The Billionaire's Assistant

“Baby brother.” I smiled sweetly, as if remembering all our nostalgic times. “Just turned eighteen—he’s out celebrating.”

And it’s my brother’s birthday.

“Gosh—eighteen.” Cameron shook his head, leaning casually towards me. “That seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

I nodded quickly.

“Sure does.”

In reality, eighteen had only been four years ago for me. But I had long since stopped telling people my real age. When you worked in PR, age meant experience. Experience meant currency. I had been ‘twenty-nine’ for as long as I could remember. It was just easier that way. It helped that I had one of those faces. A face that could pass for whatever you needed it to.

“So, Cameron,” I flashed a seductive grin, eager to move the conversation past my fake family, “what are we drinking?”

As if on cue, a waiter appeared with a bottle of Margaux—expensive vintage. I leaned back in surprise as it was expertly poured. First the restaurant, now this? Was this guy seriously loaded and I’d just failed to notice because I only ever saw him at the gym? It was always hard to gauge a guy’s social standing in sweatpants. A one-time dinner to impress me was one thing, but the wine was too pricy for just that. It was a serious gesture. The kind that I’d grown accustom to seeing another man make. A man who went through bottles of Margaux like they were—

NO WORK! Do not even THINK of him! This is YOUR night!

“This is wonderful,” I said charmingly, taking a delicate sip. “First growth?”

“You know it?” Cameron looked surprised, then pleased. “Yes, I believe it is. Pairs well with the soufflé, or so they tell me.”

Wrong.

“At any rate, it’s supposed to be uncannily dry.”

Wrong again.

Somewhere across town, a certain billionaire—who shall not be named—was shaking his fists towards the heavens, not really knowing why.

I smiled again and took another sip.

“Like I said—wonderful.”

“I’m glad you like it. In fact, I’m glad you even agreed to come out tonight.” His hand reached tentatively across the table and rested upon mine. “You always seem so busy. Whenever I see you at the gym, you’re almost always on the phone.” He laughed nervously. “I learned to tell you were coming by the sound of your ringtone.”

Ah yes, the phones. There were four of them. All with a different number. All with a different purpose. All four of them were currently stuffed inside my purse, locked on vibrate.

“It’s a cardio experiment,” I teased. “Try to run on the treadmill while maintaining an overseas phone call in a language you don’t fully understand. A real calorie burner.”

He laughed again, a pleasant sound I could tell was already growing on me.

“So what is it exactly that you do?”

No work talk? First obstacle.

Fortunately, I was saved from having to reply when Marco (not Pierre) placed the complimentary appetizer down upon the table. He did so with a relish, and flashed me a conspiratorial wink. Melanie must have told him about the date.

“And what will we be having tonight?”

The servers here were forbidden from using pen and paper. Everything had to be memorized—no matter the size of the table.

“I think I’ll get the salmon with sauce on the side.” Cameron shut his menu and turned expectantly to me. “Abigail?”

“Just a salad for me, thanks.”

Cameron blinked in confusion, while Marco simultaneously kicked my chair.

Shit—I’d fucked up already!