Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire

by Dodd, Jillian

  I have to duck my head to hide the tears threatening to flow. It’s my turn to take a huge bite, just to have the excuse to stop talking for a while.

  He fills in the silence for me. “I know I have a lot of work to do. I guess I should thank you for that. I wouldn’t have thought about it until you put it right in front of my face. I need big gestures like that before something gets through my thick skull.”

  “I had a feeling.” I snicker. “I mean, you’re the guy who flew me out to meet his mom with no warning whatsoever.”

  “I’ll never live that one down.”

  “Nor should you.” I point to his steak. “Eat. You look worn out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So, have you found a new assistant yet?” I ask. I have to. I can’t help it. That little brat yelled at me—or practically.

  He nods. “Yeah, there are two of them actually. At the suggestion of a few colleagues.”

  “Get out. Two assistants?”

  “Yep. They work together, handling different parts of my schedule. It was unfair to put all of that on one person for so long. Now, I might work a little more efficiently.” He winks. “Progress. One step at a time.”

  “I’m proud of you.” And I am.

  I only wish those steps had happened a long time ago. He might have been ready for me by now if that were the case.

  No. That’s not right. Everything happens for a reason, and there’s a reason things worked out the way they did. He didn’t fail. Neither did I. It’s just not right for us.

  I don’t have to like it, but that’s the truth.

  We make small talk for a while after that. He compliments the apartment and admires the view of the park while I scan the rooms for hints of anything too embarrassing.

  Before long though, it’s time for him to go. I want so much for him to stay, and I sense he wants the same thing. But that would be a mistake.

  Instead of inviting him to bed, I walk him to the door, and we kiss just once more before hugging. It’s a nice kiss, gentle, and we both taste like steak and onions, so it’s not terribly romantic or sexy.

  Probably for the best, all things considered.

  “Thank you for everything,” I whisper, standing on my tiptoes so I can reach his ear. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you, Kathryn Antoinette,” he whispers back, squeezing tight. “You’ve given me a lot more than I gave you. If you could give me one more thing …”

  I lean back, looking up into his eyes. “What’s that?”

  A smile plays over his mouth, making his lips twitch. “Please, make sure my character is well hung. Nobody else will know he’s a stand-in for me, but I will.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say, already knowing he will be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Has Maggie gotten back to you yet?

  My heart sinks when I find a text from Hayley, which is different since I usually love it when she texts. But she’s not the person I’ve spent the last five days waiting for word from. She’s not the person who has me pacing the floor and rearranging the books and scrubbing the grout in the bathroom.

  Grout-scrubbing is truly the bottom of the barrel when it comes to finding ways to distract myself. That and, like, cleaning the oven. But I don’t use the oven that much, so …

  No, I type back. You’ll be the first to know, I promise.

  What the heck is taking Maggie so long?, she replies.

  I roll my eyes. Yeah, I’ve been asking myself the same question. Maybe she’s preparing a speech to let me down gently, I suggest with a bunch of throw-up face emojis.

  Not a chance. And if she wanted to let you go, she’d just drop you, Hayley texts back, trying to be encouraging.

  Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel much better, I reply. I’ll let you know.

  I then toss the phone aside because I can’t even stand to hold it in my hand. I’m too jittery. It’s a good thing I don’t have an appetite since I’d probably upchuck anything I tried to eat.

  It’s clear Maggie has no idea what it’s like, being in this position. With her career on the line. Not just a career either. My book is something that came out of my head, completely mine. My thoughts. Heck, even my experiences, to a degree.

  There’s nothing as harrowing as handing something that came from you off to somebody else and then waiting for their judgment. I might as well have handed off my heart.

  Though my heart’s a little sore right now, even a week after ending things with Blake. I should be grateful that I had the opportunity to date somebody like him—and not because he’s a billionaire.

  Because he’s wonderful. Because he has so much to offer. I only wish it were me he was offering it to.

  I’ve only asked myself, oh, three hundred times this week whether I made the biggest mistake of my life when I ended our strange, sporadic relationship. If I should’ve held out longer. If I was too demanding, if I expected too much.

  It’s easy to think things like that in weak moments. When I’m feeling more clearheaded, like after a walk in the park or after doing my yoga practice in the morning, I know I did the right thing for me by agreeing that there couldn’t be a future for us as things currently stood. Blake is amazing and sexy and sweet, and if he got his personal life figured out, I’d be glad to take another chance at us being together.

  But that’s not the way things are right now, and I don’t know if I want to wait for what could be years until he finds balance and comes to terms with his success.

  The phone rings. I trip as I throw myself across the room and land face-first on the sofa while still scrambling to reach the stupid thing.

  “Oh jeez. Oh jeez.”

  It’s Maggie.

  Now that she’s calling, I wish she hadn’t. Was I seriously hoping for this moment to arrive? What the heck is wrong with me? Have I been a masochist all along, and I’m only now just finding out?

  “Hello?” I whisper on answering, pushing myself up into a sitting position. Please, please, don’t let her fire me for good. Please, let her tell me we can work with what I gave her.

  Nobody wants to hear their writing needs a lot of work, but that’s still better than having it rejected full-out.

  “Kitty. Antoinette. Valentine.”

  I squeeze my eyes just as tightly shut as I can. “Does that mean this is a good phone call?” Please, please, please let this be a good phone call.

  “Where have you been hiding this filthy mind of yours for so long?” Maggie asks with all the pride of a mom putting one of those My Kid’s an Honor Student bumper stickers on the back of her minivan. It’s a little weird, frankly.

  My eyes slowly open as hope sparks in my chest. “Uh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know it was there in the first place.”

  “Well”—she laughs—“don’t lose it. Because this is gold. We can pretty much print money once this is published. And your readers are going to be thirsty for the next one and the one after that …”

  “So, you like it?”

  “Like it? I love it! Oh, when he fingers her in the car? I could barely breathe the entire scene, waiting for somebody to come up and open the door on them. It was so exciting!”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “It was pretty exciting.”

  She doesn’t need to know just how true to life that scene was—and now that she’s brought up the idea of somebody opening the door, I’m super glad that never occurred to me at the moment. Talk about a mood killer.

  “And when they first did it on the jet? Please tell me that actually happened.”

  “Uh, Maggie”—I chuckle—“this is getting a little personal.”

  “You’re right; you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just so thrilled at how hot the book is. I didn’t want to have to part ways with you. It was keeping me up at night, the thought of having to let you go. I think this is a great new direction for you. You can only get more popular after this.”

  “I hope you’re right.” My fingers a
re certainly crossed.

  “So, what’s your plan for the next book? Typical advance—though I’m sure that’ll change as this new brand takes off.” She’s so confident; it’s almost enough to make me feel the same.

  Almost.

  “Let’s take a minute to breathe, please,” I beg with a hollow laugh. “My brain is basically mush right now.”

  “You’d better un-mush it soon, young lady.” Yes, there’s the Maggie I know and only somewhat enjoy. She likes me again, which means we can be friends and she can pretend to chide me. “Readers are used to books cranking out a lot faster nowadays.”

  There’s nothing to do but bite my tongue and pray it doesn’t fall off. “Sure. I get it.” Just like I get that she thinks I can go from one man to another the way I change underwear. I don’t know if that’s an insult or what.

  “Take a few days,” she offers, generous as always. “Once you’ve decided who you’re dating next, let me know. I might be able to get a cover worked out in advance this time, knowing which trope you’re writing.”

  “Got it.”

  “Keep it filthy.”

  “Will do,” I sigh.

  “Maybe a threesome this time?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Okay, okay. Just a suggestion. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

  “Maggie!” I gasp.

  I can imagine her sitting at her desk, the city laid out behind her, laughing merrily.

  “I’m just saying. You don’t know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it.”

  I’m going to pretend she’s not speaking from experience—and that she wasn’t imagining me and some guy having sex throughout the book, which is a thought so icky that I don’t know what to do with it.

  “Okay. I’ll keep an open mind.”

  I most certainly will not.

  Though who knows? I didn’t think I could manage to write something half as graphic as I did. There’s a whole world out there I haven’t come anywhere close to experiencing.

  But a threesome? Maybe I can imagine one and just pretend I went through it for real.

  The second we’re off the phone, I do a little victory dance across the apartment, pumping my fists. “Yes! Yes, yes!”

  It occurs to me after I work myself up into a sweaty mess that there’s somebody I should be thanking for real. If it wasn’t for Blake, there wouldn’t be any book at all. We haven’t spoken in a week, and I’m running the risk of tangling with his new assistant, but I figure, calling his cell and leaving a short message can’t hurt.

  “Hi. I was hoping you’d call, so I wouldn’t have to get up the courage to call you.”

  I should have known better than to think he’d let it go to voice mail.

  Gosh, I’ve missed his voice. The little touch of humor in it is so him too.

  “Then, you’re lucky I got good news today since that’s why I’m calling.” Then, it occurs to me. “But if you’re busy, I won’t keep you.”

  “I’m not, if you can believe that. I decided to take a little time off and lick my wounds. I’m at my mom’s house.”

  “No kidding! How is she?”

  “When she’s not smacking me upside the head for letting you get away? She’s great.”

  I know he’s kidding—mostly—but my heart sinks anyway. “Blake …”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I swear. You were right. I need to find a way to sort my life out. I can’t keep up the pace I’m working at now. I don’t wanna be the guy who dies, feeling like he didn’t leave a legacy, but I don’t wanna be on my deathbed, wondering when life passed me by either.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that,” I murmur. It’s getting dark out now, the city coming to life the way only New York can at this time of day. “You deserve it. You’re such a great person, and you deserve to be happy.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you feel comfortable with what you wrote? Does that make you happy?”

  “Oof. With the difficult questions and everything.”

  That warm laughter of his. It’s so nice.

  “I mean it. What do you think?”

  “Well, that’s the good-news part. My editor adores the book, and I have you to thank for that as much as anybody else. It turned out well. Even I like it, which is saying something. I never like my finished product when I first read it.”

  “That’s great, and I’m glad for you, but that’s not what I asked. How did you feel about writing it? Does the final product make you happy?”

  Does it? I wish there were an easy answer. “I mean, once I got into it, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d thought. I was being stubborn. A little snobby too. If readers are as voracious when it comes to this writing as my editor makes it sound, there’s gotta be value in it. And the readers are what matter. I’m doing this for them, not for my ego or my bank account. I guess I lost sight of that. Maybe I never had sight of it in the first place.”

  “You live a charmed life,” he gently points out. “We all need a challenge now and then, something to shake up the way we see things.”

  “This was definitely a challenge. I think I could get used to writing dirtier romance. Though honestly, you made it easier.”

  “Tell me you didn’t get too specific, please.”

  “You can read it!”

  “Tell me.”

  “I mean … I changed some circumstances,” I squeak, squeezing my eyes shut again.

  “If you tell me all you left out was that burp you laid down—”

  “Blake!”

  “Is it?”

  “No! I mean, yes, I left that out. But no. I changed a bunch of things. Jeez.”

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. But if my sister throws her copy in my face and accuses me of being a pervert, you’ll be hearing from me.”

  “I hope I hear from you regardless,” I murmur, leaning against the window frame.

  “You will, for sure,” he promises before saying good-bye.

  It doesn’t seem like we said everything left to be said, but I don’t know if it would be possible to do that. There’s too much in my heart.

  I really hope the next person I date doesn’t have me falling. There’s no way I could handle this again.

  “Hayley?” I ask when she answers. Sure, I told her I’d call her first, but I think she’ll understand. “Could you spare an hour or two tonight?”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she groans. “I’m so sorry. I made sure my schedule was clear tonight, just in case.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “What?”

  “That’s the faith you had in me, huh?”

  “You sounded sad!” She laughs. “What was I supposed to think? So, you got the green light? You’re getting published?”

  Maybe I was sad, just a little, thinking about Blake. But it’s time to start moving on, and tonight’s as good a place to start as any. “We’re going out. My treat. Look hot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The sun is on its way down by the time the door across the hall opens and closes. It’s probably stalkery of me, but I can’t help listening to see whether Matt goes down the stairs or up to the roof. When I don’t hear him jogging down to the street, I know he’s gone up to enjoy the sunset.

  Which is my cue.

  I haven’t said a word to him since suggesting he drop dead a few weeks ago. It probably shouldn’t bother me so much—this silence between us. We went a whole year without talking before that fateful day in the hall after I raided the liquor store.

  This silence is different. This is the sort of silence that comes from one person telling the other one to drop dead. Not my proudest moment, not by a long shot.

  By the time I get up there, six-pack in hand, he’s setting up his folding chair. His glance my way earns me a smirk.

  “I notice you have a chair up here now too,” he murmurs, positioning himself.

  “It was a good idea.�
�� I shrug, going to where my chair is tucked away. “Though it could’ve been anyone’s chair. It didn’t have to be mine.”

  “Something told me the chair with unicorns and rainbows painted on the seat belonged to the girl across the hall. Call me psychic.” He watches me set up my chair with a bemused expression. “I guess I can’t expect a little peace and quiet up here ever again, can I?”

  “We don’t have to talk. Look, I’ll take my chair and my icy-cold beer over here.”

  I pick up the chair and start across the roof, but Matt shakes his head.

  “No, not when beer is involved. You plan on sharing?”

  “I brought it up to share. Consider it an olive branch.” I hand him the entire pack and accept one of the cans he pulls from the container. “Thanks.”

  “I should be thanking you.” Yet he doesn’t.

  I don’t expect him to either. I know him too well by now.

  “And I’ve been wanting to say something too,” I croak. Why is this so hard? “I, um … you know … I shouldn’t have …”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He grins. “No harm done. I was being a dick. I think we’re even now.”

  What a relief. Conflict has always been easier for me on the page than it is in real life.

  Plopping down in the chair, I crack open the can with a sigh. “Welp, my first smutty book is finished. My editor doesn’t think it’ll need much work, and there’s already a cover in mind for it. I guess this new phase in my career is a success. So far.”

  “So far?” He snickers. “What, you have doubts?”

  “How can I not? I’m always going to wonder whether I have what it takes, no matter how impressed my editor seems with the new book.” The beer doesn’t help ease my nerves, though it does bring a smile to my face. “This is good. I’m not usually a beer drinker.”

  “Why did you buy it then?”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “Aww.” He grins. “You bought beer with me in mind. I’m flattered.”

  I regret this already. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Too late. I’ll be checking all the trees on this block to see which one you carved our initials into.”