The Billionaire's Obsession

Jack

Iwatch her face as she blushes and shoves her hair out of her face. She adjusts and switches her purse in her arms. Charlotte soaking wet isn’t a temptation I prepared for. I prepared to find my cat, get him inside, then have a quiet night thinking over what I learned today.

About Charlotte.

But here she is, in gray pants that cling to her legs and a see-through black blouse that’s like a second skin. Even her wet blonde hair hugs her face and shoulders. With her makeup in place, heels next to her feet, purse hanging by her fingers, she looks younger. Innocent, even.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t come once or twice to the memory of her in that fucking bikini, but this is something different. The bikini was online, for everyone. This version—her soaking wet having rescued my cat—is just for me, at this moment, right now.

We stare at each other awkwardly as the rain echoes in the hallway and water drips off us. I clear my throat and nod to her again.

“Thanks.” I motion with Hamlet as he buries himself in her soft sweater.

She shrugs. “Anyone would do it.”

Ham squirms in my arms, then escapes the sweater, goes to Charlotte, and rubs all over her legs. He meows and jumps at her, begging to be picked up. After a hesitation and a glance at me for permission, she obliges, holding him to her chest and stroking him as he purrs obnoxiously.

“What a traitor,” I half joke.

Charlotte nuzzles him, and Ham’s eyes close. He’s never let anyone hold him but me. Hell, he usually hides from people.

“Apparently, he needs a collar, so he knows to whom he belongs.” I roll my eyes.

“He’s sweet.” Charlotte insists with a smile. Then she coughs lightly and faces the cat. “For a cat.”

“Don’t expect him to be this nice all the time.”

“So he’s like his owner.” She smiles at me, then sighs. “But you need to go home, Hamlet.”

“He’s a manipulative bastard.”

She laughs, something light and genuine. I take a step forward. Close enough to smell her floral perfume and see her shiver.

“At least you’re funny.” She smiles at me.

“Does that save me from being a jackass, then?” I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know why I care about her opinion other than I seem to have to deal with it regularly.

“It doesn’t make up for it entirely, that’s for sure.” Even with the eye roll, she’s glowing. The honesty in her expression thrills me. Not pissy or entitled, but sweet.

“Don’t tell me the cat makes the difference, right?”

She looks at him, then shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

It takes effort to keep from touching her, just sliding my hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer. I could say it’s the cold of the rain. Or that I’m overcome with joy over finding the little bastard in her arms. Any excuse to be able to touch her, then go back to hating her.

I know her type—the kind that’ll do things just to see how they play out. The kind of person who doesn’t know an emotion other than validation. I’ve dealt with them before, and I don’t want to start feeling anything for another narcissist.

Not that it changes the fact that my dick does the thinking when she’s around.

“I can just carry him up, then he’ll be happy once he’s inside your place,” Charlotte offers. “To make it easier.”

“Are you sure? I can always grab him. One of the perks of having thumbs.”

She snorts, but I catch her small smile as she scratches under his chin.

“It’s okay. Just…lead the way, I guess.”

“You trust me that much?”

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

I lead her up as she croons and sweet talks Hamlet. I want to be snarky, to keep her at arm’s length and keep up what we have going on. It’s easier to hate her and resist the way my body reacts to her when she’s slamming doors in my face. But she’s shivering just like Hamlet, and even I am not that bad or inconsiderate.

Or maybe I’m dressing it up so I can ignore the fact that I want a chance to be with her alone. I shake my head and focus on the walk.

“So what did you do all day?” she mumbles.

“I worked. How about you, Charlotte?”

“I know you don’t think that what I do is work, Jack.”

“It’s not.”

“Photographer is a profession.”

“Is that what you consider yourself? Is that what you call yourself in your influencer meetings?”

She lets out a long heavy sigh and rolls her eyes. “What does that matter? I pay my bills just like everyone else. I devote more than forty hours a week to my job. Why is it any different than yours?”

“Because what I do is real.”

She doesn’t answer, so I turn around to face her. Where’s the normal sarcasm? She chews her lip and stares at her feet. For a second, I worry that it’s my fault, that I really offended her, maybe even hurt her this time. But I haven’t said anything I haven’t already told her. She knows I think what she does for money is a joke. And I have yet to be proven wrong.

Unlocking my door, I welcome Ham and Charlotte inside. She hesitates a moment, but gives in. She sets Hamlet down in front of his food, and he immediately scarfs down his meal. I roll my eyes and catch Charlotte looking around.

I follow her gaze to a table of photos. Family and friends all crowded together, showing the best moments. I shut the door to keep Hamlet from running out again. As she moves through the living room, I pull out my hair dryer and point it at Hamlet.

He hisses, but then lifts his leg and cleans himself. Like he can prove in one action that he doesn’t need me at all. I smile at him, then remember Charlotte.

She shivers again as she takes in my condo. I prefer to call it minimalistic. I have exactly what I need to be comfortable without being cluttered.

She nods once. “I thought the penthouse was going to be filled with statues and art. The view matches this beautiful wraparound patio that you have overlooking the marina.” She faces me again from the window. “Not what I expected from you, honestly.”

“I can say the same about finding Ham with you.” I shrug.

“Yeah.” Her trembling continues, even when she tries to stop it.

I sigh. I don’t want to be nice to her. Not after our first and second meeting. Still, there’s a limit to my frustration. I’m not going to make her suffer. Especially since she rescued my cat. Even though she didn’t know it was my cat.

I turn on the gas fireplace and watch her move closer. I smile to myself. She’s like a moth to a flame. She rubs her hands together and blows into them. I’d be happy to warm her up too, lay her down by the fire, and make her forget about everything but me.

But no. Instead, I focus on reality, not on the fantasy that I’ll jerk off to later.

“You can dry off in the bathroom. There are plenty of towels,” I offer.

She looks at me over her shoulder, narrows her eyes like she’s trying to find my angle, then nods. “Thanks…I think.”

“I’m not going to spy on you or anything.”

“I was picturing a Carrie type of situation. I walk into the bathroom and blood falls from the ceiling and all over me.”

“That’s a good idea. Prepare for that if I ever invite you over again.” I point at her.

She rolls her eyes and walks into the bathroom, her hips swaying with each step. I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t watch her go. No! She’s a tenant. She’s too young. And I know how bitchy she can be.

So why is this huge part of my mind so desperate for her? It can’t be something as simple as her taking care of my cat, or as straightforward as how beautiful she is. That type of thing doesn’t make my heartbeat quicken.

I can’t linger on these thoughts. Instead, I pour some wine and put together a nice-looking snack—cheese and fruit. Still, my brain wanders back to her. I glance at the bathroom door, then open my phone. I’ve heard whispers around the condo about her—all positive, so maybe I’m missing something.

Or they just have no clue what she’s really like.

I scroll through her social media and start taking notes. She’s donated money, and more importantly, time to children’s charities. She used to write about mental health, the grieving process, and depression as a whole.

An imperfect, moody, intelligent, and soulful woman shows through the posts from last year and before. A willingness to be vulnerable and to let people in without a single filter in the way.

The door to the bathroom opens, and I hear Charlotte pause. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah.”

“And you used to have braces and a bowl cut.” A soft laugh. “How did you go from cute preteen to asshole?”

“Life,” I say over my shoulder as I quickly lock my phone. “I could ask you the same question.”

“When men call women a bitch or an asshole, it’s because we’re ambitious instead of meek and accepting. My mom taught me that smiles only get you so far in life. Hard work and taking no shit get you farther.”

“And once the smile doesn’t work?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” She sighs for a moment. “Are you close to your parents?”

“Not as much as I should be, I’m sure. You?”

“They’re not around.” A soft sigh.

I shouldn’t want to know more. But as the silence stretches, I find myself unable to resist. “What do you mean?”

“Dad was never in the picture. Mom was taken by cancer. It was a surprise. She just thought something was up and then finds out she has stage four. It was a messy senior year.” Charlotte exhales unsteadily. “I miss her.”

“I’m sorry.” I mean it. I’ve had a comfortable living comparatively. My parents didn’t always approve of my choices and we fought, but I had them there. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“No one does.”

I decide to face her and try and have a real conversation, no negative comments or any of the hatred that I’ve used before. But just as I’ve promised myself to behave, I see her.

Less damp and less dressed. She’s wearing nothing but one of my dark-blue towels wrapped around her body. The color makes her skin look softer, paler, more tempting. Her long legs are toned. Just a few minutes ago, I was sure that nothing could be more tempting than her in a bikini, but now…

She reaches out to a photo of my sister and me. We’re playing leapfrog or something. I swallow, trying to manage my hardening cock and growing lust for this woman. I have to shove my hands into my sopping wet pockets to keep from touching her.

“Only child?” My voice is raspy.

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why you think I’m spoiled.”

“No. You stomped your foot at me when we met.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, not bothering to argue with me.

Her fiery, demanding, sassy attitude has been so played out. This softer side, thoughtful and gentle, is endearing. She’s acting her age. Twenty-nine-year-olds shouldn’t be running around taking pictures of themselves and making demands like they’re teenagers. Right now, she’s approachable, eloquent, and all the more attractive for it.

I could steal her towel and say it’s because I’m still damp so I can get a look at her luscious body underneath. Maybe she wants me to take that towel. No, damn it! I should pull it together and keep myself away from her. It’s easier to keep up this negative banter than to acknowledge anything real. I have to find a way out of this. I swallow and try not to take a step toward her despite what my body wants to do. I could just climb into the shower myself to warm up and dry off. I could tell her that I have to go to bed early, that I have work to do.

My feet bring me closer.