Dreaming of the Billionaire Read online

  Despite working my way through school and applying for scholarships and grants, I still managed to rack up quite a bit of student loan debt. I make double payments each month to whittle it down as quickly as possible, but I find myself envious of students who get free rides through school.

  I wonder if they actually appreciate what they’re getting.

  I hear Amy heaving in the bathroom again and I glance at the clock. Nearly an hour has gone by and I’m no closer to completing the paperwork than I was before.

  All I’ve accomplished is actually lowering myself to the same status as one of those dorky girls who drools over strangers she barely knows.

  Awesome.

  I really do need a man.

  4.

  I arrive at work 10 minutes early and my phone is already ringing.

  Awesome.

  Way to start my Friday off with a bang.

  I glance at the receiver and realize that it's an outside number. Strange. Usually when I get phone calls at work, they're from another department asking me to update something for them or to come over and fix their computers. Not this morning.

  "Violet's office," I answer the phone, not bothering to sit down yet. It's not the most professional way to answer the phone, I realize, but it's the most they're going to get from me. I don't like giving out my full name over the phone, especially when I don't know who's calling. I'd rather just answer it, "Hello," but my boss won't go for it. Violet it is.

  "I'm glad I caught you," a sultry voice tells me over the phone. It's a man's voice, and a handsome one from the sounds of it.

  "How can I help you, Sir?" I try to remain professional, secretly wondering who has my number, who is calling me, and what they could possibly want from someone like me.

  "Violet, this is Sean. We met at the banquet yesterday."

  My purse falls to the floor and I slump into my seat. Dreamboat Dreamerson. He's calling me. Sean Moormead is calling me. Sean fucking Moormead. Sean please-let-me-have-your-babies Moormead. Sean.

  I want to purr like a kitten or make some other similar sound, but I don't. Instead, I take a deep breath, making sure that I sound as professional and grown up as possible, and I speak like I'm talking to anyone else. After all, he's just another person, right? He's no one special. If he were ugly or mean or smelled bad, I wouldn't even think twice about talking to him on the phone.

  But he's none of those things, I remind myself.

  "It's nice to hear from you, Mr. Moormead," I say politely. "What can I do for you?"

  I'm wondering how he got my phone number.

  I'm wondering what he wants.

  I'm wondering how many different ways he could get me off before the end of our first date.

  But then I remember to breathe, and I calm down.

  "Please, call me Sean," he reminds me gently. He's nothing if not polite.

  "Of course," I repeat his name. "Sean."

  "I have a business proposition for you," he says. "Of sorts."

  Of sorts?

  Does he want to hire me?

  Does he need me to work for him?

  What does he mean, "of sorts"?

  "Okay..." I carry out the "ay" sound far too long and I worry that I come off sounding obnoxious instead of just confused. That's what I am, after all: confused. He knows that I have a job. It's a good job, too. I make great money and have a flexible schedule that lets me take time off for Amy whenever she needs me. So why is he calling me at work to talk about a business proposition? Shouldn't this be something that's discussed off-site of my current job?

  He laughs, obviously aware of how I'm feeling.

  "Don't worry," he quickly tells me, "it's nothing bad. I'm just very impressed with your work and I would love the chance to talk with you about it. I realize that it's terribly short notice, but can I meet with you tomorrow? Perhaps we could have lunch."

  Tomorrow is Saturday, but it's also the day my sister is telling her boyfriend's parents that she's knocked up. They're insane, and I promised to go with the happy couple to tell them. Dammit. I want to flake out and go out with Sean instead, but that would be awful.

  I'll be a good sister.

  "Uh, Saturday afternoon won't work for me," I tell him. "I could do tomorrow evening, though, or anytime on Sunday."

  I hope I don't sound too available. It's not my intention, by any means. I want him to know that I'm interested, but I also don't want to seem like I have nothing better to do with my weekend than sit around waiting for hotties to call me.

  Even though that's almost entirely true.

  "I know a place in Pinebluff," he says without hesitation. "It's called Happy Chance Steakhouse. We could get a quiet table and discuss my proposition over supper. Would 7:00 work for you?"

  Would forever-and-always work for you?

  I don't say that.

  I just really, really want to.

  Instead, I tell him that's fine and give him my cell phone number so he can reach me at home. He offers to pick me up, but I say it's not a problem to meet him there. I prefer to have my own car, anyway. Even if he does seem really normal, fantastic, and sexy, I don't want to be the kind of girl who gets trapped or feels obligated to go home with a guy because he paid for dinner.

  That's not my style.

  But listening to his voice, I realize that maybe it should be.

  "I look forward to seeing you again, Violet."

  "And I you."

  I hang up the phone and mouth What the fuck? to myself. "And I you"? What does that even mean? Am I the star of some horribly awful romantic comedy about a modest girl stuck in the 50s? Why so prim and proper? Seriously.

  I hope against hope that he'll quickly forget the awkwardness of our conversation, but I realize that the odds of that happening are basically nonexistent. Oh well. I still have sort-of a date, even though I realize logically that it's a business meeting. I can't help but pour over potential project ideas in my head. What does he want to meet me for? Maybe he needs someone to design a website for him. Maybe he has questions about the newest search engine updates and how they affect website traffic. Maybe he...

  I try not to let my mind wander, but it does.

  And before I realize what's happening, it's time for me to go home for the night.

  I look at my desk for a moment before reaching for my purse and wonder what I did all day.

  5.

  "I can't tell them," Amy and I are sitting in the car with Colby. We're outside his parents' house, exactly where we were 10 minutes ago.

  "Babe, it's going to be okay," Colby reassures her, reaching forward. He's in the backseat, technically, but most of his body is squeezed up front between the two of us, touching Amy. It's an awkward, weird position, but it's the only real way he can talk to her without getting out of the car.

  Chances are that his mom has been sitting at the front door, peering through the curtains at us since I parked on the road in front of their house. Our time is limited. If we wait too long, they'll come searching for us, and I'm not sure that any of us is in a good enough place to come up with a good lie as to why we were loitering in front of their home.

  Amy sighs heavily, burying her head in her hands. She's not crying, but she's about to.

  She doesn't know how lucky she is.

  Or maybe she does.

  Most girls would kill to have a guy like Colby helping them through this process. Most girls would kill to have a guy who wasn't afraid to move up the date of the wedding just because you accidentally got knocked up or a guy who didn't care what his parents thought. Most girls would kill to have someone tell you that he was gonna marry you anyway, with or without their support.

  But not Amy.

  She's just shaking, wondering what her future mother-in-law is going to say when she finds out. I know Amy better than anyone else, even better than Colby, and I know she's not going to handle rejection well if Tanya freaks out, but she's the only mother-figure Amy has now and I realize with a jab that o
n some levels, Tanya is the only one who is going to be able to help Amy through this.

  After all, it's not like I've had a baby before.

  "Amy," I place my hand on hers. "Amy, it's going to be okay."

  I look back at the house and sure enough, the curtains slam shut as soon as my eyes reach the baby-blue flowered print on them. I know Tanya spent hours making them herself, slaving over her sewing machine for the perfect set of curtains for her living room. I wonder if she's going to enjoy making clothes and blankets for her new grandchild just as much as she loves making things for her own home.

  Amy squeezes my hand. I know she's about to say she wants Mom. I know she's going to talk about how much she misses her, but this isn't the time. It's not fair to Colby or to Tanya or to Derrick to keep them waiting. I know Amy is scared, but it's time.

  So I turn off the car and step out, walking around to my sister's side.

  I open the door and practically peel her from it.

  I hold Amy by the shoulders and look firmly into her eyes.

  "You can do this, babe," I tell her. "You got this."

  She nods, but I know part of her doesn't believe me. There's a part of her that's just hoping Colby will say he'll do it alone. There's a part of her that's saying we don't ever have to tell them. There's a part of her that's wishing she could just run away.

  But she doesn't.

  Amy takes a deep breath and reaches for Cory's hand. They both turn to me and nod, letting me know that they're going to be okay. This is going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine. I follow behind them as Cory places his hand on the lower portion of Amy's back, guiding her gently to the house.

  Of course he would do that.

  He's a perfect gentleman.

  Part of me misses being in a relationship just for those things. Part of me misses being able to have someone to gently touch you, to let you know how safe you are without actually having to say anything. Part of me misses the way that such a touch feels.

  But as Amy steps up to the front door and Tanya yanks it open, I don't envy my sister for anything in the world.

  6.

  I'm staring into my closet, debating on what to wear. Sean said that the dinner involves some sort of business proposition, so I wonder if I should dress professionally.

  I pick up a blazer that's probably out of style since it's been more than five years since I last wore it. It's blue with white buttons. It would complement my hair color, for sure, but is it really "me"?

  I know that dressing for a business meeting, even a dinner meeting, isn't about you. It's about making the client feel comfortable. It's about building trust. It's about demonstrating that you're capable of whatever the job might be.

  But part of me feels like I need to be honest about who I am.

  I already have a job. I don't need Sean's business proposition. I hate the idea of changing my appearance just to impress him to get a job that I know nothing about, that I didn't ask for, and that I don't need.

  I drop the blazer in the corner, making a mental note to donate it the next chance I get. My closet can use a good cleaning, I realize, starting with that. I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it, considering that I've never worn it. It must have been on sale, I reason, before taking another hard look at my closet.

  I finally settle on a plain, black dress. It comes down to my knees and shows off a minor amount of cleavage. It's not skanky. It doesn't say do me now, but it does show off my femininity. I guarantee Sean will love it. Topping off the ensemble with a bright red cardigan, I decide that I'm ready to go.

  I punch the address of Happy Chance into my GPS and start driving. I've never been to the restaurant before. I've never even heard of it. I hope I'm dressed appropriately for the occasion, but that's really all I can do: hope.

  As I turn onto the highway and head to Pinebluff, I wonder exactly what Sean has to say to me. Part of me wishes that this was a real date. I know in my head that I don't have time for guys right now. I know that there's way too much on my plate, that things are too crazy with Amy, and that I need to focus on work.

  I know it.

  But that doesn't keep me from wishing that there could be something with someone like Sean.

  He really is the whole package.

  I don't care about the money thing or the fact that he's insanely well-to-do. I really don't. I like the way we joked around the first time I saw him. I like how he thought the donors luncheon sucked as much as I did. I liked that he made me feel comfortable and that he didn't care about my weird hair or my choice of clothing.

  I liked that.

  The restaurant is only a 20 minute drive from my house. As I pull into the parking lot, I realize that I'm insanely early. As in, I have half an hour to kill. I turn off the car and lean back in my seat, wondering what I'm about to get myself into.

  Do I really need a second job?

  Do I really have time for a private client?

  Do I want to give up my job at the college if it meant more money, better hours, or more experience?

  I just don't know.

  It's all happening so fast that my head is spinning.

  Before my brain explodes, the clock on my car finally clicks to 7:00 and I grab my purse and head inside the restaurant. The hostess greets me warmly as I step inside.

  "You must be Miss Nielson," she says with a grin. Her teeth are so white. I wonder if she had them professionally done.

  "I am," I tell her, wondering how she knew it was me. Did Sean tell her to look for the girl with weird hair?

  "Mr. Moormead is waiting for you," the hostess says. I follow her throughout the restaurant. The entire place is packed with diners. It's a classy place. Most of the guys are in suits and ties. I find myself relieved that I opted for the tiny black dress instead of the blazer and dress pants. It's always better to go for sultry instead of professional.

  Always.

  The woman leads me throughout the dining room and up a short flight of stairs to a small, private dining area that overlooks the main dining room. A lone table sits in the center of the balcony.

  And there's Sean, waiting for me.

  He stands and walks to meet me.

  I float past the hostess and to his arms, where he wraps me up in a huge, totally-not-appropriate hug.

  I don't care at all.

  He smells amazing and he looks even better.

  "I'm glad you could make it," he says, releasing me.

  "Anything for you," I blurt out, then immediately blush as he laughs at my comment. Did I really just say that? Did I really just go there? Damn. I remind myself to have some self-control, to make the best of the situation today.

  No matter what happens, I remind myself, I have to play it cool. I just have to.

  But as I slide into my seat and look up at Sean's piercing green eyes, I realize that playing it cool is something for people who have it together.

  And I certainly don't.

  7.

  "How was your drive over?" Sean asks me.

  "It was fine. Pretty fast. Easy to find." I tell him. It's true: Pinebluff is less than half an hour from Southvale, but nearly three times as big. The small town I live and work in is nothing compared to the bustle of Pinebluff, but I still find that the city is easy to navigate and get around in.

  "That's wonderful to hear," Sean says, seriously. He keeps looking at me, watching me. I'm just waiting to hear what he has to say.

  I've never been the type of girl who was good around guys.

  That's not to say guys haven't liked me: they have. It's just that I've always been the friend, the roommate, the tomboy, whatever. I've always been the girl guys come to with their problems: not the girl that causes the problem.

  "So, Sean," I say, finally, tired of waiting for him to spit it out. "Why am I here?"

  He laughs quickly and easily. He looks like he's surprised at my question, though I'm not sure why.

  "What?" I ask, but just then the waiter a
rrives. Sean orders a bottle of something I can't pronounce, but not before he makes sure I'm okay with white wine. I nod and the waiter heads off.

  I don't open my menu yet. I'm still waiting to hear what he has to say. I wonder if he thinks that I forgot his laugh or his avoidance of my question.

  I start to wonder if this is less business and more pleasure.