The Billionaire's Assistant

We stared at each other for a long moment, gazing appraisingly into each other’s eyes. It was a look we had shared countless times before. Times when we were measuring each other’s opposition to an idea. Measuring each other’s intoxication. Measuring each other’s willingness to participate in either a PR venture, or a whimsical, hair-brained scheme.

It had never been quite like this. Truth be told, it had never even come close. But no matter his intentions now, the age-old question remained: When had I ever refused him?

“Alright, but that’s enough.”

He thrilled, then hesitated. Wedging his bets. Probably thinking about the word compromise for the first time in his life. Weighing its merits.

He clearly didn’t like it.

“Abby, we are friends, are we not?”

I studied him cautiously as some of the previous tension began to melt away. There was a little dimple forming in the corner of his cheeks, and those twinkling eyes worked even better than the booze.

“Yes...we’re friends.”

He nodded seriously, then held up the things he’d collected.

“Well as your friend, I cannot allow you to walk outside like this.” He glanced over each of them in turn. “In nothing but a garter, a purse, and some shoes? How could I?”

I dropped my head with an exasperated smile, covering my face in my hands.

“Nick—”

“One: you’d surely freeze to death. Probably before we got to the next hotdog stand, and I do really want a hotdog. Two—and this can’t be overstated: you are going to attract men if you go outside like that. Lots of men. Too many to count, and lord knows I can’t fight all of them off by myself. Truth be told—I’ll probably be one of them.”

I shook my head, lips pursed as he stared back with coaxing smile.

“So...please? Let a guy buy you a dress?”

My chest tightened in dismay, as I glanced automatically over towards the gowns. Now he wanted to buy a whole other dress? How much was this going to end up costing?

“I promise not to make you jump in a fountain...”

Okay—even I had to grin at that one.

“You’re a real dick, you know that?”

He threw back his head and laughed, grabbing me by the arm once more as he snapped his fingers for more champagne. A second later, we clinked glasses and cheers’d again. This time, to nothing really in particular.

“You know,” Nick glanced over with a smile, as we wandered back towards the front of the store, “you’re the only girl I’ve ever met who would call me a dick for buying you shoes.”

I considered this for a moment, grabbing his arm as I swayed with a bit of a buzz.

“Well, the girls you like...they like to be taken care of.”

Yeah—there was a definite buzz. I never would have said that otherwise.

He glanced down in surprise, keeping his arm steady for me all the while.

“And you don’t?”

There wasn’t an ounce of slur to his voice. After years and years of diligent practice, Nick had the tolerance of an Irish sailor. It would take more than champagne to unsteady him.

Again, I considered the question thoughtfully.

“I would I guess...I’m just proud of being able to take care of myself. In the neighborhood where I grew up—that wasn’t the easiest thing for a woman to claim.”

He looked at me seriously for a moment, and my cheeks flushed crimson at having given something so personal away. His lips parted to reassure me, but sensing my discomfort, he lightened the mood instead with a joke.