Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  By Friday I was so wrapped up in this new amazing-terrible-wonderful-irritating emotion inside of me that I was anxious for her to return that night. Nervous to see her again, but anxious for it nonetheless.

  In desperation, I stormed into Nate’s office over lunch.

  “You said it would make it better,” I said accusingly as I walked in.

  He cocked his head at me, setting his deli sandwich onto his desk, which was set at standing position. He gestured at the chairs stationed by the windows, indicating that I should take a seat. I strolled over and sat down in one of them, my foot bouncing as I unbuttoned my suit jacket.

  He strolled over and sat down in the seat opposite of me. “I take it you and Elizabeth…” He let the silence fill in the blank.

  “I thought you could tell. You said you’d be able to tell.” I was feeling grumpy, grumpy at Nate specifically since he was the one who’d suggested that sleeping with Elizabeth was the right thing to do, and though I didn’t regret it, it really hadn’t seemed to fix anything.

  “Oh, I can tell. You’ve been much happier.” He reconsidered. “Or, you were earlier in the week. Now it seems you’ve gotten yourself riled up again. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I bent over and leaned my elbows on my knees, noticing they were both bouncing now, and tried to put this problem into words. “Well, we did it, like you said we should. It was supposed to get her out of my system. It was supposed to get me over her. But it hasn’t changed anything. I’m still just as fucked up about this. She’s been out of town all week long, and I’m still thinking about her. She’s everywhere. I can’t get her out of my damn head.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m miserable.” I shook my head. “Except at the same time, I’m not, because I keep remembering that night and all the...things...and the...ways…” I could dish about sex as well as the next guy, but it didn’t seem appropriate to dish about Elizabeth. “And remembering it makes me feel all weird and...good. And shit.”

  Nate nodded. “Right.”

  “I know what I have to do, though,” I said, the idea coming to me suddenly.

  “Of course you do. What is it?” Nate asked patiently, and it didn’t escape me that this felt an awful lot like the therapy sessions I’d tried a couple of times a few years back when I’d first realized my father was an asshat. Minus the rage and the overpriced bill.

  And I’d just had a bigger breakthrough in Nate’s office than anything I could have discovered from that stuffy psychiatrist.

  “I have to have sex with her again.” I jumped up and started pacing the room. This was brilliant, and obviously the right answer. We had to continue to be together through the engagement anyway, and of course, this had been why I had been worked up all week. Because I didn’t know how to deal with the after-things, with women I wouldn’t bang again after we’d had sex once.

  So the solution here was to just keep doing it. That hadn’t really occurred to me as an option for some reason.

  Perhaps because living together and sleeping together with the same woman—a woman who was wearing a ring that I put on her finger—felt an awful lot like a real relationship, the kind I’d always managed to avoid.

  “All right,” Nate laughed harder than I thought he needed to. “How does Elizabeth feel about this? Do you think she’s open to continuing?”

  I shrugged, not really seeing why she wouldn’t be open to it. It had been pretty damn good sex. “I haven’t talked to her since.”

  Nate’s jaw went slack, his eyes wide. “You haven’t talked to her since you slept with her? Not at all? Not even a text message?”

  My pacing slowed and I began to feel a new sense of dread. Shit. Had I fucked this up already?

  “Look, I don’t usually talk to the girls afterwards. They are usually texting me.” Which begged the question—why hadn’t she texted me? Had it not been as good for her as I’d thought? Had I done something wrong? Did she…regret it somehow?

  Nate frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Women really like to be reassured after that kind of thing. Especially if you want to have another shot with them.”

  I sank back down in the seat across from him. “Shit, Nate.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Is it too late now? She comes back tonight. We’re supposed to have dinner. What do I do?”

  Nate nodded, thinking. “Your best plan is to make it seem like the space was part of your strategy. And then reassure her. Reassure her, Weston,” he repeated. “Make sure she knows she’s special to you.”

  It was my turn to frown. Special to me? I didn’t like that. To be certain, I’d never wanted to continue sleeping with a woman like I wanted to continue sleeping with her, so that made her special in a way. But I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea or anything.

  This was still a business arrangement.

  Nate seemed to sense my train of thought. “You don’t have to tell her you’re in love with her. Just let her know that you had a good time with her. That you’re not just using her for her body. Are you using her for her body?”

  In the week that she been gone, I had thought about Elizabeth’s body a whole hell of a lot. The things I wanted to do to it, the things I’d already done to it, the things I wanted her body to do to mine. But I’d also thought about conversations I wanted to have with her. Things I wished I’d said, things I was sure she’d argue with, but I’d made up counterarguments, and then made up fascinating ways to make up after we argued about it.

  “No. I can honestly say I’m not just using her for her body.” Why did that feel like such a gut-wrenching admission?

  “I know,” Nate said, again. The therapist who saw all. “Just making sure you knew. Now make sure she knows.”

  I left Nate’s office and immediately started composing a text message as I walked back to my own corner of the floor, worried I was already too late. Still on for dinner tonight? We could meet at Gaston’s at seven.

  Nervous, I hit SEND, regretting it immediately. Elizabeth liked making decisions. I should have given her the choice of restaurant.

  I stopped in the middle of the hall, halfway between Nate’s office and mine, and sent another message. Or we can go somewhere else. Tell me where and I’ll make the reservation.

  I sent it, shaking my head at myself for not taking care of this earlier in the week. Donovan owned Gaston’s—I could always get in there last minute. Finding reservations last minute elsewhere was going to be tough. There were only a few strings I could pull through some clients. Some other strings I could pull if I called my father.

  I didn’t want to call my father.

  But she responded before I had to get too worked up about other options. Gaston’s is fine. I’ll see you then.

  Immediately I felt better.

  Except then another text came through. Could you give me Elizabeth’s number?

  Clarence Sheridan.

  Why the fuck did he want her number? Was he still into her? If I gave it to him, would he call her? Would they get back together?

  “You’re setting a great example for the staff,” Donovan said sarcastically, startling my gaze up from my screen. “Maybe if you were more focused on your work than your phone, we’d actually get some stuff done around here.”

  It was a typical snide Donovan remark, one that I would usually let roll off my back, but I was stressed about this latest text, and he’d pushed me to my limit. He’d been playing me like I was his puppet, telling me what to do and when to do it, telling me who I could sleep with and who I couldn’t, treating me like I was a pawn on his chessboard. That was annoying enough, but to get razzed about it too was pushing me over the edge.

  On top of that, he still hadn’t told me about sleeping with Sabrina, and that pushed a bunch of emotional buttons that I had yet to face. Not the least of which was— why hadn’t he confided in me about it? Why did I have to find out about it from her?

  I’d been so irked by his lack of disclosure, I’d purpose
fully not told him about sleeping with Elizabeth.

  And I was still irked. More than irked.

  So instead of shrugging off his asshole comment like I normally would, I looked him right in the eye. “So, you and Sabrina, huh? Maybe it’s your distraction that’s compromising office production.”

  I left him in the hall before he could reply, knowing Donovan hated it when he didn’t get the last word.

  Back in my office, I made a decision. I’d waited too long to take control of my own life. I’d let others run the show while I’d sat back playing whatever cards I was dealt.

  Well, no more.

  It was time for me to be the dealer.

  Starting with Elizabeth.

  I would take Nate’s advice—make a plan, find the words, let her know that I wanted things to go on.

  And I dealt with Clarence’s text the same way I dealt with all annoying messages that came in on my phone, usually from my ex-lovers, not someone else’s—I deleted it and never thought about it again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I returned to Manhattan, feeling cool and calm and confident. Relaxed. A week without Weston had cleared my head. I was a new woman, pampered and refreshed.

  At least, that’s what I’d told myself throughout the entire car ride home.

  All of it was bullshit. It was evident even in the way that I had dressed for tonight’s dinner with Weston. My dress was a load of mixed messages. I’d intended to wear something smart and modest. Instead, here I was in a low-cut black sexy mid-length. It cinched in my waist and hugged my hips, creating a perfect hourglass. While it didn’t scream seductress, it was definitely one of the more provocative outfits I owned.

  Maybe I just wanted to remind Weston what he’d had. What he couldn’t have again. That’s what I said to my reflection in the mirror by the coat check at Gaston’s as I double-checked my appearance.

  I turned to the host, already fifteen minutes late. “Are you ready to be seated, Ms. Dyson?” he asked. “Mr. King is waiting for you.”

  I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready. “Yes, please.”

  He took me inside the restaurant, toward the tables near the windows. Gaston’s was fine dining, and the view was spectacular, since the restaurant was located at the top of the building on Fifty-Ninth Street, just across from Central Park, which was framed by the city itself. It was a romantic spot, and as we approached the table, Weston stood for me, handsome in his business suit, his dimpled grin greeting me.

  Butterflies took off in my stomach at the sight of that smile; it wasn’t a reaction I could control. So I smiled back. As the host pulled out my chair, Weston leaned forward and kissed me.

  “Now that’s a way to say hello,” the host teased.

  “I haven’t seen my fiancée in a week,” Weston said, his eyes never leaving me. “I’ve missed her.”

  The butterflies turned into an avalanche of snow at his words. His endearment wasn’t just intoxicating, it didn’t just make me feel fluttery inside—it made me feel overwhelmed, like I was being crushed with the weight of something bigger than I could handle.

  Was it even real? Had he really missed me? Or was this part of the show we were putting on?

  I was trembling as I took my seat, grateful there was already wine on the table. Weston reached to pour me a glass before the host could offer, so with no other task to complete, the man left, and we were alone.

  I smoothed my napkin on my lap and grabbed a hunk of bread, eager to keep my hands busy as Weston finished filling my glass.

  “How was Connecticut?” he asked, setting the bottle down as I took a sip of my wine. It was white and crisp, like the autumn air had been outside.

  But here inside, the air was warm, and the chardonnay felt good going down. “It was relaxing. We did a lot of relaxing.” And a lot of thinking. A lot of thinking about Weston and his lips and his tongue and his body. His body inside mine.

  “I didn’t reach out, because I thought you might want space.”

  “I still had to share the suite with my mother. And she’s messier than you. Though we had housekeeping every day, so that made it bearable.”

  “That’s not what I meant by needing space.”

  I swallowed and glanced up at him. “You mean because we had sex.” I’d wondered if my phone wasn’t getting texts initially when I hadn’t heard from him, but then I’d gotten one from Marie asking about my mother, and another from a college friend.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t feel that bad about his silence, because I didn’t try to reach out to Weston either. Then I recited the words I’d said over and over and over again to myself this last week. “Nothing’s changed.”

  At the same time, he said, “Everything’s changed.”

  We stared at each other, both of us caught off guard by the other’s answer. Everything’s changed. My heart began to race for no reason except for those two words.

  Weston looked almost hurt by what I’d said. “What do you mean nothing’s changed?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

  I looked around to make sure that we were in a private enough section that no one could hear us. We were. “Because nothing has. We’re still just pretending for the sake of our respective businesses. We’re still only in a fake relationship. You still don’t want to live in my apartment all the time. You’re still insistent that you want to split our time between the two places. You still won’t get a damn maid.”

  I looked at him as though I had proven my point, which I felt I had, and yet I went on. “You still have yet to tell me what’s going on with your family.”

  He waved his hand, stopping me from going on. “My family has nothing to do with anything. They are not a part of this. And it’s irritating that you keep bringing it up.”

  “And I’m still going to be irritated every time you mention Sabrina’s name.”

  He glared at me. “I was a dick about that, and I admitted it. But she works with me. I’m going to mention her name—“

  “Look, we’re still fighting, even.” Nothing had changed.

  “This isn’t fighting,” he said.

  “What is this, then?”

  “Foreplay?” He grinned, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

  “It’s bickering, like we always bicker,” I said, trying to ignore the images that last comment brought up and how they made my legs shake. “How can you say things are different?”

  “Yes, yes. All that. Still the same.” I was suddenly moving closer to him and realized he was pulling me nearer with his foot wrapped around the leg of my chair. He didn’t stop until we were side by side instead of angled toward each other, until we were looking out the window into the quiet darkness that was Central Park.

  He put his arm on the back of my chair, his mouth near my ear. “But now,” he said, his breath tickling my neck, sending electric shocks through my veins. “We can fuck.”

  I was suddenly hot everywhere, and it wasn’t from the wine. My cheeks felt red and flushed. I turned my face toward him and our mouths were so close we could kiss.

  “You want to…? Again…?” I tightened my glutes and thighs as I asked, as though that could hold the want and desire inside me, as though that could keep my panties from getting wet. I’d tried so hard in the week I’d been away from him not to imagine another night of passion. Tried not to relive the one night we’d had.

  But every time the lights had gone out and my eyes had closed, he was all I could see, and I swear I had his touch memorized. Goose pimples would sprout up just by thinking of him. By remembering his mouth on my collarbone, his lips along my shoulders, on my breasts. It was absolute torture to share a room with my mother. All my masturbation had to be done in the shower, and with the insane amount of lust that was inspired by my daydreams of Weston, I’d found myself making excuses to take more than one a day.

  But in no time during any of that fantasizing had I ever thought he would want to do it again. He was a player. Weren’t those guys only into one-time-per-
woman deals?

  I felt his fingers on my shoulder now, on the opposite side from where my head was turned. Felt his touch grazing down my bare arm. He looked me directly in my eyes.

  “Do you not want to do it again?” he asked, curiously, as though he hadn’t even considered that was a possibility.

  “I didn’t think you would want to do it again,” I informed him honestly.

  “Oh, I want to do it again, Elizabeth. I really, really want to do it again. It’s all I can think about.”

  My breath caught, and I pulled my head back, studying his face to be sure he was telling the truth. Everything in his expression said he was sincere. “I didn’t know.”

  He moved in closer, his lips brushing against mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear. I should have texted you. I should’ve called.”

  I really hadn’t expected that from him, but now that he’d suggested it, I wanted to know more. “What would you have said?”

  He brushed his nose against my skin down to my earlobe and said in a hushed voice. “I would’ve told you how much I thought about you all week. How blue my balls were over you.” His hand was on my knee, moving higher onto my bare thigh. “I would’ve told you how I couldn’t stop thinking about touching you. I would’ve told you how hard you make me. I’m hard right now. I need to know if you’re wet.”

  I was, and his hand was sliding higher on the inside of my thigh, about to find out the answer for himself. It was so fucking hot and so amazing and I wanted him to keep going, wanted his fingers to touch me and find out…but—

  “Wait. Stop.” I recognized the feeling of panic before I could even understand the reasons why.

  Fortunately, Weston was a decent man and he pulled away, immediately taking his hand off of me, and setting it back in his own lap. He left his other hand on the chair behind me, but he gave me space. Too much space. I missed how close he had been just a moment before.

  But now the waiter was here asking if we were ready to order, and I couldn’t even think—I was still wanting Weston’s hands on me and wishing he was inside me—I couldn’t be bothered with the daily soup and fish specials.