t that many of you in the world.”
“I’m just Blake.” He spreads his hands. “What you see is what you get.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” I smirk. “It’s not that simple. You’re bound to make a girl uncomfortable, Blake Marlin. But not in a bad way. Never in a bad way.”
“In what way then?”
I cover my stomach with my hands and then flutter them around. “Like there’s butterflies in there.”
He smiles from ear to ear, and I notice his eyes are twinkling again. “That’s different. I wouldn’t want to think you were uncomfortable in other ways.”
“Just a minute ago, you were ready to rake me over the coals,” I remind him.
“Just a minute ago, I thought you were a mercenary, failing author who thought she could butter up the boss and convince him to pull strings for her.”
“Fair enough. Now? What do you think now?”
He at least pretends to think it over, tapping his chin and barely hiding a grin. “I think we need to order something to eat since I’ve had a hell of a long day, and I have to admit, I’ve been concerned about this dinner all throughout.”
“Same here,” I groan. Some of that fluttery feeling in my stomach is probably hunger.
“And I would love to hear more about this plan of yours to learn more about different men. Different types of men, I’d guess,” he adds. “I guess I’m just one of so many, bound to have their hearts broken in service of your career.”
“Wow. You have a way with words.” I have to laugh when a server comes our way with a bottle of champagne and a bucket of ice.
“I’m in media,” he points out with a wink. “I know all kinds of words. And just because I don’t read sweet romance doesn’t mean I don’t read.”
“So, you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”
“I should hope so since my face isn’t all that pretty.”
I have to bite my tongue or else risk asking if he’s ever looked in a mirror. Maybe he needs to get his eyes checked. Maybe he needs a driver because his vision is poor.
Blake hands me a flute of fizzy champagne and then holds his up to touch mine. “To teaching you all about the way billionaires live,” he announces.
“To what now?” I almost forget to take a sip; I’m so surprised.
“Teaching you how billionaires live.” He holds my gaze over the rim of his flute, and there’s humor in his eyes.
This is better than him accusing me of being scum, but I can’t say I love feeling so off-balance, thanks to this sudden change in the conversation.
“Is that what you plan on doing?” I ask, practically holding my breath as I wait for his answer.
“Why not?” He places the flute on the table. “Go on. It’s bad luck not to drink after a toast.”
Now, it’s my turn to eye him, but I’m feeling suspicious. Wow, this is excellent champagne. I’ve been drinking swill at Maggie’s office, but I didn’t know any better. He’s spoiled me forever.
He waits until I’m finished before explaining, “It makes sense to me—at least from a business standpoint. You need to see how the other half lives if there’s any chance of writing a book about … is this about a boss or a wealthy man?”
“Either, or,” I admit. “Both?”
“Fine. You want to see how billionaires live? I’ll show you. You’ll have an entire series worth of material by the time we’re finished. Your book sells well? That benefits me too. See? It’s a win-win all the way around.”
If his little pitch didn’t sway me, the sexiness in his smile would do it. He’s feeling naughty now, which adds an entire layer of deliciousness to what’s already pretty delicious on its own.
“You would do that?” I’m not quite sure I can believe him, but maybe I’m too jaded. Maybe I need to adopt a little of the romantic optimism I’ve been writing about all these years.
“Why not? I enjoy spending time with you. You’re intelligent, driven. Beautiful.”
“Stop,” I whisper as my cheeks burn.
“And you’re real. These last few minutes, with the two of us talking openly and honestly, have been some of the most refreshing I’ve spent recently. Since, come to think of it, the last time I was with you. I’m starting to think you’re the common denominator, and I need to take advantage of the fact that you fell into my life.”
“No pun intended?”
“Oh, pun absolutely intended.”
I have to laugh. “I would never say this under any other circumstances, be
lieve me, but I can hardly wait to see what you have to offer.”
There goes that dimple in his cheek and the twinkle in his eye. “I hope you can handle it.”
I hope I can too.
CHAPTER NINE
I know this sounds ridiculous, but writing a book can bring to mind the pain of childbirth.
Not that I’ve ever birthed a child, which is why I feel ridiculous, making the comparison. But I can’t help it. As I sit at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor, which somehow gives the impression it’s judging me, I wish I had an excuse to let out a primal scream of agony.
It’s not exactly writer’s block, but it might as well be.
In the two days since my first date with Blake, I’ve been an incredibly productive person. My apartment is cleaner than it’s been in forever. I rearranged the books on the shelves that line my living room, something I do from time to time when I decide I’d rather have them grouped by color or by title or by author. I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on deep cleaning, like using a lemon half-covered in kosher salt to scrub away the hard-water stains on my kitchen sink, and then went to work. I even emptied the fridge and wiped down the shelves.
In other words, I’ve gotten no actual work done, but at least the place smells like lemon. It’s a small consolation, but I’ll take whatever I can get right now.
If only I knew how to start things off. How does my billionaire boss know the heroine? In what capacity does she work for him? My ceiling holds no more answers than it did this morning or yesterday, yet I’m staring at it again. I can’t make their relationship mirror the one between Blake and me. I need to fictionalize it.
An assistant? That’s a popular one. Yes, she’s the boss’s assistant. Her name is Phoebe for right now since Matt’s dog tends to bark and run around just when I’m deepest in thought. It’s like she knows I’m trying to concentrate and wants to mess with me.
She’s succeeding.
How do things take a turn between Phoebe and her boss? I try going through a bunch of possible scenarios before wondering if I should keep it simple and make it reality adjacent, if not exactly the same as to how we met up in reality. They’re going to a conference together. Simple enough.
But then what?
When my phone buzzes with a new text, I practically jump on it. Anything to avoid the pain of trying to figure out the details.
So? How’s the writing going? Hayley asks with a bunch of smiley faces and prayer hands.
I guess that means she’s excited for me but also praying I don’t fling my laptop out the window, quickly followed by myself.
It’s not, I have to admit with sad faces and chocolate bars, indicating just how much candy I’ve consumed over the last couple of days.
While I normally try to eat healthy food and I’m still sticking to my daily yoga practice, stress tends to make me crave chocolate. I don’t know how to do this. What even is writing? What are words? Maybe I need a new career.
You know who you remind me of? she asks.
Who? I ask, curious.
Yourself, she replies. Every time you hit a snag in whatever you’re working on, you start questioning every decision you’ve ever made in your entire life, and I have to remind you what a fabulous writer you are and how you’ll work your way through this problem the way you work through every problem.
She’s right, and I hate it. I always get all self-doubtful when the work goes slowly.
But this isn’t slow. This is stagnant. This is wondering when things are supposed to heat up between my hero and heroine—and how. After all, things between Blake and me haven’t heated up yet, and I’m not sure when they will.
Or if they will.
He hasn’t been in touch with me since Tuesday night.
A chaste kiss on the cheek was how he left things on dropping me off. “I’ll think up something big for us to do next time,” he promised with a cryptic smile before heading back out to the car.
Only there was no indication of when next time would be.
He’s a busy man. I have to keep that in mind. Trying to steal time with him will be like … well, trying to steal time. Whenever he has a break in his schedule, he might be able to devote some of that time to me. Or he might not.
My imagination is going to have to fill in the blanks.
I crack my knuckles and decide to write. It doesn’t have to be great. It doesn’t even have to be good. But I have to get words down regardless.
Bubbles tickled her nose when she raised the flute to her lips. “This champagne is delicious,” Phoebe offered after taking a sip.
“Do you drink a lot of champagne as a rule?” Bryan asked.
Yes, Bryan’s a good name to start off with, though I almost never stick to the first name I choose. Big Boss Bryan. Maybe that’s what Phoebe calls him when she talks about him with her best friend. Hmm …
Phoebe had the sense he was teasing and didn’t know how to react. “Whenever I can,” she quipped with a little smile, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
See? I got a hair toss in there.
Yes, yes, the scene is starting to come together. I see them sharing dinner in his suite after the conference has wrapped up for the day. Oh! Maybe it’s a weekend-long event, and they explore the city together—or rather, he shows it to her because, obviously, he’s been there. He’s been everywhere.
If only I knew how things would go between Blake and me, I might have more confidence in this.
Bryan’s firm, full mouth spread in a slow smile. “Maybe I’ll teach you the finer points of champagne, so you’ll know better what to order the next time you have the opportunity,” he suggested. “It’s the least I can do since you do so much for me.”
She knew he was joking. That he didn’t expect her to order champagne. After all, he paid her salary. If anybody knew how far below the champagne-and-caviar line she fell, it was her boss. Sure, he was generous but not that generous.
“Yes, I’m sure they have an excellent selection at the bodega down the street from my apartment,” she replied smoothly, smiling all the time.
That got him. His smug attitude popped like a balloon once he knew she was on to his little game. The sense that she’d won a small victory gave her confidence. He wasn’t the only one who could play.
He recovered quickly, pulling another tool from his legendary arsenal. “A woman as beautiful as you? As smart and witty? You should have men falling at your feet, begging to show you the world.”
Yes, there was that charm she’d heard so much about, having never seen proof of it before now, except while watching him sweet-talk a client or prospect.
“If I said yes to one of those men, who would pick up your dry cleaning and keep your appointments straight?” she asked with a slight shrug. “I’d hate to see you show up late for a big meeting, wearing a dirty suit.”
“You think I’m completely lost without you? Is that it?” Now, his smile was wide. He was genuinely, sincerely amused by her. Not by the word games he wanted to play, not by the thought of making her squirm after lavishing compliments on her. “What if I showed you how capable I am? What if I’m the one to show you a thing or two this weekend?”
I sit back with a sigh, nodding. And how would Phoebe react to that? How did I react when Blake suggested he show me how people in his world lived? I pretty much almost fell out of my chair. How would Phoebe feel though? The stakes are higher for her. She works closely with this dude.
Only how do things finally heat up? And what is it that’s keeping them apart? Does he think she’s a corporate spy? Or does he get wind of a counteroffer made to her at the conference by a competitor? Somebody who wants to steal Bryan’s top asset—his beautiful, brainy assistant—so they can undermine him while learning all his secrets?
What is this, a spy thriller? It’s supposed to be a romance. I know I need to take more time to read up on what’s popular right now, so I can have a sense of how to structure this, but I’ve been too busy deep-clea
ning my bathroom grout with baking soda and vinegar.
Maybe I should’ve chosen another profession. Writing is like tearing my heart out and placing it on the page for all the world to see.
My notes from my date with Blake, scribbled down after the fact and barely legible, don’t help much. Nor do the notes I scrawled after the first time we met, which I wrote with my feet up on my desk and ice packs on both knees.
Because no matter how deep I dive into the characters and their feelings and the way my hero makes the heroine’s panties melt with just a single glance, one hurdle remains—the sex. I have to write sexy times for them while all I’ve gotten from Blake is a kiss on the cheek.
I grab my phone and fire off a quick text to Hayley. What do you think about me watching porn for research purposes? Maybe bondage? Or an orgy?
The last thing I expect is an almost-immediate reply. I think you should be careful about texting me things like that during work hours since I was just showing my boss something on my phone when your message came through.
I bury my face in my hands and wonder if it’s possible to literally drop dead of embarrassment. Sorry, sorry. Please tell him I’m sorry too.
She doesn’t get back to me this time. I can’t imagine why …
Still, porn is not a bad idea. I have to get new ideas going. I have to familiarize myself with various kinks and positions. What if Big Boss Bryan has a kink he only feels comfortable revealing to Phoebe since she’s that special woman with the vagina powerful enough to heal him? Sure, and he’s such a control freak, so it could be something to do with dominating.
“Note to self,” I mutter as I type into my web browser’s search bar, “clear your search history.” Not that it matters. I’ve done research on so many strange, offbeat things over the years that I’d be surprised if I wasn’t on an FBI watch list by now.
Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire Page 6
