Billionaire With a Twist 3 (12 page)

“We should celebrate,”
Hunter murmured in my ear.

My skin heated at his very words. “Your
place or mine?”

I could feel Hunter’s grin
stretching wide. “Oh, I’m not fussy. But there is another
place I’d like to stop off at first.

#

I mock-glared at Hunter, my hands on my
hips. “Seriously? This place?”

“Seriously,” he said.
“After all, this is where the magic all began.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are
calling it these days?” I asked. “‘Magic?’”

“Well, that’s what it feels
like to me,” said Hunter, with a purely joyful smile that
melted the façade of my anger. “Shall I get us a private
booth?”

I gave him a playful shove. “You
do that, Mr. Self-Made Man.”

We were at the bar where we had first
met. It looked like it had had a bit of a makeover since then; a few
nicer pieces of art hung on the walls, and the floor looked as if it
had been freshly polished. But the color of the stained-glass lamps
and the deep walnut of the wood still conjured up happy memories.

Hunter’s fingers tangled with
mine across the table of our booth as we both took our seats. “Are
you saying you didn’t find it magical, Miss Bartlett?” he
said with a smirk, his honey voice spreading out in a satisfied
drawl. “I seem to remember several very vocal statements on
your part that would lead me to believe otherwise.”

“Really?” I said sweetly.
“All I remember is how a certain someone just
had
to
leave the festivities before things could get really interesting.”

We grinned at each like fools. I was
surprised we had any blood left in our veins, with all this sap going
around.

And I wouldn’t have changed a
moment of it. Not for the world.

“Come on, man, she was asking for
it!” A drunk slur interrupted my ruminations, and both Hunter’s
and my heads jerked around for the source. Just some drunk guy
getting kicked out of the bar—wait, was that—

“Oh my God,” I said to
Hunter. “I think that’s Chad.”

Hunter scrutinized him before Chad
could go sailing out the door. “I think you’re right.”

Well, looked like karma was a bitch.
This made the perfect cherry on top to the rest of the Douchebros’
collective fortunes: after the old company went down in flames (it
was all those investors jumping ship to invest in Hunter’s new
company instead), they’d had quite a hard time finding anyone
else who wanted their services.

Knox Liquors had actually tanked so bad
without Hunter at the helm that he was able to buy the Knox name back
for next to nothing. He’d told me he might use it in the
future, but for now, he was happy to be building something of his
own.

He’d named the new company
‘Bartlett.’ Just thinking about it now made my heart feel
like it was being squeezed.

Hunter interrupted my memories: “So
you saw the new space today, right? The one in Charleston? How’s
that?”

“Oh, you know,” I said,
flagging down a waiter. “It’s all formless white until
you start to press some personality into it. I’m sure it’ll
shape up in no time, though.”

As soon as Hunter’s company had
gotten onto solid ground and his need for my professional services
twenty-four/seven had started to decrease, I had begun to look into
putting together my own advertising consultancy firm. My campaign for
him had brought in tons of new clients, and the Charleston offices
were just one of three different sites I had all over the South. I
was due to be profiled in Forbes next week, and I still kept having
to pinch myself to make sure that this was all really happening.

“Ally?” Hunter said. “Earth
to Ally, come in, Ally, come in.”

I came back down from the clouds with a
start. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was saying,” Hunter said
with an indulgent smile, “that I happened to have booked a room
in this hotel. If after you finish your drink you find yourself
feeling a bit too tired to drive, might I invite you up just in case
you’re interested in a…retry?”

A wonderful assortment of images danced
through my head. I thought for precisely one second, and then I
grinned.

“Who needs beer?”

THE END.

Thanks to knowledgeable (and sometimes flirtatious) bartenders in Los Angeles who talked to me
for hours about whiskey.

Thanks to Uber for all the rides home.

Thank you to the bloggers and readers who make promoting this work so much fun. Your humor and
intelligence inspire me to be a better writer. Your perversity and Tumblr proficiency corrupt me.

On Facbook:
https://www.facebook.com/lilamonroebooks?fref=ts

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@LilaWrites

Do you enjoy fun, romantic reads? Read on for a sneak chapter of
The Art of Stealing Hearts
by Stella London,
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Meet Grace and St. Clair: she’s an aspiring gallery girl, he’s the sexy billionaire
art collector. Together, they’ll discover a world of romance in the hot new series by Stella London!

THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS
available now
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My
mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep
your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she
said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright
colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city
streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and
head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s
hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally
standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

“Um,
excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi
cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores
me.

I
check my watch again: 8:41 am.
Crap!
I bite my lip to
keep from yelling.
Crapcrapcrap.
I’m
supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make
that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m
spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this
smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business
outfit.

After
a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and
museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in
the art world until last week when the best auction house in San
Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after
and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French
Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head
masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the
masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late
to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months
might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at
my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too
old to remember the specials.

“Sir?”
This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the
driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super
late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

The
minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and
we’ve gone less than a block.
Why
aren’t we moving?!
As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window,
honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way
into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

The
driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

I
think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s
the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How
much further is Gold Street?”

The
cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

“Is
it close enough to walk?” I press him.

“Sure,”
he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

Screw
this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and
collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks
like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid
traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a
pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll
take my chances.”

The
cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I
inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my
shoulder, and start jogging.

Immediately,
my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My
feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to
run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried
hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to
the sweat beading on my forehead.

“Sorry!
‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like
running an obstacle course in heels.

I
dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and
sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force
myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the
tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected
and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San
Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

One.
More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and
scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold
Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular
chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

I
shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s
a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds
his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown
liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

“Oh my God!” I grab
some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I
say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out.
Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

“It’s
fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much
sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers
touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s
night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I
remember my priorities.

“I’m sorry about the
spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m
running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away,
feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

“So this is a run-by
coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

I
turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth
that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips
that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as
the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a
museum.
Whoa, there.
“Should I call the police?” he asks.

I
smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red.
I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s
no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give
me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I
really do have to run.”

He
falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,”
he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t
you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate
it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk
and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest
showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

“It
mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to
frown on shirtless businessmen.”

I
imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

“That
was a joke,” he says, smiling.

Over
the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy
clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and
thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

“This meeting must be a big
deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to
converse with a handsome man.”

“It
really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to
weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually.
It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

“Ouch,”
he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not
going to bite on the handsome line?”

“Oh!”
Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s
not what I meant. It’s just—”

“So
you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

“I
admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

He
grins. “My kind of girl.”

I
stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of
the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to
Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little
disappointed to see him go.

He
smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples.
“Good luck with the interview.”

“Thanks,”
I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

“You’ll
knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a
confident smile on my face.

I
face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last
week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel
hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit
together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

One
last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie
I ruined?”

“Tell
you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing
by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a
coffee.”

Because
he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll
probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off
the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at
him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face
as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.