The Billionaire Dating Game: A Romance Novel Page 3

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  She handed me one of the coffees, and I took a sip. Caffeine and sugar. If that didn’t get me writing, nothing would.

  “Daniel told me you didn’t give him a chance,” Jessica said.

  “I gave him plenty of chance. And you told him that I was desperate!”

  “You are desperate! You’re wondering why you haven’t found Mr. Right yet? We’ve been over this.”

  I sighed and pressed my fingers to my temples.

  “No, I mean, that’s the article I have to write,” I said. ‘Five Reasons You Haven’t Found Mr. Right Yet.’”

  “Oh.” She grimaced. “That’s an awful title.”

  “Tell that to Clarence.”

  “I will.”

  “He’ll take it from you better,” I said. “I don’t even think it’s grammatically correct. ‘Five Reasons You Haven’t Yet Found Mr. Right?’ Does that sound British?”

  “Did he come up with this idea for you?”

  “More like he shoved the idea in my face and told me I needed to get ‘relevant.’”

  “He really ought to do a better job being a manager,” Jessica said. “It’s getting ridiculous how much he pep-talks me.”

  “I think he’s trying to pep-talk your pants off,” I grumbled, popping another gummi bear.

  “Did he tell you he was just trying to give you a helpful suggestion to make Moi Magazine better’? I love all of his helpful suggestions. They’re so… helpful, you know? Except for when they’re not. Every single time.”

  “How is a clickbait article supposed to make me relevant?” I asked. This wasn’t a new rant, but Jessica listened like it was. I loved her for that. “I want to write something important for women. This…this…”

  “It’s crap,” Jessica said, taking another sip.

  “It’s worse than crap!” I cried out, throwing my pen against the wall. It left a little mark on the wall next to all the other pen marks created from all of my boss’s helpful suggestions.

  “It’s sexist.”

  “It’s demeaning. How can people even read this?”

  “Lisa. Look,” Jessica said. I knew she was about to start in with one of her oh-so-reasonable explanations. “It’s Clarence’s job to sell magazines. Of course he’s going to lean towards article titles that are… sensationalist.”

  “Sensationally dumb.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to write the whole article that way.”

  “This is impossible,” I moaned, my head falling onto the pile of papers on my desk.

  “Come on,” she said. “Nothing’s impossible. Let’s brainstorm. Why haven’t you found a boyfriend yet? Be honest.”

  “Because all men are immature assholes.”

  “That’s… okay, that’s probably too honest.”

  “Sorry for the brutal truth.” My mind flickered to the man in the mask. What he’d been saying—wasn’t that exactly what I’d been feeling all this time? Empty?

  No. He wasn’t a real guy. He was a weirdo, someone I’d only met for a few minutes. No matter how much his words had resonated with me, that didn’t mean that he was mature, or intelligent, or anything at all. He was a good kisser, and that’s all I could say with certainty.

  “What’s another reason?” Jessica asked. She was ticking them off on her fingers.

  “Because my standards are too high,” I said. “And I’m a perfectionist. Well, that’s what Emma says.”

  “Your sister isn’t allowed to give you dating advice,” Jessica said, wagging her finger over the rim of the coffee cup. “Not after Joey.”

  “She doesn’t have the best taste in guys,” I allowed. “But she knows me better than I know myself.”

  “You’re so lucky to have a good sister. And an adorable niece.”

  I looked up at Jessica. Her eyes were focused far away, as though imagining the sister she never had. She was all sexiness, wearing an eggplant-colored pantsuit with a cream turtleneck sweater underneath. Her chunky turquoise necklace matched her teal pumps and her belt had brass and turquoise accents on the buckle. Her perfectly curled hair hung over her shoulders.

  I stared down at my own outfit: a black jacket over a white blouse and black pants. My hair was up in a frizzed-out half-ponytail; I hadn’t even bothered to brush it today before coming in. Of course she would be the one with the sexy boyfriend. I was dressed like an FBI agent from the eighties.

  Jessica was the fashion editor, the one with her column inside the front every week. She had a quarter-page spread whenever she went to a new fashion event. She was perfect. And yet, Jessica sighed with jealousy whenever I talked about Emma and Arlen.

  I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, I thought. I wasn’t in front of the cameras like Jessica was. On our website, she was ‘the face of Moi’, and her videos brought in a ton of ad revenue. My own job at the magazine was a lot less exciting. I just made sure everything was running and filled in the gaps whenever somebody forgot to do their job. Apart from getting Clarence’s lattes, I wrote articles when we needed filler, made up surveys, and put together graphics most days when Tony was too hungover to finish his work. I didn’t have a degree, so I got stuck doing all the work nobody else wanted to do.

  If Jess was the face of Moi, I was the spandex that kept all the bumps from showing.

  “You’re so goddamn stylish,” I said. “That’s reason number two I haven’t found Mr. Right. I’m a hot mess.”

  “You have too much work to do to worry about fashion,” Jessica said.

  “Weren’t we supposed to go shopping for me? I seem to remember some New Year’s resolution about revamping my wardrobe.”

  “You said you had too much work. And then you needed to lose twenty pounds first,” she reminded me.

  “Reason number three I haven’t found Mr. Right: I need to lose twenty pounds.” I plopped the bag of gummi bears down on my desk with a glum pout.

  “Oh! Which reminds me, did you get my email about making the graphic for Who Wore It Best?”

  “It’s already in your inbox,” I said.

  “You are a lifesaver.”

  “Reason number four I haven’t found Mr. Right: I’m too busy saving lives.”

  “You are a super hero in this office. Even if Clarence doesn’t respect that.”

  “What’s to respect? I make stupid graphics about fashion trends and write articles that make women feel bad about themselves,” I complained.

  I felt like slumping to the floor and giving up my super hero duties right then. It was an hour after I was supposed to be home, and I wasn’t a single word closer to finishing this article.

  “Your stupid graphics are so much better than anybody else’s stupid graphics,” she said, with a look of sincere optimism that made me want to cry.

  “Tell me why I work here again?”

  “Because,” Jessica said, turning away from the doorway, “if I didn’t have you to bitch to, I would have killed myself a long time ago.”

  “Ah,” I said. I blinked hard. “Right.”

  My phone rang. I looked at it and then wished I hadn’t.

  “It’s Clarence,” I said.

  “Don’t answer it. You’re busy writing an article, and he’s going to call you in to sharpen all of his pencils. Or reorganize the magazine awards on his wall. Or something.”

  “I have to answer it!”

  “Reason number five you haven’t found Mr. Right,” Jess said, as I picked up the phone. “You pretend to be independent, and then you let guys step all over you.”

  “I don’t—hello? Yes?” I gritted my teeth. “Yes, I’ll be right there.”

  “Told you,” Jessica mouthed to me. I threw a gummi bear at her head, and she caught it expertly in her mouth. “Thanks for the candy.”

  “Take them all!” I called back to her, as I headed down the hall to Clarence’s office and certain doom.

  “But I hate reality TV!”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Clarence
clicked his pen shut, a sure sign that the conversation was done. “We need a replacement column and there’s nobody else who can write, edit, and proof within the day. This one is yours, Lisa.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I put my clipboard on my knee and balanced my coffee cup on top of it. “Does it have to be an interview with some reality TV host?”

  “It’s not just some reality TV host, Lisa. It’s Piers Letocci.”

  “Who the hell is Piers Letocci?”

  “Oh my gosh!” Jessica exclaimed, poking her head through the door of Clarence’s office. “Are you meeting with Piers Letocci?”

  “No,” I said, at the same time Clarence said “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you give Jessica the interview?” I asked Clarence. Jessica perked up her ears, but he was already shaking his head.

  “No. Jessica’s on the fashion show in Midtown tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, Jess,” I said, leaning back over my chair. “I tried.”

  “Ooh, you’ll have so much fun!” she said. “Get me his autograph, will you?”

  “Sure,” I said. When she stepped away, I turned back to Clarence. “No, I won’t. Because I’m not doing this interview.”

  “What else do you want me to put in the entertainment section?”

  “Thanks for asking. I have a great idea, actually,” I said, flipping through my clipboard. “A couple of great ideas.”

  Clarence leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

  “Why did I ask?”

  “There’s a girl who’s been fighting in Syria for—”

  “No.”

  “No what? You haven’t even heard the pitch.”

  “Syria? Lisa, really? It’s an entertainment column.”

  “Okay,” I said, flipping another two pages. “Okay. How’s this? Ellen Degeneres is hosting a charity concert in Central Park to help prevent teen suicide—”

  “No.”

  “—even if the band playing is Talismen?”

  Clarence squinted at me suspiciously.

  “Can you get an interview with them?”

  I took a sip of coffee and realized that I couldn’t get away with a lie.

  “Well, no,” I admitted. “But the head of the charity—”

  “No. No, no, no. Why am I even listening to you? We’re running with this. It’s a new reality TV show and we finally got Piers Letocci to agree to an interview with Moi.”

  “Finally!” I let the sarcasm drip off my tongue. “I’ve been waiting for eons for an opportunity like this.”

  “Don’t fuck this up, Lisa. Piers Letocci is the face of America.”

  “Isn’t he British?” I frowned, tapping my pen on the clipboard.

  “That’s why Americans love him. America loves British guys.”

  I sighed. I wasn’t getting out of this. One interview wouldn’t kill me, even it was with some airhead reality TV host. I lifted the coffee mug to my lips and pretended to deliberate.

  “Fine. You owe me,” I said to Clarence, for what seemed like the millionth time.

  “Didn’t you hear what Jessica said? You’re going to have so much fun.”

  “Kill me now.”

  Clarence ignored me.

  “Here’s the address. He’ll be ready for you at three o’clock.”

  “Three o’clock tomorrow? That gives me, what? An hour to write the dang article before we go to press? Maybe an hour and a half?!”

  “I know it’s short notice. That’s why I chose you. You can think quickly. And you write well under pressure.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me, Clarence,” I grumbled.

  “Okay. You should probably wear a different outfit when you head downtown tomorrow.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with this outfit?” I looked down at my black pants suit, which was my only clean suit for the week.

  Well, kind of clean. My white blouse had a little bit of a Pop Tart stain on it. I licked my thumb and rubbed at it fiercely. Mmm, strawberry. “See? All good.”

  Clarence raised both hands in the air in surrender.

  “Just get me the column by five,” he said.

  I sighed.

  “Photographer?”

  “We’ll pull a stock photo of him from our files.”

  “Oh? We have photos of him?”

  “We have several thousand photos of him, yes, Lisa. He’s kind of a big deal. Can you treat this assignment seriously?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What’s the name of the show?”

  “The Billionaire Dating Game.”

  I didn’t spit out my coffee, but I came close.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Get down there, Lisa. Get me a great interview with Piers Letocci. And maybe I’ll be able to fit your Syria thing in next month if we have the room.”

  “Sure,” I said, pressing my lips together. “Great. Will do.”

  The Billionaire Dating Game, I muttered under my breath as I walked away from Clarence’s office. This is what ten years of working in journalism gets me. The Freaking Billionaire Dating Game.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, I headed downtown to the building where they were having the first round of auditions for The Billionaire Dating Game. I’d spent the whole morning writing up my article about finding Mr. Right, so I hadn’t had time to do much research on Piers Letocci. I clutched Clarence’s list of mandatory questions in one hand and a large double mocha latte in the other. Twisting sideways on the subway, I tried to adjust Emma’s pencil skirt that fit a bit too tightly around my waist. I was already going to be five minutes late, and the interview slot was only a half hour long.

  Clarence had wolf whistled at my borrowed outfit when I arrived that morning, so at least I had that going for me. If I never found my Mr. Right, I could always date my skeevy, controlling boss. Unless he fired me for being late for this opportunity-of-a-lifetime interview. Then I’d be out on the streets in my too-tight skirt.

  Slutty Lisa Forrester, I thought grimly.

  I stared down at the question list but all of the words blurred together. I’d been up too late last night with Arlen screaming her head off. I sipped my latte and willed the caffeine into my veins. I’d done plenty of interviews with celebrities before. Nothing to worry about. There was a format that these sorts of things tended to follow, and I wasn’t going to stress over it.

  At least, I wasn’t until I got there.

  I was most of the way down the hall to the room where I thought the auditions were being held. As I turned the corner, though, a door opened in front of me. I held up my hands to stop the door from smacking me in the face, and—

  “Ahh!”

  I shrieked as the double mocha latte splashed all down the front of my white blouse.

  “Ow!” I cried, dropping the cup on the ground and plucking the hot fabric away from my skin. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  “Are you alright?”

  I turned my attention away from my quickly cooling blouse and glared up at the man who was making me even later to my interview.

  “No thanks to y—”

  My words stopped in my mouth when I saw who it was who was responsible for my shirt being doused in coffee. The man standing over me was wearing expensive leather shoes that shone like ebony. The cufflinks on his wrists sparkled gold. He smelled like expensive cologne, the kind we advertise in the pages of Moi. And the lines of his crisp dark suit led straight up to his eyes.

  His piercing, blue-green eyes.

  “I—you—you!” I stammered.

  “Me. Indeed.”

  I stared at his eyes. He was wearing something weird—eyeliner, maybe? It made his eyes pop even more. But that wasn’t the craziest part of all this.

  “You work here?” I asked in astonishment. The coincidence was unbelievable.

  “Something like that,” the man said. He reached out quickly, calmly. “Come here. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

  He took me by the arm and led me down the
hallway. I couldn’t resist, even if I had wanted to. His touch was so sure, so possessive, that it made my muscles obey him like a trained automaton. He pulled me sharply into a break room and locked the door behind us. When he whirled around, there was anger in his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “I’m working! What are you doing here?”

  “Me? I work here!” he said, like I was ridiculous for even asking the question. “Did you follow me here?”

  To my surprise, he had a heavy British accent. Much heavier than when I’d met him. But his question threw me for an even bigger loop.

  “Follow you? What do you think I am, a stalker?”

  “Maybe.” He crossed his arms and arched his eyebrows suspiciously. God, he looked even sexier than he had at the coffeeshop.

  Coffee. I looked down at my blouse.

  “You spilled my latte all over me!” I said. “I was minding my own business—”

  “—not watching where you were going—”

  “It doesn’t even matter!” I cried, knowing that he was right about that. “You opened the door too fast! And now look at me!”

  He looked down at my blouse for the first time, and a wicked smile spread across his face.

  “You’re a bit more see-through than the first time I saw you.”

  I snapped my head down. My drenched white blouse was sticking to my skin and black bra, showing every curve and mole on my belly.

  “Don’t look at me!”

  “You’re a bit of a contradiction, aren’t you?” he said, his smile spreading even wider. “Look at me, don’t look at me! Kiss me—”

  “Don’t kiss me!”

  “Exactly.”

  “I never once told you to kiss me!” I hissed.

  “No, that’s true,” he said. “But you were thinking it.”

  My God, this guy was cocky as hell. I breathed in, then out, gathering my nerves.

  “Forget that. What are we going to do about this?” I asked, pulling my coffee-soaked shirt away from my skin. It was starting to get cold, and goosebumps rose up on my arms.