How to Marry a Billionaire

by Elise Sax

  “Thank you, again. It was a good thing you stumbled on me up there.”

  Cole smiles, and I notice for the first time that he has a dimple on his left cheek. “Since we’re being so truthful, I guess I should fess up. I didn’t stumble on you. I saw you walking up the mountain, and I followed you.”

  Like a billionaire stalker? Could I be that lucky?

  “Oh. Well, thank you, anyway.”

  “Do you want to know why I followed you?”

  More than anything I want to know why he followed me, but if it entails the word interesting, I don’t want to hear it. So, I choose to keep the mystery alive. I shake my head. The horse paws the ground, and we walk toward the hotel.

  “I’m very busy in the lead up to the rodeo, but I would like to see you again,” he says. A date? A date? I would love a date. “Are you involved with someone?” A laugh escapes me, and I slap a hand over my mouth. “I guess that’s a no and good news for me.” He stops and turns toward me. “Why aren’t you involved with someone?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Men always leave me.” There it is. The truth, at last. When it comes down to the most important kernel of who I am, I can’t tell a lie.

  Who am I? Men always leave me.

  It’s who I am.

  Cole furrows his eyebrows and squints. “Do you leave women?” I ask, but what I’m really asking is, “Are you going to leave me?”

  “No,” he says. “I’ve never been with a woman. I mean, for more than a week.”

  “Oh.”

  And now we’ve arrived at his truth. He doesn’t do relationships. He does one week. He does a kiss in a dark hallway. He saves the damsel in distress and then moves on. At least he’s honest.

  He steps forward and leans over. With hot, gentle lips, he kisses me, slipping his tongue into my mouth. I’ve never been kissed like this. Sizzle. Pop. Rawr. It’s not just passion; it’s something else entirely, too. It’s like a fusion meal in an upscale restaurant: I can’t quite figure out what it is, but it’s delicious, and I want more. When he pulls away, I see that he’s surprised by the connection, too.

  “And maybe we can see each other after the rodeo is over.”

  “That’s more than a week from now,” I point out.

  He smiles again and searches my face for something. It occurs to me that I don’t have any makeup on. Olivia is going to kill me. I went out unprepared. I suck at seduction. Cole takes my hand, and we continue toward the inn. When we get to the driveway, he says goodbye, again. It’s like he’s afraid of getting too close to the building.

  “Would you like to come in?” I ask, gathering all of my courage.

  “I’d like to, but the employees get stressed when the boss is around, and I don’t want to give them extra stress. It’s a big week for them.”

  “Oh,” I say and fight against a strong desire to jump on him, wrap my legs around his waist, and beg him to love me. “See you later,” I say, instead, and I walk down the driveway. Behind me, I hear Prince Charming jump on his noble steed and gallop away.

  I break out into a run myself and bolt into the hotel and straight to an elevator. Arriving at the suite, I slam open the door and wake up the slumber party.

  “Beatrice Stevens!” I shout. “Mrs. Beatrice Stevens! Mrs. Cole Stevens! Doesn’t that trip over the tongue beautifully?”

  “Easy, girl,” Rosalind says.

  Olivia jumps up, wild-eyed. “Take birth control!” she shouts.

  I don’t see Cole again. Not even on Skype or Facetime. Not even a text. Not a single emoji. Is it so hard to throw me a smiley face colon and end parenthesis? Is that too much of an effort?

  I don’t know. Olivia and Rosalind won’t let me contact him to ask.

  It’s been three days since I rode on Cole’s saddle. Since then, I’ve worn Spanx every second, high heels, and two inches of makeup. Rosalind doesn’t want me to screw up again and let Cole see me au naturel because billionaires want a polished, put together beauty, not a farting woman who sets herself on fire. So I do whatever Rosalind and Olivia tell me to, and I haven’t been physically comfortable in three days.

  And the hotel is out of Toblerones.

  And like I said, I haven’t seen Cole again. Luckily, I’ve been busy every day since he rescued me, so I’m not obsessing about him too much. Despite our efficient staff, there are a million details to cover for the gala. As the first of its kind at Cole’s ranch, we need to make sure it goes off without a hitch and gets the funds for foster kids that they need. Unlike the rodeo, which mostly attracts Western locals, the gala is bringing in a herd of private jets and the upper echelon of the world’s upper crusters. Despite his jeans and cowboy hat, Cole Stevens is the top level of the upper echelon of the world’s upper crusters, and they’re coming to pay homage. Now I not only want to do a good job, but I want to impress the hell out of Cole. He’ll be sorry he forgot about me.

  But looking at the A-list guest list, I realize that I don’t have the smallest chance of capturing the Aerospace King. How can I compete with supermodels and celebrities who never fart and have legs that go on forever?

  By the time the rodeo starts, I’m more relaxed. Sure, I still have the makeup on, but now my jeans are stretch, and my boots fit. With a day off before the gala, Rosalind and I help Olivia take the kids to the rodeo. After the petting zoo, three of them get pony rides, while I hold the baby. Diane has stayed back in the hotel, ordering room service and watching her programs on television, and Bessie is schmoozing around somewhere. There’s a distinct drop in optimism about Operation Billionaire among our little group since Cole decided to give me the silent treatment. That is, all except for Bessie, who still thinks I’m in the running to snag Cole. She doesn’t think emojis are important, either.

  “Smile, Mick!” Olivia yells, snapping photos as her kids ride around a small ring on the ponies. “Keith, look at momma!” She’s dressed more or less like me, but in Uggs instead of cowboy boots. Rosalind is wearing business couture, as usual. Her pointy heels sink into the dirt with each step, but somehow she keeps her balance with perfect posture.

  The rodeo grounds are packed with people of every age. Families walked in groups, and everyone seems to be having a good time. Outside of the rodeo ring and grandstand are food stalls, picnic grounds, and various activities for young people, like roping a plastic steer. Red, white, and blue balloons and streamers decorate the entire area, and the loudspeaker announces different events.

  “Hurry up!” Bessie urges, as she joins us. “The pulled pork sandwiches last only so long. You don’t want to miss out.”

  She has a ring of barbecue sauce around her mouth, which clashes with her plum lipstick. She’s wearing another loud cowgirl outfit, and she glances at what I’m wearing and shakes her head. “This is a party,” she tells me, as if I have dementia and shouldn’t be allowed to dress myself.

  “How about I buy you a pulled pork sandwich?” I suggest, which mollifies her.

  The ponies end their circuit, and we help Olivia take the kids to the barbecue picnic grounds. The children are halfway between the mania inspired by ponies, crowds, loud music, and enough cotton candy and funnel cakes to choke a horse and the meltdown coma-state from too much sun and excitement. They alternate between skipping toward lunch and crying about not riding the ponies or watching the cowboys lasso. Just as their excitement is contagious, so are their meltdowns. A few steps from the barbecue area, the three that can walk aren’t walking. They’re lying face down in the dirt, among chewed chewing tobacco, spit out sunflower seeds, and wads of chewing gum.

  They won’t move. They’re mad about the walking, mad that they’re tired, mad that they don’t have mouths full of cotton candy. They’re throwing a hissy fit like I’ve never witnessed before.

  They’re really good at it, like they have a lot of practice.

  Olivia’s eyes fill with tears, and I don’t blame her. I want to cry, too. I can see the long line for the pulled pork, and I’m worri
ed they’re going to run out.

  “What happened to the babysitter?” Rosalind asks, looking into the crowd. “Aren’t we supposed to have a babysitter?”

  A babysitter? I think we need a whole herd of babysitters. My heart goes out to Olivia. I’ve no idea how she copes on a daily basis without a husband or money for childcare. It’s an insurmountable task. She tries to get the kids up off of the ground, but they’re kicking and screaming, and she’s obviously mortified. Her hair is stuck to her face in long, sweaty strips, and her face is bright red from embarrassment and exertion. I try to help her, but I’m already holding the baby, and it turns out that a two-year old is stronger than I am.

  “Let me help,” I hear. Even with the sounds of the crowds and the blaring loudspeaker, there’s no doubt in my mind whose voice it is. I turn around and look up into the face of the world’s best-looking cowboy. He has a weird tick where he gets more handsome each time I see him, and I wonder if he’s getting some kind of work done on his face in his off hours and if I can get the phone number of his dermatologist to get a touch up.

  Chapter 8

  Beatrice

  Cole’s wearing jeans and boots, a white button down shirt, and a black vest. His cowboy hat is tipped down low, throwing shade over his face. After not seeing him for three days, I figured he was avoiding me and that I would never see him again.

  So maybe it’s the shock that makes me start panting.

  Who am I kidding? As much as my ego doesn’t want to admit it, I want him bad. Panting kind of bad. I make eye contact for a split second but look away, quickly. His eyes should be illegal. They’re ladykiller eyes. Maybe he’s a serial killer. That’s a hopeful thought. I can’t be attracted to a serial killer, right? Oh, hell.

  “There you are,” Bessie says, wagging her finger up at him. “The pulled pork sandwiches are selling like hotcakes. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Hello…Bessie,” he drawls in his sexy baritone. “What would you like me to do about the pulled pork?”

  “These poor women are plagued by heathens. You were supposed to provide a babysitter. Where’s the babysitter?”

  “Yeah, where’s the babysitter?” I growl. I might be slightly upset that he’s ignored me after kissing me. This is the first time that I’ve confronted one of my rejecters. It feels great. “We’re drowning in kids here. Kids. Rosalind even changed a poopie diaper.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Rosalind says and runs a hand down her couture sheath dress to calm herself. “PTSD.”

  I point at Rosalind. “Poopie diaper PTSD! And that’s on you.” I poke Cole’s chest and break a fingernail. It’s like he’s made of steel. It’s like he’s immune to fat. My lower parts get warm, and I bite my lower lip.

  “It’s okay,” Olivia says, wrestling on the ground with her two-year old and losing. “I don’t deserve a babysitter.” She’s a wreck. She’s gone from a normal looking woman to a poor wretch with something pink and sticky in her hair, and her face is streaked with dirt.

  I give Cole the guilt look I learned from watching Rhoda reruns. It works. He thumbs his phone. After a couple of minutes, he returns the phone to his pocket. “There’s been a scheduling problem, but I’ve fixed it,” he says giving me full eye contact. No blinking. I realize that I’m holding my breath, and I gasp in some oxygen.

  “Grab a child,” Bessie tells him. “Shep Johnson is in the pulled pork line, and he can put away ten sandwiches. It’s a toss-up if I’m going to eat today.”

  Cole takes two children in his arms, leaving the baby for me, and Olivia takes the four-year old by the hand. Cole looks great holding a child in each arm, and he barely flinches when one of them picks his nose and wipes it on Cole’s vest. I try not to look at him. Even if I’m desperate, I don’t want him to know, and besides, I’m sick of waiting around for him to save me. I’m sick of playing the victim.

  No amount of hot billionaire is worth being victimized.

  We get a table, and it turns out that Shep Johnson hasn’t eaten all of the pulled pork sandwiches. There’s plenty left for us. The moment that Cole leaves to buy us all lunch, Rosalind and Olivia attack me.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?” Olivia demands.

  Rosalind riffles through her purse and throws eyeliner at me. “Hurry. His back is turned.”

  “I don’t need more makeup,” I say, handing her back the eyeliner. Bessie grabs it and hands it back to me.

  “Put on the liner. Your eyes have disappeared into your face. You look like Val Kilmer,” she says, throwing a look over at Cole’s back. “You gotta show him something, honey. I wish you wore a pushup bra.”

  “This is ridiculous. He doesn’t want me. Besides, he told me to my face that he only dates women for a week. A week! He doesn’t deserve eyeliner.”

  Bessie shakes her head. “I deserve eyeliner. You think I want to look at Val Kilmer all day?”

  I line my eyes. Halfway through my right eye, Tiffany, the babysitter shows up at the table. She’s dressed head to toe in cowgirl, and she’s with another young woman her age dressed exactly the same but a few sizes bigger.

  “Hello, Mick, Keith, Ronnie, and Bianca,” she greets the kids, smiling. “Aren’t they cute, Holly?” The other woman nods. “I’m so sorry I can’t babysit today. Holly and I are barrel racing in about an hour.”

  I’m not sure how you race a barrel, but I take her word for it. Holly clutches her stomach. “I shouldn’t have eaten that last funnel cake,” she complains.

  “I think it’s just nerves,” Tiffany says. “We’ve got a chance at the blue ribbon. It’s very exciting.”

  “Jana Wilder thinks she’s going home with the ribbon,” Bessie says. “But my money is on you two.”

  “Thanks!” Tiffany squeals. “Anyway, the inn has two more babysitters for you. They should be here any second. I just wanted to apologize personally.”

  “Thank you, Tiffany,” Rosalind says and hands her a twenty. Tiffany thanks her, pockets the money, waves at the kids, and disappears into the crowd.

  “Wow, Holly sure has packed on the pounds,” Bessie says the second they leave. “She used to be a little thing like Tiffany, but she porked up this year. Her horse is going to have a dickens of a time getting around those barrels.”

  “Hold on to your panties, ladies, here he comes,” Olivia says, looking toward the sandwich stand. I turn around to see Cole holding a large box, and he’s walking our way. He’s a head taller than everyone around him, but it’s his stunning good looks that make him stand out. As he walks, he’s looking right at me. “Wow,” Olivia breathes.

  Wow, indeed. I pull at my shirt because I’m having a hard time breathing. It pisses me off that I’m so attracted to him.

  “He’s not that good-looking,” I say.

  “Are you kidding?” Olivia says. “My eyeballs have a hard on. It’s like Gerard Butler, Liam Hemsworth, and Chris Pratt got it on in a really sexy porno scene in an HBO original series, had a baby, and that baby had major surgery from a highly skilled plastic surgeon and then the blue fairy threw gorgeous dust all over him to make him ten times better looking and that’s Cole Stevens. He’s like a Nutella-dipped Butterfinger bar.”

  Oh, shit. She’s right. He’s a Nutella-dipped Butterfinger bar. What am I doing? I can’t eat pork in front of him.

  “Quick,” Rosalind says. “What’s happening? What did he say to you? We need to make a quick exit, give you time with him.”

  “Uh,” I say.

  “Think seduction, Beatrice,” Rosalind instructs me. “Think Mata Hari or Rihanna.”

  “You can do it,” Olivia says. “Maybe we should drug him. I wish I had some roofies. Or meth. Meth would be good.”

  Thankfully, there isn’t enough time to drug him. He’s got long legs and makes the trip from the pork stand to our table in five strides. He hands out the meals to us, pausing a moment when he gives me my sandwich, chili cheese fries, and a Coke. It seems like he’s tryin
g to communicate something to me, but I don’t know what. It could be that he wants to kill me through junk food, but I prefer to think it’s love. I begin to daydream about our wedding and our honeymoon. We’ll go to Bali or Bora Bora or somewhere else exotic that starts with a B.

  What am I supposed to be doing? Seduction?

  “Cotton candy!” Olivia’s son yells and pounds on the table. “Cotton candy! Now!”

  “I’m eating a pork sandwich,” Rosalind says, aghast at how far she’s fallen in the social order. “I just want to point that out to you all. I’m sitting on a metal folding chair, eating a pork sandwich next to a kid who’s eating her boogers.”

  Sure enough, Olivia’s daughter is going to town on her boogers. Blech. I’m almost not hungry anymore. Thankfully, the inn’s replacement babysitters arrive, and they’ve thoughtfully brought snacks to lure the little heathens away. There’s some quick talk of logistics, bath times, and Barney, and then like a miracle, the kids are gone, and the table is populated only by adults.

  Quiet. Peace.

  Chewing and awkward silence.

  I look everywhere except at Cole, but I know he’s looking right at me. Beautiful brown eyes of hotness boring through my head down to my soul and all of my lady parts. Damn.

  Rosalind kicks me hard under the table with the pointy tip of her designer pumps. My head whips toward her, and she’s jutting out her chin and rolling her eyes. The message is clear: Say something to him. Get to work. Seduce the billionaire.

  “Uh,” I say and take a bite of my pulled pork sandwich. Half chewed, I wash it down with a handful of chili cheese fries. Sexual frustration makes a woman do terrible things.

  “Are you enjoying the rodeo so far?” Cole asks.