Charmed by the Billionaire Read online

  So there she is, a blond-haired, gray-eyed, petite, strong, smart woman with an ass that won’t quit…who works for me. As her boss I overlook her questionable professionalism—the aforementioned cutesy stamp fetish and her typical ensemble of Chuck Taylors and ripped jeans at the office. As her best friend I overlook her glaringly obvious hotness and wish I’d developed a fascination with her before hiring her. I could have asked her out in some neutral capacity back then. Now I have to settle for stolen glimpses and pretend not to notice her admirable attributes. Whenever we stretch side by side after a run, I glance at her bare legs, pale next to mine, and entertain what they might feel like wrapped around my waist while I roll my hips and give both of us the ride of a lifetime.

  “Race you to the parking lot.” She interrupts the vision beginning to form, which is probably for the best considering it’s hard to run with a boner. She spins around and runs backwards, her curly hair bouncing with her every step. Now I have a view of another jiggling part of her, those incredible breasts I try to ignore every single day.

  “Try and keep up.” I take off.

  I reach the parking lot before she does, no surprise since I was half-killing myself to do it. I hate losing. Not as much as Archer, but still. I wait for her to catch up, bent in half, sucking air through my open mouth and balancing my palms on my knees. She’s not far behind.

  She slows to a walk, arms heavy at her sides, cheeks pink and eyes dancing. “When will you learn”—she pauses to take a breath—“that I’m baiting you”—another pause, another breath—“when I say that?”

  “Never.” I straighten, grinning. She grins back. My winning made her feel like she won and that is good for everyone.

  “You clocked your steps for the day, I bet.” She nods at the watch on my wrist. It tracks a million things, the number of steps I take in a day included. Look at that. I just rolled over my goal. “Nice.”

  “You’re welcome.” She winks.

  I am welcome. She takes care of me, which I need. I have a tendency to lose myself in the numbers the way some might get lost in the woods after dark. I go into a deep, trancelike state when I’m thinking around, over, and through financials, rendering me unable to tend to my most basic needs. Like eating, drinking. Blinking, on occasion.

  Cris happily refills my water, buzzes up the occasional smoothie in the high-powered blender, or delivers a takeout container filled with chicken and spring mix salad to my desk, lid off, fork stuck in it like a flag. Hell, she brought me vitamin C the other day because she heard me coughing and worried I might be coming down with a cold.

  She does all of this while also managing my calendars (personal and business), preparing reports, interviewing candidates, spellchecking my letters, and traveling with me to a variety of affairs. She’s made reservations for dinner with the woman I happen to be seeing (whichever woman it is at the time) and has set up lunch dates so I can end the “seeing” part, which always happens no matter how great the woman I’m dating is.

  She is Super Cris! More powerful than the Calendar app on your iPhone, able to leap tall deadlines in a single bound. I have no idea how I did my job before I hired her. I shudder to think what would happen if she left. Which is why I pay her an exorbitant amount of money to do what she does.

  Her attentiveness to my needs escalated noticeably last fall when her youngest brother Timothy went away to college. It’s like she has empty-nest syndrome at only thirty years of age. Damn her mother. And damn Cris’s father and each of her brothers’ fathers for that matter. They stuck my chipper blond best friend with their adult responsibilities at a time when she should have had the luxury to learn more about herself. My parents would have never left me by choice. Not ever.

  Without picking up her feet, Cris shuffles to the car and grabs our water bottles, insulated so the water stays ice cold. (She thinks of everything.) As we rehydrate I make my way to a bench and sit, watching people in the park run along the path in between admiring the sway of the trees against a blue sky.

  Spring in Ohio. It’s my favorite season. There’s a whiff of newness in the air. I love the scent. It reminds me of a Monday, truly the best day of the week. Well, if you love what you do. I adore my lot in life. After all, I structured it.

  She settles in next to me, her knee bumping mine, the innocent touch sending a blaze of heat up my thigh. Hers are not long legs, but they are toned and sexy—if I allowed myself to consider Cris “sexy” which I, of course, don’t.

  “What are you looking at?” She examines her leg.

  Unable to share that my thoughts have devolved into a visual of her back against the wall while I’m driving hard and deep into the heart of her, I shake my head. When she frowns, I think fast and poke a purplish splotch on the outside of her thigh.

  “Ouch! Is that a bruise?”

  “Appears to be,” I say. “How’d you do that? Are you a violent sleeper?”

  “It’s my new WWE boyfriend.” She rolls her eyes. Wide, big, expressive. Innocent. There is a sweet, generous nature under the naiveté, but the naiveté is there all the same.

  “If you have a boyfriend, WWE or otherwise, this better not be how I find out.” I suck down more water as a pleat forms between her pale eyebrows. It’s followed by a lip bite, and her eyes skitter away before landing on my face again. My Spidey senses tingle. She’s not the only superhero in this park.

  “What was that about?” I can’t help asking. She shakes her head a little guiltily. I’m suddenly queasy and I don’t think I can blame it on exercising. “Tell me.”

  “It’s just…” She seesaws her head back and forth twice before continuing. “I have a date tomorrow night.”

  “A date.” I tried not to let that sound like an accusation. I’m not sure I was successful.

  “I didn’t tell you because, well…” Her eyes are on her water bottle as she runs a thumbnail along the lid.

  “Because well what?” Cris doesn’t date. Or she hasn’t dated since she started working for me, anyway. Now I’m frowning.

  “I worried you’d lecture me. I don’t want a lecture. I want to go on a date without anyone offering their opinion. Except for Vivian. She helped me pick out a dress for tomorrow.”

  That was the errand she ran today?

  “You took her opinion,” I say, stung.

  Further avoiding my eyes, she rests one heel on the bench and reties her shoelace. I’m still wrapping my head around her not mentioning—even in passing—having a date tomorrow night. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t standing right next to her in the kitchen this morning. She had ample opportunity.

  “You go on lots of dates. I reserve comment all the time.” She holds up both hands in her own defense.

  “You don’t have to comment since I can read your expressions. I know when you don’t like who I’m seeing.”

  What might be panic briefly crosses her pretty face. “Like who?”

  “Trish.”

  “I liked Trish!”

  “Your voice goes high and squeaky when you lie, by the way.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You laughed during the word ‘lying’ which further indicates you’re lying.” I stand and offer my hand. She slaps her palm into it and I admire the way we look together. Her small, pale, pink-hued skin against my large, long-fingered golden brown. A fierce protectiveness rears up inside of me before I can question it. Whoever she goes on a date with better be a gentleman or I will dropkick him into the stratosphere.

  “Tell me about this dude—your date.” I let go of her hand and walk with her to the car, irked and not entirely sure why.

  “I don’t know. I’ve only messaged him a few times on the app.”

  “You used an app?” I regard the sky. “A little help?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I look at her. “The Universe. Have you recently consulted your spirit guides?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I do almost nothing but work and hang out wi
th you.”

  “Yowch.” I rub my chest like she just shot me.

  “You know what I mean.” She rolls her eyes, not indulging me. “Timothy’s gone. The house is empty. It was easier when he was at home waiting for me to help him with something. It’s like he doesn’t need me anymore, and I—” Her voice cracks the slightest bit, revealing the tender emotions she tries to hide from me.

  “You’re lonely.” I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. Her skin is damp with sweat but not in a gross way.

  “A little.” She glances to the side like she had a hard time admitting the truth.

  And like that, I can’t fault her for going on a date. I know what it’s like to be lonely. I’ve felt lonely since I was ten years old and heard my parents were in a car accident and wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas.

  Ever.

  I was lonely even surrounded by my giving, loving, adoring adoptive family during the very next Christmas. Sometimes I still am. Loneliness, I understand. And dating, I really understand.

  Which is why I tell my best friend, “You’re lucky you have me.” Her gaze snaps to mine over the roof of my car. I give her an unflappable, trademarked Benji smile. “I can give you some pointers.”

  Chapter Three

  Cris

  I’m halfway through a glass of wine with my date, and all I’ve managed to do so far is obsess about the “advice” Benji gave me. It wasn’t so much helpful as a hindrance. What he told me burrowed into my brain, which is now an echo chamber of distraction.

  Beware small hands.

  I’ve been staring at my date’s hands on and off while he’s been talking. I haven’t been able to stop myself. I’m sure he thinks I have some strange fetish.

  Do not let him choose the restaurant.

  I was too late on that one. My date—Clark—chose an Indian restaurant and I agreed. I love curry, but this place isn’t as good as the restaurant at Grand Marin. I should know since Vivian and I ate there last week. I’m already obsessing over what to order from the menu, and praying I don’t hate it.

  And whatever you do, don’t mention you haven’t dated in a while.

  After dispensing that piece of advice, Benji narrowed his eyes, gave me an accidentally sexy head-tilt, and asked, “You haven’t dated in a while, have you?”

  I flubbed over my answer which was something like, “No, of course not!” followed by a dismissive, “Who has the time?” Now I’m here with Clark, undecided on my dinner, after having blurted the very phrase I was tasked with keeping to myself. “It’s been a while since I’ve dated.”

  I actually said that.

  My smile is frozen in place as I simultaneously wait for him to react, and consider running out of the restaurant before he can.

  His eyebrows are sitting atop his forehead, which is a little too large for his face. He’s pleasant enough to look at, but he’s no Benji.

  Not that I’m comparing them.

  “How long’s it been?” He casually lifts his draft beer to his mouth. His chin is sort of small. I’ve heard the phrase “weak chin” before, but never understood it. I think Clark is suffering from the condition. I stop staring at his chin, rerouting my attention to his mouth when he licks his lips. His lips are nothing like Benji’s. They lack the fullness I’m so fond of. Clark swipes his mouth with his fingers, and I can’t help noticing his hand is a little small. Also unlike Benji, there is no smile lurking behind that hand. Rather than slanting me a warm smirk that lights his eyes, Clark merely gives me a bland blink.

  Anyway. I’m not comparing them.

  “Long enough I can’t recall the exact date.” Well, that’s a lie. I’m not even sure why I lied. Maybe nerves? I remember the exact date of my last date. It was the day of my mother’s wedding. One of her weddings. I didn’t go to her last three weddings. Including the most recent, which was not in Vegas like the last two, but in California at a vineyard. She didn’t invite me, and I didn’t offer to show up.

  So, I went on a date two and a half years ago. July 2nd. His name was Phillip, and we went to a pottery class. It sounded romantic and sweet but ended up being uncomfortable and inescapable. Either because the class was three hours long, or because Phillip was sculpting the naked torso of his ex-wife and crying about how much he missed her.

  Clark blows out a breath, looking bored. “I’m so tired of dating. Tonight is already tedious.”

  I blanch.

  He catches my expression and smiles. It’s not a warm smirk, but a creepy curl of his thin lips. “No offense.”

  “Would you excuse me a moment?” I’m on my feet before I think about it. He waves me off, lifting his beer and draining the mug.

  I thank the good Lord the bathroom is by the front door and also behind Clark’s head. He can’t see me when I duck out the exit instead of powdering my nose. Outside, I suck in a gulp of air as relief swamps me.

  Freedom.

  I walk briskly to my car, looking over my shoulder before enclosing myself inside and taking a deep breath. As I reverse from my parking spot, I send another furtive glance to the door to see if Clark is chasing after me, shaking his fist and demanding I pay for my drink. He’s not there. I drive away feeling as guilty as if I robbed the place.

  Nerves and fear give way to anger. Soon, I’m fuming over several things. I’m upset with myself for being a coward and running away. I’m angry at Clark for being so good on text and so abysmal in person. And I have a bone to pick with Benji for planting a dozen poisoned seeds into my head before my first date in two and a half years.

  I can’t do much about the other two, but Benji I can confront, which is probably why I drive to his house instead of my own. I slam my car door and stomp up his driveway to the front door, growing angrier along the way. I knock, wait for him to answer, and then knock again. The door swings aside. Instead of being momentarily stunned by his beauty the way I normally am, I throw my hands into the air and roar, “Everything is terrible and it’s all your fault!”

  He blinks, does a once-over of me and my dress and heels, and says, “It’s still daylight. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a date?”

  I glare and he steps aside, sweeping his arm to invite me in. I tromp past him and into the kitchen where I plunk my purse onto an empty barstool. I hear the front door shut, and then Benji is on the opposite side of the counter regarding me with raised eyebrows.

  So, I continue.

  “Your pointers were not helpful.” I briefly recap the dinner leading up to what brought me here. “It’s irresponsible to give advice that can cause this much destruction.”

  “Sounds like I saved you from destruction, coach.”

  I glare some more.

  He slides a glass of wine across the counter. “Just poured. I haven’t taken a drink yet.”

  I quirk my lips, dissatisfied with his response, but I take the wine anyway.

  He pours another glass for himself, returns to the counter, and opens a large paper bag. The scent wafting out is heaven. He ordered takeout from the Indian restaurant in Grand Marin. The one I love. He notices me salivating and offers, “I’m happy to share if you’re hungry. I ordered extra. You sound like you might qualify for hangry.”

  “Entirely possible considering I’ve had nothing to eat since lunchtime.” And that was a few crackers slathered with peanut butter.

  He gestures for me to go on as he begins dishing food from plastic containers onto plates.

  “How can you tell if someone’s hands are small?” I ask. “Is it in reference to their head? The rest of them? What if they just have really big arms?” I was being serious but he laughs.

  “He had small hands?”

  “And he chose the restaurant.” I prop my chin up on my fists, elbows resting on the countertop. The scent of curry curls into my nostrils, and my stomach growls.

  “Which one?”

  “The one on Berkley.”

  He cringes. I’m oddly satisfied it’s not just me.
/>   “I was willing to rough it for the sake of being agreeable.”

  He shakes his head. “No good, coach. You choose. Letting you choose is the right thing to do. If he doesn’t know that, he’s a clown.” Benji sets a piece of naan bread on the edge of a plate piled high with rice, curry, and tender grilled chicken. Rather than offering up a plastic fork from the carryout, he digs a real one out of the silverware drawer and hands it to me.

  “I didn’t want to be rude,” I explain, taking the fork.

  He settles in next to me with his own plate of food and his own real fork. He drinks his wine before asking, “And how did that work out for you?”

  I sip my wine. It’s fifty times better than the half of a glass I sipped on my disastrous date. “This is delicious.”

  “Archer ordered it for Club Nine. He bought an extra case and divvied it out between us. Us meaning Nate and me. Mom’s wine cellar is stocked.”

  He can say that again. Lainey Owen has a robust wine selection. She often lets me pick the bottle I want when I’m over there for dinner. I’ve always loved that about her.

  I take a bite of my food and moan in ecstasy. “This is exactly what I wanted tonight.”

  Around the bite of his own food, Benji says, “Like I said, you should always pick. Did he break any of my other rules?”

  “No, but I did. I mentioned I hadn’t dated in a while. He said dating was tedious, and included me in that generalization.”

  Instead of laughing, Benji frowns, the corners of his mouth pulling down as his thick eyebrows slam together. “What a dick.”

  Proud of myself for not seeing through to the end what would have only gotten worse, I straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back. “I excused myself to the bathroom and then I ran out the front door.”

  My best friend laughs, proving his jovial self wasn’t buried too deep beneath his previous reaction. “That’s my girl.”

  There’s an awkward pause where we lock eyes for a truncated beat. I can’t remember a single time he referred to me as “his girl.” Or maybe it’s the intimacy of this moment—me being here, dressed nicely, sipping wine and eating Indian food like we’re on a real date.