The Billionaire's Toy

1

You know, Mondays suck enough without being fired. I scrub the tears off my face as I step off the elevator onto my floor. Damn my speaking voice. I’ve always had a naturally loud and brassy voice, and people mistake my normal speaking tone as raising my voice or somehow being aggressive. It’s not…it’s just me. But one too many complaints about my customer service because people think I’m yelling at them, and now I’m unemployed.

Okay, fine. Maybe sometimes I yell at them, but I swear that the customer is not always right.

I turn the corner and wish I hadn’t. My Super is walking down the hallway towards me and I’ve been trying to avoid him the way you try to avoid STDs. AT ALL COSTS. I’m a week late on my rent because some months are harder than others, and if I have to choose between rent and food, I'd rather not starve.

I give him a weak smile. “Hey, Joe.”

There’s no smile from him. “I need your check, Delia.”

“I know. My car broke down last week and I had to have it fixed so I could actually get to work. It’s coming; I swear.” I hope he buys the lie. In the years I’ve been living here, I’ve never had a car. I’m hoping that he hasn’t noticed.

He sighs. “I can’t give you much more time. There are plenty of people waiting for apartments in this building, and if you can’t pay then someone else will.”

“I can. I will.” I swallow, brushing past him to my door and hurrying inside so he can’t pressure me anymore and I don’t accidentally give away that I just lost my job. If he knew that, he’d be furious, and I’d be out of time. Hell, once I get some work, maybe I should move. I’m sure I can find somewhere less expensive and without a super as overbearing as Joe.

I drop my purse on the ground and flop down on the couch, sliding down until my neck is leaning on the cushion and my legs are sprawled out on the floor. The absolute picture of grace. My cell phone buzzes and I groan. Can everyone just go away and let me hide under a rock for an hour? Please?

The phone buzzes again and I shimmy it out of my pocket so I can see the screen. Two text messages.

What the fuck happened?

Get your ass to this bar and spill.

There’s a reason people call my best friend Fleece. First, she can be as cuddly as one of those blankets when she likes you, but she can also rip you a new one. Only she could get away with a nickname that has a double meaning. Don’t get caught calling her by her actual name—Veronica—or you’ll be getting the wrong end of that nickname.

While I’m looking at the screen, the phone buzzes again.

I called the store to make dinner plans. I’m giving you 10 minutes before I start calling you every 5.

I roll my eyes. She’s not exaggerating. Even while she’s at work, she’ll make it happen. I text her back.

Fine. I’m on my way.

The response comes lightning fast.

Nine minutes, thirty seconds.

Even though I’m exhausted and I feel like I’m made of stone, I drag myself off the couch. I’m not bothering to change. The bar gets to see me in my utterly sexy khakis and black polo shirt. Luckily, Joe isn’t anywhere to be seen as I leave the building and start the six-block walk to the Blind Scorpion. Fleece and I discovered this bar when we first moved to New York. Close enough to both our apartments to walk home, and prices that didn’t break our college students’ budgets. Five years later, Fleece is one of the best bartenders in town and practically runs the place as her survival job. And I…have no job.

Shit.

I push open the door to the bar and get a blast of cool air. New York in the summer is hot but you can always rely on the Blind Scorpion to cool you down. Fleece sees me and checks her phone. I know she’s looking to see how much time I’ve got left on her timer. She points down to the seat at the end—a dark corner where I lurk and we steal moments to gossip—and gives me her signature glare.

The hard high bar stool somehow feels comfortable. I’ve sat here so often that my ass is used to being shaped by this seat. It’s almost like a homecoming.

Fleece smacks a glass full of something in front of me. “Drink. What happened?”

“What do you think happened? I clearly won employee of the year.”

“Don’t do that,” she says, more gently. “You can tell me.”

I sigh, downing half of the glass she put in front of me. It’s delicious and sweet, something with a hint of apple and a little bit of a bite. “I had another complaint.”

She winces and tries to hide it with a smile, but I see it. “Sorry,” she says. “Same reason?”

“I swear I’m not yelling at them,” I say. My voice carries across the bar and at least two people look in my direction. Perfect.

Fleece starts laughing. “Of course you weren’t. Unless you were.”

I roll my eyes. “I know I’ve done that before, but I swear this time I wasn’t actually yelling. I was trying to be nice.”

“So why would they fire you?”

“Once they tag you as having a temper, it seems like they can’t get it out of their heads. Any complaint all of a sudden has to do with my temper, and I had t

oo many customer complaints in too short a time. They have a policy.”

“That sucks.”

“Plus,” I say, “I ran into Joe when I got home. He’s practically stalking me for the rent which I can’t give him because I am now broke and unemployed.”

Someone signals Fleece down the bar and she turns to me. “Look, hold that thought. Everything’s going to be fine. I think I might know a way to help you.”

I sit with

my drink, taking occasional sips and gathering the confidence to tell Fleece no, she cannot lend me money again, no matter how much it might save my ass. The bar is busy tonight, especially for a Monday, and Fleece looks like she’s struggling to keep up. I look around and see a couple of waiters, but the bar seems really understaffed today.

When she finally manages to find a second to come back over, she’s practically out of breath.

“Why is it so busy?” I ask.

“No fucking clue. And Barbara is sick, so I’m all on my own back here tonight. She also gave her flu to the waiters she’s sleeping with.”

I choke on my drink. “Waiters? Plural? Isn’t the idea generally not to sleep with your employees?”

“I think Barbara does whatever and whoever she wants. But enough about that, check your email. I sent you something I think is going to help you.”

Pulling out my phone, I pull open the new email from her. I recognize the heading and the format—I’ve seen them before in her emails. I roll my eyes. “Fleece, this is a model casting call.”

“Yes, it is,” she says, replacing my drink. “My agent sent it to me and I can’t go. I’m way too busy with everything here, and Barbara out for who knows how long. On top of that, I’m not the kind of model they hire.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And why wouldn’t I be serious about helping my best friend?”

I hold a hand to stop her, “No, I know, and I’m grateful, but you’re you. You’re glamorous and you know how to do this. I am not glamorous and I have no idea how to do what you do.”

Fleece pushes my drink at me and I take another sip. “It’s really not that hard, I promise. Besides, how many times have you seen me walk or pose? Just copy me. You’re gorgeous and they would be lucky to have you.”

Anxiety swims in my stomach. “I don’t know.”

“Will you at least look at the email?

I glance at my phone. “Xellum Studios? I’ve heard of them. Why won’t they hire you?”

She shrugs, “They have a darker aesthetic and rarely hire blondes. But you’d be perfect.”

“You’re forgetting again that I’m not a model.” I laugh. “I don’t have an agent.”

She taps my phone. “That’s why it’s perfect. You don’t have to have an agent to go to this one. Just be there early and get in line.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows? Sometimes I think the same models get sent over and over again to castings, and if they don’t find what they want, they’ll try somebody new. I think you’ve got a look they’ll like.”

I roll my eyes again, my stomach churning with anxiety just thinking about it. “I think you’ve been drinking on the job.”

She laughs, but she shakes her head. “I’m serious. Just walk like you’re trying to get a guy to look at your ass, but you’ve also got a stick up that same ass, and you’ll be fine.”

Liquid bubbles out of my mouth and I reach for napkins as I laugh, unable to control myself. “Is that what you think about when you’re walking in shows?”

“Hell yes.”

“This makes your runway bitch face ten times more hilarious.”

She cracks a grin, and I know that runway bitch face is going to have more trouble at her next show. “Seriously though, go to the casting. It’s tomorrow. You’re not going to schedule any interviews by tomorrow anyway.”

I take another sip of my drink. “The real question is if you’re going to let me leave this bar without actually signing up for the call.”

Fleece sweeps her blonde hair over her shoulder and smirks. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

2

This was a terrible idea. I’m not as early as I wanted to be. Some people might call it “late,” but I’m choosing to call it “fashionable.” I admit that one popped into my head and made me laugh more than it should have. Probably because of the nerves. I’ve been debating just not showing up all morning. I don’t think I can do this. No matter what, it’s not as easy as Fleece says.

I finally walk up to a white storefront in downtown Manhattan. I don’t come down here that often, but I know this is the place. There are tall, beautiful women milling around the entrance to the store; some talking, some leaving.

A woman in her forties with a headset and a clipboard is standing in the doorway. I’m guessing I need to speak with her. I jog up the couple of steps to where she’s standing and smile. “Hi, I’m Delia Cameron.”

She gives me a once-over and looks down at her list. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I give her apologetic smile. “Train delays.” The one lie that everyone in New York City will believe.

She purses her lips. “Yes, well, if you’re cast, Mr. Xellum will expect you to be punctual. His time is literally money.” She waves me inside. “You’re the last one. Come on, we’ll get you in some clothes while the others are finishing up. I’m May, Mr. Xellum’s assistant.”

She leads me through the store—a bright white space filled with clothes in surprising shapes and colors. They’re all something I would buy if I weren’t broke. It’s a total New York dream: wall-to-wall windows and racks of stunning clothes. Soft club music plays in the background, and a model is walking back and forth in front of a table with several people.

May stops at the edge of the room, and we wait as the model finishes. “We’ll see what Mr. Xellum wants you to walk in before having you change.”

The table has three people behind it, and only one man. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

This is the kind of man that appears shirtless on a beach in perfume ads. He is—should be—a model, not looking for them. He’s relaxed in his chair, a lazy grace that contrasts with the look on his face. That look could take down anyone, and I’m not sure I want to be on the receiving end of it. Especially not since I was late.

The model finishes her walk, and Mr. Xellum gives her a curt nod. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll be in touch.”

She walks off towards a changing screen, and May ushers me forward. “One more, Mr. Xellum. Last one.”

Suddenly I’m pinned to the spot because his gaze has fallen on me. He hasn’t even moved, but it’s like something shifted. His eyes travel up and down my body, and I blush, because the gaze is intimate. He sees everything about me, through my clothes and down to my bones. At least that’s how it feels.

He stands, straightening his suit, and steps out from behind the table. He holds out a hand to me, a small smile on his face, which only makes me look at his jaw and damn that’s a pretty sight. “I’m Andrew Xellum,” he says. “And you are…?”

“Delia Cameron,” I manage to get out, though my voice sounds like I’ve been running for ten blocks. Get it together girl.

His stare is still so intense, and that little smile on his lips is maddening. I want to know what he’s thinking since I know in this second he’s thinking about me. Abruptly he turns, breaking our eye contact, and I feel hollow. It’s like his gaze was holding me up and now I’m ready to collapse. He takes a dress off a nearby rack of clothes. It’s pale blue and it floats lightly as he hands it to me. “Walk in this please,” he says, and nods at the changing screen.

“You haven’t even looked at my measurements.”

He raises an eyebrow, and that little smile is back, even stronger. “I do this every day. I can tell just by looking at you.” He emphasizes his words with a long, slow look from my head to my toes, and I swear I can feel it on my skin, and my knees feel wobbly. I mumble something and take the dress from him. This is insane. Why did I let Fleece talk me into this? Auditioning for a job was what I signed up for, not humiliating myself in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Now I’m going to make a fool of myself because I’m not a model and I’m probably going to fall flat on my face.

The dress is layers of sheer fabric so light they seem to blend in to my pale skin, like the dress is almost growing out of me

. The effect is gorgeous, like I was born in it. The downside is that I have to take off everything. Everything. Even the slightest shadow of underwear beneath this dress will ruin the effect, and for some reason I want him to see me like this. I want him to see the effect he was hoping to create even though I’m sick to my stomach with anxiety.

I step out from behind the screen and his eyes are on me instantly. For just a second, I think I see him do a double take, but then he’s smiling. “Walk, please.”

He goes back to the table, and I do my best to ignore the fact that he’s starting at me with a hunger that’s heating up my skin. Here goes nothing. I walk just like Fleece said: like I have a stick up my ass but I want to have someone look at it anyway. That’s not a hard thing to do because I desperately want him to look at me. To keep looking. It’s the most attention I’ve gotten from the opposite sex in months, and I’m surprised to realize how much I’ve missed it.

Before I know it, I’ve walked back and forth across the room and stopped. I didn’t fall over, so at the very least I can walk out of here knowing that. I’m looking at Mr. Xellum, and he’s looking at me. I don’t dare break the pose I’ve ended in. He tilts his head, a curious expression on his face. “You don’t have an agent.”

It’s not a question. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. I would have remembered you.” A fierce blush rises to my cheeks. “And do you have any modeling experience?”