Hilarity ensues and, well, let the sexy-times roll.
On the outside Mac seems to have it all. He’s Mr. Perfect in just about every way that counts. Rich, handsome, capable, smart, and can you say… ALPHA?
But he’s hiding something and Ellie will soon find out… there’s no such thing as perfect.
Table of Contents
Mr Perfect
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Chapter One
ELLIE
Ellie: Hi, honey! I hope you’re having a great day! I made this super-cute Pinterest board last night. Wouldn’t the twins’ room look adorable like this?
“Stop doing that, Ellie.” Ming is glaring at me like I just strangled a puppy.
“What? I made a new Pinterest board last night. I just wanted to share.”
“Share,” Ming says, shaking her head. “That’s a good one, Ellie. Anyway, that Brutus guy is here. The pilot just radioed and said he’s not pleasant, so be ready.”
That’s it. I’m quitting.
I’m not kidding. There is not enough money in the world to persuade me to put up with Brutus one more time. I’ve been talking to this guy for three months trying to get him to agree to an interview with Shawna and Greg on the Humpday Hottie segment of Daily E! and every single time the rock star has been an asshole to the nth degree. He was not at all thrilled about the Humpday thing. But he was only available on Wednesdays and he says he never tapes shows, only sings live. What does he want me to do? Reinvent the days of the week? Everyone knows Wednesdays are hump days. He should be thrilled we’re calling him a ‘hottie’.
“I can read your mind, you know,” Ming says from behind me. She’s my best friend in the whole wide world.
I’m looking out the window of my fishbowl office that opens up into the airplane hangar where the big shots come in. Any second now the plane will taxi in and he’ll get out and my personal hell will begin. Why did he agree to the interview if he didn’t want to come? We sent our best jet to pick him up in Santa Fe and fly him here. I’ve got the green room all ready for him—all those stupid riders he requires as part of his contract. Who needs an organic cheese tray at nine in the morning? The toothbrush I can see. That’s a good rider. And I’m not worried about the M&M’s with all the brown ones picked out. I have bags and bags of single-colored M&M’s stashed away down here. I can deal with any of the hundreds of silly M&M requests a celebrity can throw at me. But the hand-made Icelandic wool socks? When is he going to take his shoes off during this show? That bastard better take them home, too. If I find those Icelandic socks left behind after I had to personally arrange for a pair to be overnighted here—
“Just ignore him, Ellie.”
But I can’t ignore him. It’s my job to pay meticulous attention to his every whim. So I ignore Ming instead. I can see a reflection of her face in the glass. She’s scowling at me.
I work for Stonewall Entertainment. I’m a celebrity consultant, which sounds fancy when you’re an intern, which I was when I took this job. But seven years later it’s nothing more than a fancy name for babysitter. My job is to handle the celebrities as they come in for appearances on any one of our two dozen online networks we run from the Stonewall Campus in the Denver Tech Center.
Today is my lucky day because Brutus is coming. His first interview in five years and it’s with us. I arranged it. I wooed him and soothed him and promised to make his day perfect. Every album he’s released in the past ten years has gone platinum and Stonewall Senior told me to ‘make it happen.’
And because making it happen is my MO, he’s here. But Brutus is a pompous ass.
“Ellie?” Ming asks sharply to make me pay attention to her.
“What?”
“Don’t let him get to you. He’s just another somebody. Humor him.”
I look over my shoulder and roll my eyes. “I do humor him. It’s my job to humor him. I even have the golf cart ready to take us to the main building. The covered one, like he asked for.” Even though it’s eighty-one degrees already and it’s only seven AM and the covered one has no air conditioning.
Just imagining how much sweat will collect inside my bra on the drive over is almost enough for me to walk out and give no notice.
“I’m definitely quitting today,” I tell Ming.
“Nooo, Ell-lllie,” she says, sing-songing my name in that get-down-off-the-ledge voice. “You’re not. Because Adeline is coming tomorrow, remember?”
I sigh. I didn’t. Well, I mean, I knew, of course. I have the whole schedule in my head. But Brutus…
Most of the celebrities are regulars. Every once in a while we get a new person, but not very often. And Adeline is my favorite singer in the whole wide world. She just put out a new song last week and she’s going to sing it tomorrow on Throwback Thursday.
I can’t quit until after that, I guess. I owe her the courtesy of a professional goodbye.
“Fine.” I give in. The jet makes its way towards the hangar entrance. I smooth the wrinkles out of my pink A-line skirt and then wish I hadn’t worn something so girly today. My kimono blouse is white and flirty. Very ruffle-y. People never take me seriously when I wear ruffles. And there are no buttons in the front, it’s just a wrap-around.
But it’s Wednesday, so that means an interesting blouse with an A-line skirt, mid-heel shoes, and a clutch. Thinking about what to wear each morning isn’t something I have much time for so I came up with a schedule for it. Mondays are pencil skirt with button-down oversized shirt and a thin belt at my waist. Tuesdays are business chic. Fitted trousers, light in the summer, dark in the winter, with a cami shell and a matching blazer. Thursdays are sex-it-up-for-happy-hour dresses. Ming and I both wear the office-safe version of a short cocktail dress, discreetly covered up with a blazer, and stash the stilettos in our desks until after work.
Fridays are business casual. But for me that usually means wide-legged trousers with super-high heels to make my legs look long enough to pull that look off. I love the look, I just need a little help making it work. My legs look long in comparison with my small body, but they are not long. Stonewall has a great tailor on campus. They know me well.
I’m sure Brutus will give today’s flirty outfit the stink-eye. I do my best with the clothes. I mean, really, I do damn good, if I do say so myself. It’s not easy dressing like a celebrity on a celebrity assistant’s salary. And I have to look this way, it’s part of my contract.
“God,” I tell Ming. “I really won’t miss the clothes when I quit. I’m going to wear yoga pants to work every day.”
“Where do you think you’ll be working that will let you wear yoga pants?” Ming asks.
I shrug, my heart beating fast as they lower the airstairs. “The gym maybe. I might start teaching Zumba classes.”
Ming laughs. “Honey, please. The last time you took Zumba wit
h me you sprained your middle finger.” She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Who sprains a finger in Zumba?”
“I fell on it wrong.” As I was flipping the instructor off for telling us to shake our money-makers like we mean it.
Brutus appears in the doorway.
“Shit,” I say. “Here he comes. See you later.”
“Later,” Ming says.
I take a deep breath, tuck my fancy pink clutch under my arm, and push through the glass doors of my office heading towards the jet. The airplane hangar is loud, busy, and dirty. I practically tiptoe across the bay, desperate to keep my second-hand hot pink Jimmy Choos from picking up any oil. I huff out a sigh of disgust. Why don’t we have a depot or something? A tiny concourse? This campus has a dry cleaner, a medical building, seventeen restaurants—not including the cafeteria in the main Atrium, which is free for everyone—three gyms, a tailor, an organic grocery store, and a wellness center that has a full-time staff of nail techs, hairdressers, and massage therapists.
Why don’t we have a concourse where guests can walk down a jetway into a nice climate-controlled building?
Breathe, Ellie. Focus on your job. Just get through today, put in your two weeks’ notice, and think about the future. I won’t be teaching Zumba, I was kidding and Ming knows it. I’m terrible at Zumba. No. I have big plans.
“Mr. Brutus.” I beam as the summer heat washes over me. Yup, I have a pool of sweat in my bra. When I quit I’m not going to wear a push-up bra ever again. “Mr. Brutus,” I say again as I get closer. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you!” He’s almost down the stairs when he sees me. My smile is so big. So big. And it should be. I’ve been practicing this smile for seven years.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I am?” Wait. He’s baiting you, Ellie. Ignore, ignore, ignore. “I’ve got the golf cart right over there for you. The covered one, so the sun won’t freckle your skin.” I keep a straight face for that remark because that’s the kind of professional I am.
He shoots me a disgusted look anyway.
Right. I walk over to the waiting cart, pull back the plastic cover that surrounds the little vehicle like a hospital oxygen tent and resign myself to sweaty tits.
No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.
But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.
Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.
Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.
“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”
“Excuse me?” Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ellie.
“You sounded so wound up on the phone. I thought you’d be some thirty-something matron. It’s a nice surprise,” he says, like that will dull the sting of the insult.
All he talks about when we get inside the mobile tent is the heat. Apparently he loves the heat and this plastic-covered golf cart is his idea of bliss.
“I’m very excited to hear you sing,” I say, pushing the start button on the cart. It hums to life and I press my designer shoe down on the power pedal, eager to get this over with.
“People usually are,” he says.
I nod, doing my best to smile and ignore. “I’ve got you all set up in the green room. There are plenty of snacks and drinks for you as you wait. And everything you asked for is waiting.”
“It better be,” Brutus huffs. “That’s why I came.”
I nod. Sure. That and the paycheck, which is outrageous, and the jet, which is nicer than his own, because I checked. And the fact that Daily E! is the highest-rated nighttime entertainment show for six years running. But sure, we can all pretend he came for the M&M’s and wool socks.
He starts coughing and breathing heavy like he’s suffocating. Maybe it’s this plastic sauna we’re rolling around in when it’s the middle of summer? “I hope you’re not getting sick, Mr. Brutus?”
But he’s too busy hacking and gasping to answer. “Brutus? Are you OK? Do you need some water?” I flip the little console box open between our seats and take out the bottled water I stashed there earlier. It’s a little warm, so there’s one more thing for him to bitch about.
The rock star waves the water off. “I hope,” he croaks out, “there are no peanuts in the green room today.”
“Oh, no, I took note of your peanut allergy. We had it professionally cleaned just for—” I stop short. Oh, fuck.
“I don’t think”—he coughs again, clutching his throat—“you’re telling—”
Oh, my God. He’s turning red. “Brutus?” I ask, my little two-inch pump pressing down on the power pedal as I try to make it over to the health building. “Brutus?”
“—me the truth.” And then his eyes bug out and he makes another mad grasp for his throat with one hand and my arm with the other.
Oh, shit. How the hell, Ellie? That’s all I keep asking as I race my way over to the medical building. How the hell could you forget to take your peanut butter sandwich out of your purse?
“Hang on!”
“You’re trying to—”
“No, sir!” I say.
“—kill me.”
“No, sir! I’m so sorry—”
But my words are cut off as his head flops back against the seat and he gasps for breath.
Chapter Two
ELLIE
“What the hell happened?” Ming asks.
I flop down in my desk chair and pick up the landline phone. “Hello? Miranda? Yeah, can you let Shawna and Greg know Brutus won’t be able to make the song at nine?”
I shake my head at Ming while Miranda rips me a new one on the phone.
“Well, he went into anaphylactic shock on the ride over to the studio and I took him to health services for—” I hold the phone away from my ear as Miranda screams at me.
“What the hell?” Ming asks again.
I mouth, Peanut butter, while fishing out my lunch from my clutch and waving my baggie of peanut butter sandwich. “Yes, thanks, Miranda. And sorr—”
She hangs up, so I just put the phone back on the cradle.
“I really do quit,” I say, looking up into Ming’s smiling face. “What? Why are you smiling? I almost killed a rock star!”
Ming makes a big deal of straightening her smile. “Will he live?”
“Yes, but he’s mad as hell. He actually accused me of doing it on purpose!”
“Oh,” Ming says, rolling her eyes. “That jerk can just get over himself.”
I pull out my cell phone and start texting.
“Ellie, stop texting that man. You guys never even dated.”
I glare at my friend. “He got sent off to China by his father. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. We were about to date. We had lunch plans the next day. And then poof, disappeared off to China. One day he’ll get his phone back and then he’ll call and we’ll pick up where we left off.”
Ming gives me a slow blink. “Really?”
“Really.” I get up and walk over to the bathroom she and I share. We are the only two girls down here in the hangar, so it’s a single room. I shut the door behind me and lean against it as my fingers fly across the keyboard.
Ellie: Man, my day sucks. I hope yours is better. I almost killed a celebrity with my peanut butter sandwich. I know, I know. That is inexcusable. But I’m so distracted. I’m putting my notice in today. When you get home there will be no conflict of interest at all. We’ll have the best time, right?
That makes me feel better. I open up Pinterest and click through my boards until I find the one called Dream Home. God, it’s perfect. It
’s nothing like my condo here in the Tech Center, which is ultra-modern—everything here is ultra-modern—and stackable. Because while land might’ve been cheap back when Stonewall Senior purchased his hundred and fifty acres twenty years ago, today it runs at a premium. It’s high-rise condos all the way. I’ve been living in mine for almost six years now. Ever since I got out of college and took the job as celebrity babysitter full time.
No, the dream house is nothing like the condos in the Tech Center. It’s soft and flirty, like the blouse I’m wearing today. It’s got a white kitchen and stainless-steel appliances, the most gorgeous crown molding you can imagine, and fluttery sheer white curtains that cover floor-to-ceiling windows. The floors are hand-scraped hardwood, dark, to contrast with the light walls and kitchen. The couches are comfy, and the kids’ rooms are perfect. I paste the link to Dream House Board into my phone and type:
Ellie: Look, did you see this house? It’s only fifteen minutes from the Tech Center. And no traffic. We could take side roads all the way into work each day. It’s perfect, right?
I don’t get an answer. I never get an answer.
Heathcliff Stonewall—yes, youngest male progeny of Stonewall Senior, owner of this campus—was sent to China two months ago to do… something. I have no clue. They never tell me anything. The internal messaging system on the company phones hasn’t worked since. So he never sees my texts. But how long can his father exile him to China? A few more weeks, maybe? Months? Surely he’ll be back as soon as the project is done. And then we can pick up where we left off.
It’s stupid to text him since he’s not even seeing them, but I don’t care. It makes me feel better. It gets me through the day. And even though we’d barely started getting more personal when he was relocated, I have waited for a real date for seven years. Seven. Years. I’m not letting a little thing like China get in the way of hitching myself to Mr. Perfect.
I find another board, this one titled Our Pets. I’m going to get a sheepdog first, then a whole bunch of kittens, and some fish. Saltwater tank, I think. The house is big and has acres of land that begs for big dogs to roam it. I might even get horses. It has a barn and pretty white post-and-rail fences that surround the whole property.
Girl Meets Billionaire Page 99
