Dirty Nasty Billionaire [Part Three] Read online

  How could someone live like this?

  And, the bigger question, what happened to him for this all to seem normal in his mind?

  The next morning, I creep out of bed before he does, and head for the kitchen. I open the cabinets to see he’s got all the right supplies: nonstick pans, plates, silverware, spatulas, mixing bowls. They all look like they’ve never been used, though. I wouldn’t be surprised to lift them up and find price tags still pristine and stuck to the bottom. When I open the fridge, I find nothing but bottles of water. A quick sweep of the rest of the cabinets turns up nothing but a box of granola bars that look like they were purchased during the last presidential administration. There’s actually a light coating of dust on the box.

  “What do you eat?” I ask when he strolls out into the kitchen, still in nothing but his boxers. At that exact moment, the door buzzes. Nixon pulls it open, and a doorman in a uniform nicer than any of the clothes I own holds out a brown paper bag. He studiously keeps his eyes up, ignoring the fact that the man answering the door is practically naked. I’m glad I thought to throw on the sweater that he discarded, because it comes down nearly to my knees and hides the fact that I’m otherwise clad in nothing but my underwear.

  “Your food delivery, sir,” he says.

  “Thank you,” Nixon replies, taking the bag and shutting the door in the man’s face. I’m not entirely convinced that Nixon even realized an actual human person was standing in the foyer. For as much as he paid attention, he might have thought a robot was at his door. He comes over and places the bag on the marble island. When he opens it, the smell of bacon and eggs wafts out. My stomach growls. We worked up quite an appetite last night … and this morning (twice). “I don’t cook,” he says, passing me a foil wrapped package that turns out to be a bagel breakfast sandwich, melty smoked gouda oozing out the side.

  “Ok, but you don’t even have any snacks. Unless you count those old granola bars, which I definitely do not,” I reply through a mouthful of scrambled egg goodness.

  At the mention of the granola bars, he stalks over to the cabinet, pulls them from the depths where I discovered them, and promptly drops them into a trashcan hidden beneath the sink. He apparently doesn’t count them, either.

  “I prefer to call out for what I need,” he says. There’s a slight edge in his voice that surprises me. It occurs to me that this is the most personal conversation we’ve ever had. And it seems like Nixon isn’t very used to it. “I don’t like clutter. And it’s a perk of being rich.”

  I raise my eyebrows, because I don’t like clutter is a hell of an understatement. But he’s starting to look tense, so I let it go.

  A river of awkward silence flows between us as we both pay way too much attention on eating our breakfast sandwiches. I don’t think any two egg sandwiches have ever been so doted on in the history of breakfast. Luckily they’re delicious.

  He finishes his first, then glances up at me. I’m just about to go ahead and excuse myself to end whatever this morning-after awkwardness is, when he says, “So how’s the internship going?”

  Well that’s unexpected. I’ve been careful not to ever bring up work with Nixon, because even though I’m screwing my boss, I want it to have absolutely nothing to do with my work. I want to rock the final presentation and earn the permanent position because I’m a boss bitch, not because I let Nixon Blake come inside me.

  Oh my god, I let Nixon Blake come inside me.

  “Um, it’s going well,” I say. And when he doesn’t say anything else, I find myself talking more. “I’m really enjoying researching the companies, and working with Colin has been great. He’s like, the code whisperer. He can tell when there’s a fatal flaw in an app that’s going to hop up and bite the company down the road, so between my financial brain and his tech genius, we make a great team. Of course, Jenna and Amber are another story. Jenna is … well, she’s whatever Amber is at any given moment, and most moments Amber is a Grade A bitch.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s just always trying to get ahead by stepping on someone else. And it seems like most of the time that person is me. Which sucks.”

  “Well, it’s good to have stiff competition,” he says.

  “Oh, competition I can handle. It’s that she fights dirty. It’s not professional. She’s constantly trying to sabotage my work with Colin, or just generally saying shitty things to try to knock me off my game. It’s so middle school. I don’t get it. Who acts like that?”

  “Well if she fights dirty, then maybe you need to, too. That, or just develop a thicker skin.” His assessment stings, but he’s not done. “I know we’ve got an unusual arrangement going on, but when it comes to work, you succeed or fail on your own merits. And if, in the end, Amber puts up a stronger presentation, then she’s getting the job. I don’t give special favors to anyone. No matter how much I might … like them … personally.”

  The speech sends my mind spinning, because he said so much. I’m pissed that he thinks I’d expect preferential treatment, and I don’t like that he thinks I’m trying to take Amber’s knees out from under her with him. He asked me how work was going. I was venting. Sort of like I’d vent to my boyfriend. But of course, Nixon Blake isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my “arrangement,” as he put it.

  But the bitterness is cut by what he said at the end. He likes me. Personally. It’s the closest he’s ever come to expressing any kind of affection for me when we’ve got our clothes on. I’m desperate to ask him just what the fuck is going on, but the full weight of the morning is starting to get heavy. Letting Nixon fuck me without a condom was wild enough, but then to sleep in his bed next to him, to see the austerity of his home life, and to realize that there is definitely something going on with Nixon Blake that I can’t even begin to know … well, it stops me from pushing him any further.

  Chapter 3

  If I thought that being an invited guest in Nixon Blake’s bed would change anything about our arrangement, I was dead wrong. Sure, now I get to see him first thing in the morning, with his bedhead, like a normal person. But that remains the only normal thing about him.

  The man is like a machine. He rises with the sun, cranking out several sets of pushups and sit ups as soon as his feet hit the cold floor. He showers and shaves with military efficiency. And by the time I’ve crawled out of bed and tracked down my clothes from wherever they’ve been discarded from the previous night’s orgasms, he’s ready to walk out the door. I don’t even bother to carry spare clothes or toiletries in my bag, because there’s no point in getting ready for work at his place. He goes in so early that I have more than enough time to get back to my apartment in Cambridge, shower and get ready, and then hop on the T and head back into the Scour offices for another day. No one’s the wiser.

  Except for Elise, of course.

  She wanders out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, when I stroll in after another marathon night with Nixon. Everything about me screams I had multiple orgasms last night!, from my matted hair to my bee-stung lips.

  “Eventually you’re going to have to tell me who this mystery guy is,” she says, arching an eyebrow at me.

  I had to abandon the “emergency at work” ruse when I stopped coming home at night. I wasn’t even going to try to convince Elise that I was camping out at Scour every night (Although one night, I did meet Nixon back at the office after midnight, where we fucked on the intern conference table. What I would give for Amber to know that.).

  “I know,” I reply, hoping I can shrug her off for another day. I’m not ready to let anyone into our little world yet. Partly because I love the secrecy of it, and partly because I’m afraid that Nixon will find out that I’ve told, and that will be the end. After seeing his apartment, I know he’s not messing around when he talks about despising clutter. I know that extends to his personal life, too. And I’m not ready for this to be the end yet. “We’ll have drinks soon, and I’ll tell you all about him. I promise.”

  She gives me a look
that says she doesn’t quite believe me, but I don’t have time to reassure her further. I have to get to work.

  We’ve fallen into a routine.

  I come over every night. We have epic sex all over his apartment. We crawl into bed. We sleep soundly beside one another. We wake up, Nixon has breakfast delivered, and we actually chat like adult humans before heading off to work (separately, of course).

  It’s perfect.

  Almost.

  Amber has been sniffing around a lot lately. I think she can see that my work is growing stronger every day, and she can no longer count on trouncing me in the final presentation. She’s taken to trying to tear down everything I do, in an effort to throw me off my game. But it’s not working. Sex with Nixon is stronger than that. It’s like some kind of super power. I’ve never been so happy and relaxed and productive.

  But Amber’s attention means we have to be even more careful about where Nixon and I meet up. We’ve stopped having sex at the office, because the risk is just too high. Luckily, I’m at his apartment every single night, so it’s like no time has been lost.

  Still, the seed of an idea has been germinating in my mind. I know that no one at Scour can know that Nixon and I are together, at least not until the internship is done. Maybe once I’m an actual full-fledged employee (after I rock the presentations, which I definitely will), we can reassess, but right now, I know it’s a no go.

  But there won’t be any Scour employees at my sister’s wedding in two weeks. Hell, there won’t even be anyone from the tech scene. My sister Miranda is a kindergarten teacher; her fiancée Brad is a firefighter. None of them are going to have any idea who Nixon Blake is, and if they do, none of them will care.

  Miranda’s been pestering me about a plus one for months, ever since I told her I’d definitely be flying solo.

  “Oh come on, you’ll meet someone, and then you’ll be sorry that you turned down the invite,” she said, glaring at my RSVP card, which I’d hand-delivered. “You know what? Big sister knows best. I’m putting you down for a plus one, to be determined. He’ll have the steak.”

  “You’re going to be the one who’s sorry when there’s an empty seat at your reception, and you’ve paid for a steak dinner that no one’s going to eat.”

  “Whatever, you can take it home to your roommate,” she’d rolled her eyes at me.

  “Hey, there’s an idea! Elise can be my plus one!”

  “No,” she snapped. “Bring a man, or bring no one. Unless you’re having sex with Elise, in which case, I’m thrilled.”

  “Elise’s boyfriend would be very disappointed to hear that,” I tell Miranda, even though Elise dumped Kevin last week after finding out that he planned to backpack in Europe for two months without her.

  “Oh fuck off, he’d be thrilled.”

  I’d promptly forgotten about the soon-to-be-empty chair next to me at Miranda’s impending nuptials, and she’d forgotten to hound me about it, what with being so busy organizing a wedding like she was plotting the invasion of Normandy. But yesterday, a text had popped up from my older sister.

  DOING PLACE CARDS.

  I NEED THE NAME OF YOUR PLUS ONE.

  My fingers were poised over the keys to tell her there would be no plus one. But what if there was? Nixon could come as my date. We could drink champagne together, eat cake, dance a little. It would be great to see him away from all the stress of work, where he always seemed wound so tight. Miranda and Brad are getting married on the Cape, on the beach in Wellfleet. Their reception will be at this amazing oyster house. Nixon and I could get a hotel room and spend the whole night in a place with actual furniture.

  It was almost hard to imagine.

  I waited until the morning, when Nixon was usually more open to talking. I waited until our egg sandwiches had been delivered. I waited until his first cup of coffee was gone.

  I waited.

  He was flipping through his phone, checking the stock market, when I finally drew up enough courage to broach the subject.

  “My sister is getting married next weekend,” I tell him.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister,” he replies, his eyes still glued to his phone. For all his virtuosic characteristics, Nixon is still a stereotypical dude when it comes to paying attention to his various devices.

  “Yeah, she’s four years older. She’s a kindergarten teacher. She’s getting married down on the Cape. In Wellfleet.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah. I’m the maid of honor, of course.”

  “Hmmm,” he replies, a little V forming in between his eyebrows. I try to read it, to figure out if stocks are up or down today. Will it make a difference in his reception to my idea?

  I spend way too long trying to figure it out before deciding I’m being ridiculous. I can’t read Nixon Blake like an oracle. And besides, it’s not like I’m asking him to elope or sell his company. I’m just asking him to go to a wedding with me. The man has had his tongue on every square inch of my body, why does this seem like an unreasonable request?

  I suck in a deep breath, and decide to just jump off the high dive. “Hey, so you should come with me,” I say. “As my date.”

  His eyes snap up from his phone. Now I have his attention.

  He looks at me hard, his eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to figure out if I was speaking English just then. If there was a clock on the wall, I’d be able to hear the interminable tick tick tick of the seconds as I wait for his response. I can tell the moment he’s decided, because he suddenly seems completely relaxed.

  “I can’t do that,” He says, his voice monotone. And then he’s back to his phone, like I just asked if he wanted more coffee and he passed.

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you work for me.” His voice is the same monotone. It’s like he’s built up a brick wall between is in these last few seconds, like he didn’t just come inside me. What is his problem? I’m angry and frustrated, and it makes me impetuous.

  “Then I won’t work for you.” The words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to think them, but as soon as they’re out, I know it’s what I want. I want to be with Nixon. I want to leave this apartment with him. I want to experience life with him. And if this job, this internship, is what’s standing in the way of that, then fuck it. I don’t need it. I graduated at the top of my class from one of the most prestigious liberal arts colleges in the country. I’ve got a fantastic resume and killer recommendations. Hell, I got this internship to begin with. Getting another job shouldn’t be hard. I was already fielding offers when I got the acceptance from Scour.

  Now it’s Nixon’s turn to look like he’s been slapped. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll quit. I’ll find another job. You said it yourself, I’m incredible. I could find another position no problem.”

  I’ve seen Nixon Blake in the throes of passion. I’ve seen him panicked. I’ve seen him pissed. I’ve seen him amused. But never once in the time that I’ve known him have I seen Nixon Blake confused. I know I’ve really got his attention, because he abandons his phone on the kitchen island.

  “Why would you do that?” He asks.

  I bark out a laugh, because for a fucking genius, he’s not very smart. “Because I want to be with you, you idiot!” I practically shout, my voice echoing throughout the expansive, empty apartment. But if I expected him to sweep me up into his arms, plant a kiss on my lips, and tell me that he wants to be with me, too, then I was mistaken.

  “That’s not possible, Delaney.”

  What?

  “Why not? You said you can’t do something as simple as going to my sister’s wedding because I work for you, so I can change that. Then what’s standing in the way?” I’m pushing him. Hard. It’s a risk, but I’ve pushed him before. My challenging him is what got me Nixon Blake to begin with. So I’ll push him further now.

  But I’ve miscalculated.

  “Because it’s just not possible!” He slams
his fist down on the marble with such force that I’m surprised that a spider web of cracks doesn’t emanate from the spot. The tension in his body is like a spring coiled up and ready to burst. It’s completely unsettling. Not because I feel afraid of him. I know he’d never hurt me. It’s that I can’t believe I’m the cause of it. Usually I’m the one who can bring him down from this. I’ve never been the one to cause it before.

  He seems to realize that he’s gone too far, because his face softens, just a little bit.

  “This was mistake. I never should have … I’m just not capable of having a relationship. Not like the kind you want.”

  What is he even saying?

  “You’re so full of shit. All relationships are hard. All relationships make you vulnerable. You’re not special. You’re just making excuses!”

  “You don’t get it. I can be with you, it’s everyone else that’s the problem. I can’t go to a wedding with you. I could barely make it through an event for a company I fucking founded. You think I can stand in a room full of strangers? All the noise and the activity and the small talk?” He says it like it’s akin to having bamboo shoots shoved into his eyeballs. He’s truly cracked. “I don’t do that. I can’t do that.”