The Billionaire's Proposal

You see, when people reach a certain level in the social sphere, certain misconceptions tend to take hold. The persona of a ‘mindless playboy’ seemed to fit, and those who didn’t know him tended to run with that assessment.

But Nick defied the stereotype.

It had only taken a minute of talking to him to realize that the guy had a rather brilliant head on his shoulders. Freakishly brilliant, in fact. Most of the time, it was those same people who underestimated him that were struggling to keep up.

He was beautifully educated, top of his class. Princeton and Harvard undergrad, followed by a stint at Oxford graduate school where he earned not one, but five different degrees.

Granted, he had once told me that all that paled in comparison to an orgasm. He was dripping in champagne at the time, and conspicuously missing his pants.

But like I said...pick my battles.

“Anyway,” I deliberately changed the subject, “we have an awful lot of planning to do if the merger is just three months away. You made some good progress with Ella, but if we’re going to be changing women, then we’re going to have to start from scratch.”

My hands drifted down with something akin to muscle memory and pulled my laptop, phones, and day-planner from my bag. Even a half gallon of tequila couldn’t stop them.

“That means the works. Dinners, galas, award ceremonies, sporting events. In fact,” I raised my laptop frantically in the air above me, trying to get a signal, “when is that one horse race where everyone wears the stupid hats? That could do really nicely—”

“Aaaaaand that’s enough for you.”

With a wide sweep of his arm, Nick confiscated my computer, phones, and champagne all in one fell swoop. Before I could stop him, the top came down, the mobiles vanished, and he had drained the cup—tossing them all on the seat behind him in a careless pile

“Nick!” I screeched, staring after the phones like they were my long-lost children. “What are you doing?! You know better than to touch the—”

“—the what?” he challenged. As usual—he sensed a great deal more than I gave him credit for. A great deal more than I would have wanted. “The kids? They’re phones, Abby.”

I lowered my voice to a furious whisper.

“They can hear you.”

His face softened into an affectionate smile.

“I understand that there’s a lot to be planning, I really do. But before you start buying us horses to race in the Kentucky Derby—”

“—the Kentucky Derby, that’s what it’s called—”

“—let me suggest that you get a little sleep.”

I looked at him doubtfully, but he gestured to the chair with one of those self-righteous looks I’d come to know and love and despise so well.

“I’ll guard them with my life, you have my word. But you,” he pressed me carefully down into a chair of my own, coaxing that sleep mask back up to my eyes, “have drunk enough to make the boys of Ireland proud. Let’s say we sleep it off a little, yeah?”

The chair did look tempting. And what he was saying did make a hell of a lot of sense, but the workaholic in me didn’t really know what ‘sleep’ was.

“I’ll just write emails,” I promised, in what I took to be a very rational voice. “Save them as drafts for later.”

The mask snapped down over my face.

“Rest,” his voice drifted out of the darkness, “we’ll work it out in the morning. It’ll keep until then.”

I didn’t want to do it. I really didn’t. But the plush leather was so inviting, and the second my eyes were closed, I realized how very heavy they’d become. The last thing I remembered before drifting off was a soft rustling sound just over my shoulder. A pair of lips brushed against my forehead—so soft that it was possible I could have imagined it.

A second later, I was awake no more. Drifting in and out of a dozen different time zones as I surrendered myself to the tranquil clarity of sleep.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, what felt like years later, it was still dark outside. Still dark, and yet, I sensed that I had been sleeping for a good long while. It wasn’t until the wheels of the plane jerked hard against the runway, that I realized we had been flying with the clock. Meaning that we might have spent the last six hours in the air, but only thirty minutes had passed in actual time, making it just a little past one in the morning in New York.

“Nick?” I murmured automatically, trying to get my bearings as I glanced around the darkened cockpit. As if to reply, all the lights turned on suddenly to greet me.