Finding Cupid (Almost a Billionaire Book 2)

by Bridget E. Baker

  He leans back in his chair. “Not hardly. That was one my hardest fought wins in years. I deserve something for it, and I want to know who this Rob guy is. And why you really wanted to get back to see him so badly.”

  His request startles me and I almost blurt out the first thing that comes into my head, the absolute truth. Luckily I catch myself in time. The last thing Trig needs to hear is my full sob story. The part about Mark is pathetic enough. “Rob’s my best friend.”

  “I thought Paisley was your best friend,” he counters.

  “You’ve been paying attention,” I say.

  “Always,” he says, his eyes intent on mine. “Occupational hazard, really. Details matter and my brain kind of tucks them away.”

  Mark couldn’t even remember my favorite flavor of tea, much less the names of my friends from school. That thought feels disloyal somehow, and heat rises to my cheeks. “Well, Paisley’s my best college friend and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. She’s hilarious and I love her, but Rob’s more like family I guess. My dad died and my mom, well, she’s not very reliable. But Rob is. He’s like the tides.”

  “Cold and full of crabs?” Trig asks.

  I bark out a laugh. “No, and he’s allergic to shellfish, actually. He’s just rock solid and steady, and he’s always there for me, no matter what I need.”

  “So he’s like a dog, then? I’m guessing this guy delivers pizza or something, some job he can drop whenever something comes up and you crook your little finger.”

  I shake my head. “Actually he’s a former Marine, but he was honorably discharged after an injury in the same operation where Mark, well. He came home and took over the family business.”

  “A mobster?” Trig’s boyish smile is contagious.

  “No,” I say. “His family owns a couple of car dealerships in Atlanta.”

  Trig frowns.

  “What’s that look for? Not everyone can be worth three point six billion,” I say.

  “Barely over two billion, actually,” he says. “And that’s only if you include my trust fund.”

  “If you count the trust fund.” I roll my eyes. “You do not live in the real world, Trig. And here in the real world, people need old friends. Which is what Rob is. Our weekly dinner isn’t a date. It’s at Macaroni Grill, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Macaroni Grill?” Trig’s eyebrows climb. “Seriously?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “I love their bread and I love sun-dried tomatoes and Farfalle pasta.”

  “Is that why Rob goes?” Trig leans toward me, his elbows falling to his knees, his head dropping down near mine. “He has a thing for sun dried tomatoes?”

  “He loves their bread.” I shrug. “Have you had it? I mean, really, who doesn’t love their bread? Plus, you can color on the table.”

  Trig shakes his head slowly. “That’s not what I’m asking. You know that and you owe me a real answer.”

  “Then yes, that’s why Rob goes, to be my friend and to eat some comfort food. He’s not interested in me romantically, like not at all, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Trig snorts then, and when his eyes find mine, they’re incredulous. “I very much doubt if you’re on the same page in that regard.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Maybe he’s just waiting for Cupid to fire a little arrow. I bet if you reached over and held his hand or blew him a kiss, you’d find out just how uninterested he is.”

  I scowl. “Rob doesn’t want to kiss me. I promise you that.”

  “On the contrary, I think he does.” Trig’s eyes burn into mine. “I feel another bet coming on.”

  “You’ve never even met him, so your opinion is worth exactly zero cents. Probably the only thing of yours that’s worthless.”

  “But I’ve met you,” he says. “And you’re the funniest, the most particular, the most demanding, and the most breathtakingly gorgeous woman I’ve ever met. Plus, you have this energy about you that I can’t even begin to explain. I only know it draws me in like a magnetic field.”

  “I’ve known Rob for twenty years, and he’s never complimented my looks. Not one single time.”

  “Then he’s a moron, and probably even more smitten than I thought. But I find I don’t want to talk about Rob anymore.” Trig slides forward in his seat until only inches separate us.

  “Is your seatbelt fastened?” My hands are suddenly both jittery and inexplicably clammy.

  He grins. “Is yours?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then it’s good that mine isn’t, or I couldn’t do this.” Trig closes the inches between us before I have time to think about it. His lips cover mine smoothly, his hands settling on top of my thighs and I lean into him, limited only by the seatbelt keeping me safely in place.

  When my hand slides up to his jaw, pulling his face tighter against mine, he groans and whispers against my mouth. “Skip your dinner tomorrow and go out with me instead.”

  I want to unbuckle my seatbelt and crawl onto Trig’s lap. I want to slide my hand between the buttons on his shirt. I want to devour him from the inside out and then lick my lips.

  But that’s stupid, and I’ve obviously forgotten everything I ever learned. It takes every ounce of control I have to pull back and away.

  “I can’t do that. And I don’t think I should see you again at all, honestly.”

  Emotions flash across his face so quickly I can’t pinpoint any single one. “If that’s really what you want.”

  “It is,” I say, before I can change my mind.

  But if it’s true, then why does the next forty-five minutes stretch so painfully against my skin, as though I’m sinking into the sands of the Sahara?

  Because I’ve let myself get in too far already, that’s why. The only solution for that is to cut Trig off entirely. Once I get off this plane, I’ll come up with excuses not to see him. I absolutely must not, under any circumstance, see him again before the wedding.

  Of course, that doesn’t stop me from googling Bernard Thornton the Third as soon as I reach my home Wi-Fi network. The first fifty hits are about his many many many deals, and Nometry, the name of his venture capital firm, is mentioned repeatedly in each article. Brekka’s beside him in most of those photos, the images of the last three years carefully cropped so you can’t tell she’s in a wheelchair.

  Guilt pricks at my conscience when I think about my plan to cut Trig off. That means I’ll never see Brekka again either. I glance at my new Prada boots, staring at me accusingly from the floor near my closet.

  Although, it’s not like I need to be dating Trig to stay friends with Brekka. Sweet, wickedly smart, fragile Brekka, who needs friends as badly as I do. Friends I need. Trig, whatever he wants, I don’t need. Which makes me wonder what I’d find under that name. If anything.

  I type ‘Trig Thornton’ into the search engine and a completely different type of photos appear.

  Over and over and over.

  So many photos I find myself clicking through them at an alarming rate. I’ve never understood why my friends spent so much time poring over tabloids, but maybe I get it a little bit now. I can’t seem to stop looking at the photos of Trig.

  He’s doing something insane in every single one.

  Skydiving.

  Extreme skiing after a helicopter drop.

  Surfing dangerously tall waves in the open ocean.

  Executing insane skateboard aerials with a bunch of teenagers on a random Saturday night.

  Swimming with sharks.

  On safari in Africa.

  Motocross.

  NASCAR.

  He’s done every single thing I’ve ever thought was moronic. And he’s done them all a lot of times. Enough to be splashed across my screen in hundreds of photos. There’s actually an entire website some idiotic twenty-year-old girl runs for Trig sightings. They vote each month on the hottest image of him.

  I guess I should have expected something like this. He is
a billionaire after all, and there aren’t many single billionaires, much less ones under forty who look like he does.

  I slam the laptop shut with disgust. How could I be so stupid, spending that much time with anyone, much less someone like him, practically dating him, letting him kiss me. I deserve the pain in my chest right now, every agonizing, stabbing second of it. I couldn’t have picked a dumber person to develop a crush on. A billionaire with a wickedly handsome smile who does his best to kill himself every day, and twice on Sunday.

  I brush my teeth and go to bed, determined not to dream about Trig or spend another minute thinking about how his hair curls around his temples, or how his lips feel pressed against my forehead or curled into a smile against my mouth.

  Too bad we can’t control our dreams.

  10

  Trig

  I should fly back to Colorado instead of laying around like a loser at the Hyatt in Atlanta. Brekka’s got a huge list of possible deals I should be digging through.

  I pull out my phone to text my pilot so I can tell him wheels up in an hour.

  I find myself texting Brekka instead. SEND ME THE FILES VIA EMAIL. I’M GONNA BE IN ATLANTA A FEW MORE DAYS.

  OF COURSE YOU ARE, she texts back.

  IT’S NOT LIKE THAT. GEO DOESN’T WANT TO SEE ME ANY MORE. And I have a strange desire to order everything off the room service menu just so I can pick at it all.

  WHAT DID YOU DO?

  I almost drop my phone. What did I do? Whose side is she on? I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING.

  MAYBE THAT’S THE PROBLEM. YOU JUST EXPECT HER TO FALL INTO YOUR LAP.

  I wish Brekka was here so I could glare at her properly. Emojis aren’t the same.

  Although, the thought of Geo in my lap isn’t a bad one. I shake my head. I DON’T EXPECT HER TO FALL IN MY LAP, BUT SHE DUMPED ME. BEFORE WE WERE EVEN TOGETHER. FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER.

  TRIG. ALMOST EVERYONE IN AMERICA GETS DUMPED “FOR NO REASON.” IT MEANS THEY AREN’T TELLING YOU THE REASON.

  WHY WOULDN’T SHE TELL ME THE REASON? I ask reasonably.

  Eyes upward emoji. WELCOME TO THE NORMAL WORLD BROTHER. I GUESS WHEN A SPOILED BILLIONAIRE DATES A WICKED SMART SUPERMODEL, THE TYPICALLY IMBALANCED PLAYING FIELD IS LEVELED. I WON’T LIE AND SAY I’M NOT ENJOYING THIS.

  I want to throw my phone against the wall, but I’m not a toddler. I don’t throw tantrums. My fingers fly furiously over the keys instead. WHY AM I IN SUCH A FUNK ABOUT IT? IT’S NOT LIKE I WANTED TO MARRY HER OR ANYTHING. I WAS JUST TRYING TO HELP HER OUT.

  WHAT COULD SHE POSSIBLY NEED FROM YOU?

  I roll my eyes. There should be a rolling eyes emoji. I wonder if there is. I search for one and the closest I can find is the eyes looking up one that Brekka way over uses. GEO COULDN’T BE MORE UPTIGHT IF SHE TRIED. SHE NEVER HAS ANY FUN. SHE NEVER DATES. CLEARLY SHE NEVER GOT OVER LOSING THAT GUY. I JUST FIGURED I’D HELP HER GET OUT THERE AGAIN.

  Those stupid three dots appear and sit on my screen for what feels like forever before Brekka’s reply finally pops up. She must have typed something and deleted it more than once, because her response is quite short. YOU’RE A MORON.

  EXCUSE ME?

  No reply.

  THANKS FOR YOUR HELPFUL SISTERLY INSIGHT. SEND ME THE FILES.

  The next few lines pop up so fast I know she’s been working on them for a bit. THAT GIRL WAS INJURED, AND HER INJURY IS AS REAL AS MINE. IF SHE DOESN’T WANT TO PUT HERSELF OUT THERE WITH THE BUNCH OF MISCREANT LOSERS WHO ARE SINGLE AT THIRTY, WELL, SHE’S JUSTIFIED. BUT SHE LIKES YOU, B. AND IF YOU STRING HER ALONG AND DUMP HER, YOU BETTER NOT TELL YOURSELF IT’S A FAVOR FOR HER.

  At least I always know what Brekka’s thinking. She never pulls punches. UH, OKAY. GOT IT. DONT’ STRING HER ALONG.

  I MEAN IT. I LOVE YOU B, YOU KNOW I DO. PROBABLY MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD, BUT IF YOU HURT HER, I’M GONNA SLAP YOUR PRETTY FACE THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU. IF YOU BLOW THIS, IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE A COWARD. YOU’RE MANY THINGS, BUT I NEVER THOUGHT TO INCLUDE THAT BEFORE NOW.

  Her words sting, and that pisses me off. HEARD FROM RUTLEDGE YESTERDAY. SHOULD I SET UP YOUR SURGERY FOR NEXT WEEK, WHILE WE’RE PLACING SO MUCH VALUE ON BRAVERY?

  Her text back to me isn’t lady-like at all. I toss my phone onto the bed in disgust.

  Why didn’t I just text my pilot? I hate fighting with Brekka. Other than the surgeries she keeps refusing, we almost never fight, and this one’s on me. I picked that fight with her. She was just trying to help.

  I reach for my phone again, determined to get out of here and shake off this ennui that’s settled over me. I’m probably just struggling because I’m in between deals and bored. I really need to review those files.

  Except once I have my hands on my phone again, I still don’t text the pilot. My fingers, against my will, text Luke and Paul.

  DINNER TONIGHT?

  Luke replies within seconds. YOU’RE STILL HERE? MAYBE MARY’S SMARTER THAN YOU THOUGHT. Laughing emoji, dang the man.

  Then Luke texts again. I’D LOVE TO, BUT I CAN’T. RECITAL FOR AMY. RAIN CHECK?

  Paul texts a minute later. I CAN GO. FINISHED SOME THINGS UP EARLY. WHERE YOU THINKING?

  I’VE BEEN CRAVING ITALIAN, I text.

  PORTOFINO? BOCCALUPO? Paul asks.

  ACTUALLY, I WAS KIND OF THINKING MACARONI GRILL. I hold my breath.

  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

  I wish I was. SIX PM. ALPHARETTA.

  NO WAY. IF I’M EATING FRANCHISE FOOD, YOU’RE COMING TO ME. MARIETTA. SEE YOU AT SIX, Paul texts back.

  I check the map on my phone and swear. It didn’t even occur to me there might be more than one Macaroni Grill in Atlanta, which is epically stupid. I don’t know what time Geo’s meal is, and now I have no idea whether I’ll even be at the right location. This is looking like a complete waste of time. Although she was pretty clear about not seeing me again. So maybe striking out is better than actually finding her. Barging in on her non-date might be even more idiotic than moping around a hotel room in a city I should have left already. I wonder what Brekka would say about my stalker-adjacent plans, but I don’t wonder enough to ask.

  She might warn Geo.

  The rest of the day crawls along, but luckily Brekka sends me the files. I dig into them, glad of something to distract me from thinking about sapphire eyes and shiny black hair. Two options are promising, one predictably in San Francisco, and the other in Hawaii. Not horrible places to travel at least.

  I text Brekka and tell her to set up a meeting in both places later this week.

  Without Brekka here to give me her opinion, I drag the housekeeping girls into my room and make them share their thoughts on my different button down shirt options.

  “Yes, she’ll like that one,” one of them says about my blue shirt.

  “No, no,” the other says. “The green is better with his eyes.”

  The first girl shrugs. “If she doesn’t like either one, you could always take me out.”

  She leaves her number on the Hyatt notepad on the desk before she leaves. I feel a little guilty tossing it in the trash, knowing she’ll see it there. I fish it out and flush it down the toilet instead. Then I worry about what it might do to the plumbing.

  I can’t win lately.

  I reach Macaroni Grill thirty minutes early, possibly because I’m a little nervous I’ll miss her. If we’re even in the right location. Why are there so many Macaroni Grills in Atlanta? I should have had my assistant look up her event planning business address to find out where her office is located. Odds are good she’d go to the closest one. Or maybe the one that’s closest to Rob.

  This is starting to feel a little creepy, even to me. I could have just texted her, I guess. Except if she shuts me down again, I don’t know how I can work around that.

  I’m on my second drink when Paul finally shows up, ten minutes late. He’s got the top few buttons undone of his shirt like he thinks he’s a young David Hasselhoff.

  “Nice shirt,” I say. “But you do
n’t really get your money’s worth out of it when you don’t use all the buttons.”

  “Shut up,” Paul says. “Since when do you like Macaroni Grill? You made fun of me incessantly in college for liking T.G.I. Fridays.”

  He’s right, I did. I shrug. “I’m craving sun-dried tomatoes. So sue me.”

  He frowns. “Do they have some kind of monopoly on sun-dried tomatoes I didn’t hear about?”

  “Chill, dude. You’ll survive one meal at a chain restaurant.”

  He orders a drink and turns around to face me. “So weren’t you in Atlanta just last week? Why are you back already? Looking at a tech company here? And what does Mary have to do with it?”

  I forgot how annoying Paul is. He doesn’t do social niceties, like at all. “Good to see you too. How’s the launch coming?”

  “You don’t want to talk about why you’re here?” Paul’s left eyebrow lifts.

  “I want to talk about you,” I say. “I saw Luke last week, but you were too busy. We haven’t caught up in forever.”

  He stares at me like he’s running a lie detector on my words. I hope that’s not some kind of new tech he’s testing. Surely I’d have heard of it.

  “Your table is ready,” the hostess tells us.

  Thank goodness. We follow her to a table near the left side of the restaurant. It’s not ideal. I can really only see about half of the room.

  Although, as it turns out, I could have been sitting most anywhere. The waiter had just brought us our bowls of pasta when Geo walks in the door. Every guy in the room turns and drools when she walks in wearing an absurdly tight red dress and the black boots Brekka just gave her. She’s standing next to a table in the middle of the restaurant, waiting for them to change the paper on her table, when the guy with her says something funny.

  She laughs and touches his chest and I find myself half standing, ready to cross the room and tell him to back off.

  “Uh, what’s going on?” Paul follows my eyes across the room. “She’s really hot. Do you know her?”

  He turns back to me, and I try to play it casual, but I can’t take my eyes off her.