Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  I sigh and accept that line of thinking.

  But I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. I toss and turn, and before I know it, it’s almost six, so there’s no hope of sleep if I want to take a shower before work.

  Mac and I took a lot of showers this weekend. The shower sex called to us multiple times. So I don’t really need one. He fucked me against the wet, tiled wall less than eight hours ago.

  I’m still snickering at that thought when my phone buzzes on the side table.

  I reach over and check the caller ID. It’s work, but not anyone who has called me before because it just comes up as Stonewall Entertainment. “Hello?”

  “Ellie? This is Stephanie, Mac’s assistant. I’m so sorry.” She giggles. “He made me call you because he’s in a meeting with Stonewall Senior. Mac said he left his phone in his home office and could you please bring it to him when you come in?”

  “Jesus, way to be discreet, Mac.”

  “I know,” Stephanie says, still amused. “But if it’s any consolation, I think it’s great. You two are very cute together.”

  “Thanks,” I say, pleased that my rationale for not letting that video get to me is panning out. “Tell him I’ll get ready and be right over.”

  “Sure thing,” Stephanie says. “See you then.”

  I end the call and throw the covers off. Where the hell is the home office? I decide to get dressed first, then go searching for that little hidden corner of this rooftop mansion. I have no idea how big this place is, but there are six bedrooms, ten bathrooms, and obviously an office I never did see.

  I only have jeans with me, so that’s going to have to do for work. I really didn’t expect to stay here last night, but I so didn’t want to leave. I didn’t bring work clothes over on Friday. The thought that this weekend would be so great never entered my mind.

  I wash up in the bathroom and put on a little bit of makeup. Just enough to make me look fresh-faced. And then I pull my jeans on, go into Mac’s closet and find a work shirt I can throw on over my tank top. I choose the only clean one hanging in the closet and tie it in a little knot at my waist as I find my way back out to the main living room where I left my shoes when I came in on Friday.

  That rug, Jesus. I will have to hint around to Mac that we should really have sex on it. I blush at the thought. What has he done to me?

  I don’t know, but I like it. I think Ellie Hatcher, one half of Eloise and McAllister, is way more interesting than plain old delusional Ellie Hatcher, celebrity coordinator.

  “OK,” I say as I stuff my phone in my purse and hike it up on my shoulder. “Now to find the office.” I wander down the hallway where the waterfall wall is and when I get to the end I turn left instead of right. I haven’t been down this hallway so there’s a good chance there’s an office here somewhere.

  I’m right, after being wrong four times. I find a sitting room, a man cave complete with air hockey table, a bathroom I didn’t know about—so maybe that makes eleven—and a little reading nook.

  The office is the last room I come to, naturally, and it’s decorated in a light modern style, just like the rest of this place. There’s some paperwork, some pens in a crystal holder, and Mac’s phone on the desk. I grab it and turn back to leave, but it buzzes in my hand.

  I look down at the screen, thinking it’s Mac, but the caller comes up as Mr. Romantic.

  Mr. Romantic? What the hell is that about?

  I ignore it and toss it into my purse, but there’s a voice calling out.

  “Mac?” it says. “Mac? What the fuck, dude?”

  I fish the phone out and realize I must’ve tabbed the call accept button, and place it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Uh,” the guy says on the other line. “You’re not Mac.”

  “No, I’m Ellie. Sorry, I didn’t mean to answer the phone. But I must’ve bumped the call button by mistake. He left his phone at home and I’m bringing it to him.”

  “Ellie?” he says, half question, half not. “So he found you, huh?”

  “Found me?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him last week after I came home from Vegas. I saw Andrew Manco and for some reason Mac thought you were with Andrew that night.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I laugh. “It was a mix up. Do you want me to take a message?”

  “Yeah, just tell him to give Mr. Corporate a call when he has a chance.”

  “Mr. Corporate?” I ask.

  “Mr. Perfect will know what I’m talking about. Thanks a bunch, sweetheart. Later.”

  And then the call drops. I just stare at it for a moment.

  Mr. Romantic? Mr. Corporate? Mr. Perfect? What the hell is up with these names?

  I stand there for a moment. Completely still.

  Because I’m having an idea. A very bad idea, but an idea nonetheless.

  I have his phone.

  I bet I could find out a bunch of stuff about him if I just took a little peek inside….

  No, Ellie. That voice in my head is very strong.

  But then there’s another voice. One that says, He looked at all those messages you sent Heath.

  He did do that, didn’t he? I’m almost obligated to take a peek. After all, it was totally unfair that he got to snoop around my private life. Read all those personal thoughts. And even though we spent the whole weekend together, I keep thinking that he really didn’t tell me much about himself. Sure, that scavenger hunt gave me some insight. But a lot of it was very esoteric, wasn’t it? Very philosophical and vague. Like Law Number 46. Never appear too perfect. What the hell is that about?

  And Mr. Romantic, whoever he is, just called Mac Mr. Perfect.

  I look over my shoulder, out of habit. Because I am going to look. Just at the contacts. See if there’s any more hints to this Mr. Perfect stuff. It sounds familiar to me for some reason. Maybe Mac mentioned it before? Did he ever say Mr. Romantic to me? No, I don’t think so.

  My fingers tab the screen to life and I’m pressing the little contacts icon before I can stop.

  They all pop up and I start scrolling down to the M’s. But Heath’s name catches my eye.

  Heath. Did they talk about me?

  I go to the messages and stop breathing.

  Yes. Yes, they did. My name is right there in the last one Mac sent.

  Mr. Perfect: If you’re not banging Ellie Hatcher, then I’ll give it a try. She looks totally corruptible.

  It’s dated the very first day we met. That day when he humiliated me in the executive conference room.

  I have to walk back over to the desk and take a seat because my legs suddenly feel very weak. My stomach has that hollow feeling I sometimes get. Like a punch to the gut. And my heart.

  Put it away, Ellie. There are things you don’t need to know.

  It’s true. I even agree. But then there are things you do need to know. And this is one of them. So I scroll up to the very first message that day.

  Mr. Perfect: What the fuck is going on with these messages from Ellie? First she’s asking you to fuck her and then she’s talking this delusional bullshit about puppies and dream houses.

  Heath: What the hell are you talking about? Dream houses? I fucked Ellie a few times, but that was only because she wanted it. Stay away from her though, she’s crazy.

  Mr. Perfect: Yeah, no shit. She’s sending you Pinterest boards filled with what your future kids would look like.

  Heath: What? I don’t know what to say to that. Never saw that shit.

  Mr. Perfect: Yeah, dude. Crazy with a capital C. I’m not sure if I should call security and have her escorted off the premises or see if she’ll fuck me in the stairs. Is she cute?

  There’s a break in the conversation. Several hours. Then Mac is back.

  Mr. Perfect: There’s two Ellies, you asshole!

  Heath: Ellie Abraham? And who else?

  Oh, my God. I wasn’t even on his radar, was I? Not that I care. I’m over any delusional feels I might’ve have conjured up for Heath. But Mac. God, what
is this?

  Mr. Perfect: Ellie Hatcher, you dumbass. I just felt her up in the stairs after she pulled this completely ridiculous stunt in a meeting. Holy fuck, man, you missed something supremely epic.

  Heath: See, aren’t you glad I fucked up and got sent off to China. Told you that place was fun. At least you didn’t fuck with Ellen Abraham. And no one calls her Ellie, she uses that nickname because she’s got this weird obsession with Ellie Hatcher. Like hates her guts or something.

  Well, that explains why she tried to ruin my life last week. I have no idea what I ever did to her. I’m nice to everyone. It’s practically my job to be nice to everyone. Well, to their face, anyway. I did make up nicknames for all my co-workers, but that was private. They didn’t know about it.

  Mr. Perfect: If you’re not banging Ellie Hatcher, then I’ll give it a try. She looks totally corruptible.

  My world goes completely still, the silence pouring in my ears to the beat of my heart. I did not just read that. I shake my head—no. It’s nothing. He was kidding. He didn’t know me back then. It was just guys being guys.

  And while calm, rational Ellie knows all that, I also know that first impressions are everything. This is his first impression of me.

  His words come back to me from that first day. This is completely ridiculous behavior, Miss Hatcher. My office now.

  Ridiculous.

  That’s why he thinks of me. I’m ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And he thought I was Ellen Abraham that day in the stairs. In the meeting too, he must’ve.

  I don’t know what to do with this information. I feel slightly stupid, more than a little bit betrayed, and naive for buying into Mac’s version of dating.

  Is this dating? Even by his standards?

  My phone buzzes in my purse and my heart skips a beat thinking this might be Mac and I will have to confront him.

  But it’s not. It’s Ming. I tab the accept button and say, “Hello?”

  “Ellie,” Ming says, very out of breath. “Oh my God, where are you? What she did is so fucked up!”

  I get a sinking feeling in my gut. “Who?”

  “Ellen!”

  I have to close my eyes and place my hand on the desk, like I’m preparing for a blow to the stomach. “What happened now?”

  “I’m so sorry, Ellie.”

  “Just tell me, Ming.”

  “She…” Ming hesitates again. “She sent out a newsletter, Ellie, and—”

  “How? She was fired last week!”

  “I don’t know,” Ming says. “Maybe she had it made and scheduled to deliver this morning. But it’s all about you and the Pinterest board for the employees. Screenshots and all the nicknames you have for people.”

  I press end on the call, but as soon as I do that, Mac is calling.

  I turn the phone off.

  Mac probably wants to warn me about the newsletter, but that’s not why I’m thinking about right now. I’m thinking about that last sentence he wrote to Heath.

  If you’re not banging Ellie Hatcher, then I’ll give it a try. She looks totally corruptible.

  That is the only thing I care about right now. He’ll give it a try. Sure, why not? Some stupid twenty-something at your father’s company is willing to let herself be fingered in a stairwell? Sure. Mac is a man used to getting everything he wants. Mr. Perfect.

  Then the previous call from his friend comes back to me. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Romantic, Mr. Corporate. Why does all that sound familiar?

  I type in the three names as I stand in front of the computer.

  Mac’s face comes up immediately. Tons and tons of pictures of him, only his name is not McAllister Stonewall. I click on the first image and an article pops up. The caption under the picture says, Maclean Callister, AKA Mr. Perfect, and Nolan Delaney, AKA Mr. Romantic, celebrate the dropped charges in the Mr. Brown rape case.

  My legs are so wobbly I need to take a seat in the luxurious leather chair.

  The Mr. Brown rape case.

  I’ve heard of it, of course. It was all over the news a while back. Ten years ago, at least. Back when I was getting ready to graduate high school.

  I study the picture of Mac a little better. He’s smiling. So is his friend, Nolan Delaney, who I conclude was the voice on the other end of the phone call I just took. But neither of them look happy and neither of them look like they are celebrating.

  I click through more pictures and see them all. Mr. Perfect, Mr. Romantic, Mr. Corporate, Mr. Mysterious, and Mr. Match. They are all well-bred children from well-connected families who are rich beyond belief.

  I skim the article to refresh my memory. Five college boys, one college girl, and a rape charge. I understand the basics of what happened. The night started with a homecoming party at the house the boys shared and ended with one girl claiming she was gang-raped.

  The newspapers weren’t allowed to report the names of the boys until they were officially charged, so they gave them monikers until that happened. They called them the Misters of Brown University, or Mr. Browns for short. And then each boy got his own nickname based on how friends on campus described them to the media.

  Once the boys were officially charged, they were expelled and their real names divulged.

  The pre-trial media coverage lasted for well over a year and then abruptly stopped when the girl was found dead in her hometown, some seven hundred miles away.

  The prosecutors were forced to drop the charges.

  No one thought the Misters were innocent, not for a second. In fact, there was an outcry to charge them all with murder as well. They were blamed for the girl’s death even though all five of them had rock-solid alibis for that incident.

  It’s a convoluted story, but I can follow it. What I cannot follow is how Maclean Callister became McAllister Stonewall. And what I’m having a hard time understanding is Mac’s anger at my teeny, tiny lie last week when he’s been holding back this bombshell of an explosion.

  Somewhere in the house a phone is ringing.

  Somewhere in myself, my heart is breaking.

  Is Mac guilty? Did he slip away? Did his real father—because obviously Mr. Stonewall isn’t his father—pay someone off? Did they have anything to do with the girl’s death?

  I don’t know how long I sit there before a voice calls my name from another part of the house.

  “Miss Hatcher?” I recognize George the doorman’s voice.

  “In here,” I call back.

  A few seconds later George finds me. “Oh, Miss Hatcher, Mr. Stonewall called asking me if you’d left yet. He sent me up here to look for you when I told him no.” George stares at me for a moment. “Is everything OK?”

  I nod out of habit, but I’m not sure everything is OK. In fact, finding out your boyfriend was accused of rape and might possibly be responsible for murder makes things decidedly not OK. “I was just looking for Mac’s phone. He asked me to bring it into work for him.” I hold up the phone and stand. “I better get going. I think he needs it.”

  “OK, Miss Hatcher,” George says. “We have your car downstairs waiting for you.”

  “I’ll be right down,” I tell him. There is no way I’m getting in an elevator so I can be forced to chit-chat my way down to the ground level.

  I wait until I hear the front door close and then I try to put my thoughts together. Was that scavenger hunt Mac’s way of preparing me for the truth?

  I feel so manipulated. And that text to Heath. I just feel… used.

  I’m sure there’s a way to justify it. Perception is everything. And if Mac can prepare me with his sympathetic point of view before I learn the truth, then he can control my reactions.

  It reeks of power. Of what obscene amounts of money means to those who hold it.

  Money doesn’t buy things.

  Money buys people.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ELLIE

  I turn the computer off, toss Mac’s phone in my purse, and head down to the lobby.

  George is talk
ing to someone at the front desk when I walk briskly past him to the front doors, but I’m secretly glad I didn’t have to have a conversation. I just hand the valet a tip and get in my car, taking a deep sigh to be back on familiar ground.

  What just happened?

  I’m not sure. I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t trust anything right now.

  It only takes me a few minutes to wind my way around the elaborately landscaped roads of the Tech Center and get through the gates of the Stonewall campus, and a few more minutes to navigate to the Atrium parking lot, get out of my car, and be standing at the front doors of the building.

  I take a deep breath and step forward, triggering the automatic doors. The waterfall sounds remind me of Mac’s apartment and I have a pang in my stomach for the loss of something familiar and soothing.

  I force it away because it’s some kind of false memory. A fabrication. That’s not his apartment because his name isn’t McAllister Stonewall.

  People point and laugh at me as I enter the lobby. Snickering behind hands cupped over smiles. The newsletter. Ellen sent out that newsletter.

  I should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. But I don’t have time for that stupid silliness right now. My feet only have one stop in mind. I wait at the elevator, alone, and step through the glass doors, seeing the people down below as I ascend, but not registering them.

  I brace myself for the dirty looks and the contempt for what was said on my behalf in the newsletter. These people were my targets, after all. I’m not sure anyone down below cares too much about what I privately think about the seventh-floor executives.

  When the doors open I stare straight at Stephanie, willing myself to be invisible as I make my way to the back corner offices. My luck doesn’t hold. Jennifer slides into step beside me.