The Billionaire's Forgotten Fiancée

“Fine. The loser owes the winner lunch.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” he said. “Lunch and twenty minutes of slow head.”

“You’re on,” she said, then dashed to her car.

He let her go first. It was unfair to pit an Aston Martin against a Nissan. He waited ten minutes, then started.

It didn’t take that long, only a couple of hours. The late morning traffic was pretty light. Still he hadn’t spotted Ginger’s car, which was odd, but she’d probably had to stop for gas or something along the way.

When he was about five or so blocks away from his penthouse, he finally dialed Ginger. He had no doubt she knew where his place was, given how long they’d been together. But he hadn’t seen her at all, and she could be in trouble…maybe a blown tire or something.

“Hello, Loser,” she answered.

He laughed. “Who are you calling ‘Loser’? I’m almost at my place now.”

“That makes you the loser. I’m already in your living room.”

What the hell? “How did you get there so fast?”

“I know a shortcut. I’m guessing you just let your GPS guide you?”

He heard her chuckle with satisfaction and had to grin. “I’ll be there in two minutes to pay up.”

He pulled into the underground parking garage at his place. Whistling, he got into the elevator. He didn’t think he’d be happy if he’d lost to someone else, but it was Ginger. Besides, lunch and burying his face in her afterward? That felt more like a gold medal than a penalty.

The elevator stopped on the top floor, and he stepped into the penthouse. It was huge, with an open layout and floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city. At night, the view would be dazzling.

The kitchen had four gas burners and a griddle, plus two ovens and a built-in microwave. An enormous stainless steel refrigerator occupied the center, and pots and pans hung from hooks on the high ceiling. “Was I a great cook?” he asked.

“No. But you let one of Mark’s chefs design the kitchen for you. You wanted it to have everything.” She ran her hand along the marble countertop. “It was your way of telling me you wanted me to have the best. You bought it after we graduated from college.”

“Where did we go?”

“Berkeley.” She smiled. “You only got in because your brothers made a huge donation in your name, I think.”

“How come?”

“You applied past deadline because you heard it was the only school I applied to.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a backup school?”

“I didn’t want to go anywhere else. It was Berkeley or nothing.”

“Good thing you got in then.”

She grinned. “I know.”

“Where was I supposed to go?” he asked. He was certain his parents had particular expectations, especially Salazar, who undoubtedly wanted to pretend to visit him so he could screw the young things on campus.

“An Ivy League school.”

“I see.” Probably any top-tier university with hot coeds would’ve been acceptable. He looked around. “Where do I keep the takeout menus?”

She reached over and opened the top drawer in the kitchen. “Here.” She pulled out a sheaf of them. “We have Chinese, Italian, Thai and basically everything else. If they don’t deliver, you have the concierge on your speed dial.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Mmm.” She considered. “How about a pepperoni pizza?”