Marrying My Billionaire Boss

Holy shit. “Fifty bucks? Like five-zero?” No wonder she’s not part of this photo op. What’s that girl’s secret?

“Fifty. Only one zero behind the five.”

“Ouch.” I wince on Court’s behalf. “Wasn’t he in high demand?” Although Court isn’t as loaded as Nate, he’s still an extremely rich bachelor.

“Long story, but he was happy with the outcome. And that’s all that matters.”

A reporter shoves her way toward us, somehow bypassing security. I see Tolyan’s missing, which explains why.

“Tell me what it’s like to bid on one of the world’s most eligible bachelors!” she demands, almost knocking my teeth out with a recorder. “Did you know you’d win?”

My stomach turns to ice. There’s no way I’m going to give her an interview or comment. Nate pulls me closer, and thankfully her attention switches to my boss, like a high-strung Chihuahua on four shots of espresso. “What does it feel like to be the most expensive bachelor of the night?”

Nate gives her a charming smile. “Well, what can I say? The ladies love me.”

And I love you too, for taking her focus off me.

I practice deep breathing as she throws a few more questions at him. In fact, I pretend I’m not here. I’m in my room. In my pajamas. Surfing the net. This is a scene from a very badly scripted Netflix show, not a slice of my evening…

“And you?” The reporter swivels, jamming the black thing back in my direction. “What does it feel like to win one of the most eligible bachelors in the world?”

The question shatters my calm-inducing imagery. The cheese from earlier pushes upward, and my feet tilt sideways as my knees turn to butter.

Nate tightens his arm around me. “Ms. Parker?”

Oh thank God. I guess I won’t end up on my butt with him holding me up.

“I only need one quote!” the reporter says, obviously not getting the hint that her need for that quote is the problem here.

“Gonna be sick,” I say weakly, and then throw up on her shoes.

Chapter Eleven

Evie

My defiling of the reporter’s shoes makes the front page of numerous gossip rags and tabloids. Along with photos of me and Nate together that were taken before all the hurlage. What happened at the Aylster Hotel even becomes a topic on commute-time radio talk shows for a day or two. I can’t listen without feeling shivers run up my spine, so I have to click away or turn off the radio every time it comes up.

Talk about embarrassing. At least radio doesn’t have pictures, just a bunch of snarky commentary, which I unfortunately sometimes catch when I’m late switching the station.

Some claim I was nervous. How overwhelmingly astute, I think. Some say I became sick over the prospect of having to pay half a million bucks for Nate, which of course is totally off the mark. Nate himself seemed to think the puking was okay as long as it wasn’t on his shoes.

I thought he might become a little upset after he managed to flush all the alcohol out of his system. But no. The man actually preens reading headlines declaring him the most sought-after bachelor of the auction. Pettily enough, I wish I’d spent more money at Jun’s boutique. And maybe gotten two facials.

I text Mom to let her know I’m fine and ask her to ignore the articles. She asks me if any of them are true, and I tell her most of those papers are writing fiction. Lying without lying. I hate this, but I don’t want to worry her. She’s going to have a heart attack if she thinks I’m repeating the same mistake I made back home by actually dating Nate.

For a brief moment, I wonder if anyone in Dillington saw the articles and recognized me. I can’t decide how I feel about that. Are they going to feel a twinge of guilt they drove me away? Or are they going to whisper, “Oh, look, that girl’s latching on to another boss. Guess she’ll never learn”?

At least Nate is ten billion times hotter than my ex, Chadwick.

And a trillion times the gentleman.

After laying out several outfits for the day and the weekend for Nate, I walk downstairs to the kitchen to make his shake. It’s been three weeks since the auction, but the hideous Georgette-violating-Nate statue is still in the living room. Does he really want this reminder of a nightmare that never happened? Maybe I should be more proactive and ask him how he wants to dispose of the postmodern monstrosity.

When I put the blender into the kitchen sink for the housekeeper to clean later, Nate comes down the steps. He’s in a light charcoal suit, no tie. I hand him the day’s healthy green concoction, and he takes it with a smile.

“So. What do you want to do with that…um…statue? I can have it removed today if you’d like.” Then I frown as it occurs to me that somebody might pay good money for it. Art collectors have the weirdest taste. “Or maybe it could be auctioned off to raise money for something?”

Nate doesn’t answer. Instead he chugs the entire glass of vitamins and other goodness down. I immediately hand him his coffee, knowing he needs the caffeine to think.