The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

Chapter 20: Olivia

Jetlag? Never heard of her. As soon as we arrive at our hotel in London on a Monday at eleven at night, I’m ready to see the city. The last (and first and only) time I was in London, Professor Paul didn’t want to go to any of the landmarks or the tourist spots, because apparently he spent “ages, really” wandering the aisles of Westminster Abbey and the corridors of the Tower of London when he was in college, studying abroad.

Pompous bastard.

The sound of the elevator dinging reminds me that it’s the middle of the night and all of this will have to wait until we finish our meetings tomorrow. I look over at Davis, who is wearily scrolling on his phone as he steps out of the elevator, emailing as usual. To be honest, I would worry if it weren’t glaringly apparent that he loves it. It’s clear to me that this—this whole family legacy thing—is practically his beating heart. I can tell by the way that he rouses himself out of bed before sunrise every morning. I can tell by the way that I occasionally catch him smiling at his phone or at his laptop, whether or not he realizes that he’s doing it.

“Sir,” the bellhop accompanying us comments softly as he waits for Davis’s attention.

Davis glances up at the bellhop as he pockets his phone, oblivious to the strange feeling that hits me when I hear someone refer to him as “sir.” It gives Davis an air of authority far beyond the mystique that already surrounds him…and it’s inexplicably sexy to me. This is what men are supposed to be like. Composed. Focused. Worthy of respect.

Yet underneath all that, I know there’s an earnestness that keeps him human. I’ve seen both sides of men. I’ve known the stilted and focused types like Professor Paul. Then there were the men who were too human: flawed to their core and unwilling to bend like my stepfather, Albie. Davis is the right mix of it all, the rare mix of it all.

“This one is your room,” Davis explains to me, raising his chin forward.

Suddenly, I find myself reconsidering all the praise I just contemplated for this man. If not for the bellhop who then leads me into the room, I would have asked Davis if he was serious. Separate rooms?

“I’m a few doors down,” he comments from the doorway, keeping his distance from me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Without any fanfare, Davis departs with the bellhop. I find myself alone in my hotel room, completely bewildered by what has just taken place. Sure, we’re here to work…but surely we’re here to do other things.

Right?

Baffled, I give it a couple minutes before I text him, trying out three or four different messages before I land on a message that feels right.

Me: Room number?

Davis: You should be sleeping. We have a big day tomorrow.

Me: Davis Henry Ridgeway, if you don’t tell me your room number…

Davis: You’ll do what, exactly?

Without hesitation, I ditch my jacket and work the straps of my dress over my shoulders. I shimmy it down my stomach so that my bra is showing. It’s one of the new ones that Davis gave me: black and lacy with unearthly powers that make my tits look astounding. Once I’ve pinched both of my nipples to harden them and make them more visible through the thin lace, I snap a picture, taking care to ensure that my smiling face and raised middle finger are in the frame.

Content, I send it to him without any additional words or context. If Davis wants to pose a challenge, he’ll get a challenger in return.

He calls me seconds later and says, “End of the hallway.” He hangs up without another word.

My stomach flutters at the invitation. Throwing caution to the wind, I bring my suitcase with me, assuming he’ll let me stay. When Davis answers the door and sees my luggage at my side, he doesn’t seem surprised. He simply takes the suitcase from me and motions for me to enter.

Naturally, his room is far more luxurious than mine, equipped with a sitting area off of the front door and a clear line of sight into a sultry, dimly lit bedroom over to the left.

“You were really going to let me sleep down the hall?” I demand as soon as the door is closed behind me.

Stonily, he looks me up and down, his expression stoic and gorgeous even after the long day of travel. “Saying yes is obviously the wrong answer.”

“We have four weeks until I go back to Philadelphia, and we’ve had sex once. Somehow, I’m still fifty-five thousand dollars richer. I’m not sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that it sounds like you like fucking me, Olivia Nolan.” His words are slow and knowing. Paired with his intense gaze, they strike me in a deep, needy place that has me ready to pounce on him.

Before I can make up my mind, Davis cocks his head towards the bedroom. “I’ve taken enough of these transatlantic flights and gone to work the next day feeling like absolute American shit. We’re both taking melatonin and going to sleep. Understood?”

Dislike. Strong dislike. “Honesty clause: I hate that idea.”

He lets out a soft scoff through his pressed lips before he says, “You think your hatred fazes me? I’m so used to it, I practically feed off of it.” He holds out his hand. “Come on, Miss Nolan. Time for bed.”

“You’re such a cockblock,” I protest, although I’m not even sure why I’m so insistent on this. While I do (admittedly) love playing with Davis, we do fine when we’re not. It’s like I can’t resist needling him though, and after spending most of the flight watching him click away on his laptop, raising the bar astronomically for how sexy a man can aspire to look in a sweater and tailored slacks, trying to convince him to fuck me comes naturally.

“When a guy cockblocks himself, I think it’s called ‘being responsible,’” he challenges as he ushers me into the bedroom. “Stop being obstinate and start thinking sleepy thoughts. Do you want chamomile? A robe?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he dips into the ensuite bathroom and emerges with a fluffy white bathrobe that he hands to me. I don’t even have time to protest before he leaves the room and returns with my suitcase, which he places on the luggage stand against the wall.

“Change,” he instructs as he leaves ones again. He says the word with the same authority and brevity as he does when he tells me to strip, but there’s a nurturing air that leaves me frozen in place, heart beating so fast that my neck begins to feel warm.