The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  But they’re wrong. I’m going to aim as high as possible, even if I have to spend the next eight weeks babysitting a mystery man.

  Chapter Seven

  Declan

  The second I land and turn on my phone, missed messages show up. Nothing that looks like one from the pianist from the airport, but then it hasn’t been that long, and she’s likely jet-lagged from the trip. She’ll probably call tomorrow. In fact, that makes more sense—tomorrow’s Saturday, when most people have free time.

  I work, of course…but I’m not most people.

  I grab my stuff and walk up the ramp and into LAX itself. People check me out as I join the flow of travelers. I can feel their gazes, especially the women. I’m used to it, though. Women have been eye-fucking me since I hit puberty. In junior high I had a friend named Freddie. His mom used to lower her tank top every time I went over to hang out.

  Ignoring the usual ocular coitus, I spot two unknown numbers on my phone. They tried so, so hard to reach me, calling at least ten times each, but I snort at the pathetic attempts. There aren’t that many people whose numbers I’ve blocked recently. Ella needs to do better. Or maybe it’s Jessica. Hard to tell, since they’re both competing for gold in the Crazy Olympics.

  Maybe I should just get a new phone and a new number. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  It takes me no time at all to go through customs and immigration. Global Entry is worth its weight in gold. Actually, it’s just electronic information stored in a government database, so it has no weight. But it’s nice to have after eleven at night in LAX, and passengers of fully loaded Boeing jets just deplaned from various parts of Asia.

  I text Benedict to let him know I’ve arrived. A moment later, my phone buzzes.

  “Welcome back to the city of dreams,” he says.

  “I don’t know about dreams, but at least it’s got my own bed.”

  I spot the car service I always use for travel and hop inside. The chauffeur starts off toward my place after confirming the destination.

  “Did you see that my connecting flight got delayed, too?” I say to Benedict.

  “I did. Rough. Such bad luck on this trip.” Fake sympathy drips from his tone. He’s not too crazy about working on a Friday night, and he’s not good at hiding it from me. Which is why he’s an assistant, not an actor.

  My phone pings with a text from an unknown number. Maybe it’s the piano lady…

  –Unknown: I really, really, really need this. I’m only getting married once!

  Damn Ella. I block the number. “You sure you don’t want to sacrifice that goat? I’ll triple this year’s bonus.”

  “Positive, thank you. But I do have a potential assistant for you while I’m gone.”

  I knew Benedict would come through. He’s desperate to work on his supposedly Oscar-winning screenplay. “Who?”

  Benedict clears his throat. “In the interests of full disclosure…”

  Ah shit.

  “…it’s a woman.”

  Disbelief runs through me. The rib that my former assistant cracked starts throbbing, as though it’s trying to communicate.

  But maybe there’s hope. “Tell me she’s a lesbian.”

  “Uh, that information isn’t generally included on a résumé. But Kim Sanford vouched for her.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Salazar Pryce’s assistant. You know, the head of the Pryce family, the rich people who seem to own half the nice things around here?”

  “Okay…” I still don’t know why I should care about this woman’s opinion one way or the other.

  “He used to be a womanizer, and he only hired hot young chicks—competence optional—so he could charm them, fire them and later lure them into bed. Kim’s pretty, but she never fell for him. Ever. Which is why she’s been his assistant for years now.”

  “Maybe he’s too ugly to fuck,” I say.

  “Actually, he’s quite handsome. He could’ve been a model if he’d wanted.”

  Benedict’s taste is questionable at times, but not when it comes to people’s looks. I credit his time with me for that.

  He adds, “Anyway, it’s this same Kim who said this candidate’s golden.”

  Golden, huh? “Did you talk with the temp yourself?”

  “Not yet. But I texted with Kim. She said the woman has no interest in your face or body. Or money.”

  I can feel myself sliding into extreme skepticism. No interest in my face or body, okay. She might not play for my team. But combine that with no interest in my money? “That’s like somebody claiming to have found the Loch Ness Monster in the toddler pool in their backyard.”

  Benedict uses his selective hearing to filter out what he doesn’t want to acknowledge. “So, I arranged for an interview on Sunday afternoon. After your lunch with Tim.”

  “What time?”

  “At three, at the Aylster Hotel.”

  Smart. My agent can be a bit long-winded, especially when he’s in a good mood.

  Benedict adds, “I already have the suite reserved.” There’s a wide smile in his voice.

  He shouldn’t have wasted time on this. The Loch Ness Monster isn’t real. But I don’t have the heart to tell him, because he sounds deliriously hopeful and isn’t going to give up until he sees for himself.

  I slump in my seat, already hating that I have to “interview” a potential stalker. But seeing her at the hotel means she won’t know where I live. So that’s some consolation.

  “Okay,” I say finally. “But don’t get too excited. She may not work out, in which case you’ll have to delay your time off.”

  Benedict’s not listening. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. That way, you’ll text her, not me, for the next two months when you land at a quarter to midnight.”

  “Even if she does work out, you’re always going to be the first person I text when I land.” It’s a good line. Simultaneously shows how much I value him and crushes his hopeless dream.

  “Mmm. Can’t decide if I should be flattered or horrified,” Benedict says. “In the interests of full disclosure, I intend to turn off my cell phone and cut off the Internet.”

  “You? No phone or Internet? Ha!” Benedict’s addicted to social media. There’s no alert that doesn’t make him immediately reach for his phone.

  He ignores me. “I left you the mountain of scripts that arrived. Actually, mountains arrived. Plural. But Tim pared them down to a single Himalayan peak.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Have a good weekend.”

  “I intend to have a sinfully luxurious weekend—by sleeping in tomorrow. Then I’m going to work on my pitch.”

  “You haven’t even finished the script yet.”

  “True, but I want to have the pitch just in case. What if I run into a director who needs exactly what I’m working on?” Benedict hangs up.

  His endless optimism is charming. Hollywood has a way of chewing you up if you aren’t careful. Although I give him shit, if he ever wins his Oscar, I’ll be the first to congratulate him.

  I thumb through my Instagram feed idly. Lots of likes. Lots of comments. I ignore them—the point of Instagram is to post my pictures, not to interact with people.

  My thoughts drift back to the pianist in Seoul. She should be calling soon. I have all those scripts to go over during the weekend, but I can shoehorn her in somewhere. Coffee, maybe, or lunch. Perhaps dinner. Everyone needs caffeine and food.

  When the chauffeur stops the car in front of my mansion, I tip him three hundred bucks because that’s what he deserves for having to wait so long at the airport at this time of night. I also like the wedding photo he has taped on his dash. His wife looks like a nice woman.

  I head into my home, which is deathly quiet. I stand for a moment, basking in the sheer silence after all the hours in planes and airports.

  No more being on. When you’re famous, you have to do everything with a keen awareness of how it’s going to look on social media, because everyone’s carrying around a mini
camera in their pocket these days. A camera and a desire to have their post go viral burning in their heart. But here, in my home where I’m cut off from everyone, I can just kick back and relax.

  The housekeeper has left the nightlights on. So I drag my suitcase to the master bedroom upstairs, then bring half the pile of scripts labeled “very promising” from the office to the nightstand. After my shower, I can start working on them.

  Working makes me feel good. Work equals making money, and money means I’m going to be okay.

  No more eating only the food that’s on sale because it’s about to go bad. No more wondering if I’m going to have clothes that aren’t sporting holes or are too short or too tight around my shoulders. No more feeling sad because the people I love the most are suffering due to a lack of money.

  My only regret is that Mom died before I became successful. But I know she’s watching over me and is proud.

  I look at the first script from the batch, feeling a tiny bit of tightness in my gut. The next few projects are going to be critical in establishing my career, putting me on the right path. Fame can be so fleeting, and just because your last movie or show did well doesn’t mean your next one’s going to.

  Everyone in the business knows you’re only as good as your last project.

  After speed-reading the first three scripts, all the travel catches up to me and I sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, the phone’s still quiet. I check the battery, wondering if it’s just out of power. But no. There’s still some juice left.

  What the hell…?

  Then I remind myself the pianist’s probably sleeping. Jet lag. Plus it’s early in the day.

  She’ll call. Women always do.

  But Saturday morning turns to Saturday afternoon, and then Saturday evening… By the time Sunday morning rolls around, the damned sun looking disgustingly cheery in the blue sky, I realize something.

  She isn’t going to call.

  Chapter Eight

  Declan

  By Sunday afternoon, I can’t decide if my mood is shitty or confused. Maybe it’s a little of both. Shittily confused.

  Why isn’t she calling?

  And why the hell am I wasting my time interviewing a woman I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain I won’t hire?

  But the questions seem like petty whining when everything is happening according to schedule and the way I want. It’s like the world is a well-oiled machine.

  My coffee is perfect. My workout is fantastic, with a new personal best on bench press. My t-shirt is stretched nicely over my pumped-up chest and shoulders, and my black jeans are ridiculously comfortable and mold perfectly to my ten-out-of-ten ass. The same ass that’s graced a thousand billboards and got voted the Booty I Most Want to Lick—or was it Bite?—by the Women Who Know Best site.

  Even the traffic cooperates, and over lunch Tim tells me three highly respected directors are interested in having me for their next projects. One in particular, who I’d love to work with, wants to make sure I know how to waltz for a role.

  “You know how Melvin is,” Tim says.

  Oh, yeah. I met him at a party last year, and the man’s a character. Over-the-top, stubborn and eccentric, with an ego the size of Texas…which is where he grew up.

  Tim continues, “He says he needs a man who ‘already has everything.’ Anyway, the movie’s going to have a choreographer for the two dance scenes, but you should know how to do a basic waltz by Friday. He wants to meet at the studio, and God only knows what he’ll want you to do. He asked for backflips when he was casting his last movie. Backflips! Crazy. I’m surprised nobody snapped their spine.”

  I know nothing about ballroom dancing, but I can actually handle a backflip. Waltzing can’t be harder than that.

  “You said two dance scenes. Waltzes for both?” I sincerely hope so. Because I don’t know about mastering two dances in five days.

  Tim shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe. But waltzing is definitely on the menu. I had Benedict arrange for a dance instructor to come by tomorrow morning so you can start. You don’t have a lot of time, but it can’t be that hard to learn some steps. And Nancy’s a great teacher.”

  I nod. I have a week. I can manage.

  “All of Melvin’s movies have done great, and spy flicks are his forte. It’ll be a career booster for sure.”

  Tim is absolutely right. And I should feel ridiculously optimistic about everything happening today.

  Sunglasses covering half my face and a baseball cap over my head, I exit Bistro Nieve after the lunch is finished and step right into the Aylster lobby. Benedict’s waiting for me with a key to the reserved suite on the top floor.

  Tall, with a gaze just warm enough, he’s the perfect assistant. Efficient, friendly and calm. He also makes everyone underestimate him. Until he fucks them over, with permission from me or on his own judgment. He also hides a sharp tongue underneath the soft packaging, complete with carefully cropped light brown hair and brown eyes.

  Right now, those eyes are sporting dark circles from a lack of sleep.

  “Late night out?” I ask.

  “Late night writing. I had an inspiration for my screenplay just as I was about to go to bed.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” I’m used to getting struck by my best ideas when I’m in bed. It’s the worst when a clever comment or comeback pops into my head after a party’s over. Staircase wit.

  “Yeah. It’s terrible for insomnia.” He sounds glum.

  “So you’re done now? You said you had, like, ninety pages written.” That means he only needs maybe twenty more pages or so to go to wrap up a feature-length film script. He might not need two months off after all. My own optimism is building, pushing my shitty mood to the side a little.

  “No. I’m back to ten pages. I tossed the old stuff because it was garbage.”

  “You know, you can be overly harsh on your creative genius. I think it wants you to add those last twenty pages and forget the writing vacation.”

  “No, it doesn’t. My creative genius says I need to do this.”

  “Didn’t you rewrite the first ninety pages a hundred times?”

  He laughs. “Oh, come on. It was twenty-seven. And each revision makes it better. I’m making it better.”

  I make a vaguely skeptical noise in my throat and give up. He’s got that mule-like look in his eyes. “If you say so.”

  We go to the top floor and enter the massive suite.

  The place is immaculate, the curtains pulled away from the windows. Fresh flowers grace a glass-top coffee table, and there’s a black baby grand in the corner.

  It reminds me of the pianist—again. Why am I so obsessed with her? Is it because she’s the first woman in living memory who’s ignored me? Or is it because I keep thinking about how I felt listening to her play? If I could just listen to it one more time, the odd restlessness in me might settle down.

  Should I hire someone to track her down?

  I’m looking for an Asian woman. Looks to be in her early twenties. Korean, probably, because we met in Incheon International Airport, although she could be some other Asian nationality flying through. She plays the piano really well. And no, I don’t know her name. Or have her picture. But I know she’s in L.A.

  I sneer inwardly at myself. That sure narrows it down, because young Asian women who can play the piano are such a rare commodity in Los Angeles. I might as well try to find a flip-flop I lost at the beach when I was thirteen.

  I sprawl out on a cream-colored loveseat, my legs spread and my arm on the back.

  “Does she have a résumé?” I say, not bothering to hide how unhappy I am about this forced chore. If he says there’s no résumé, I’m going to send her home for being half-assed. I deserve two-hundred-percent-assed effort.

  Benedict raises an eyebrow. “I emailed it to you yesterday. I believe I even marked it urgent.”

  Urgent for him, but not so urgent for me. Actually, it’d be better if the résumé had never crossed Ben
edict’s path. “I didn’t see it. It probably landed in a spam folder because even the Internet knows where it belongs.”

  “This is important, Declan.”

  “I agree. The thing is, it’s not your ribs that’re in danger. Did you know that when a rib cracks, it never really heals correctly? It pokes your lungs until you develop an abscess.”

  Benedict ignores this dire factoid I made up on the spot. “Like I said, Kim vouched for her. And if it makes you feel better, I already looked up her employment history. The Ivy Foundation is legit, and it’s like—”

  “No, stop. You’re going to make it sound nine million times better than it really is.”

  The Ivy Foundation single-handedly cured cancer and fed steak and caviar to every child in the world. No. Not listening to his ridiculousness.

  Three firm knocks come from the door.

  “Interview time,” he says, rubbing his hands like a villain.

  “If she seems even slightly crazy, tell her I’m dead.”

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t—”

  Benedict opens the door. “You must be Yuna. I’m Benedict Brown. Come on in. Declan’s waiting for you.”

  Damn it. He didn’t even stop to check the crazy level on her. And he just told her my name. Actually, he probably told her when he arranged for the interview to make sure she shows. He’s that desperate.

  Forget the two months off. I’m just going to fire him.

  But my indignation dies away when I spot the auburn-haired woman moving toward me. All the fine hair on my body bristles, and a ticklish tingling sensation spreads through me.

  It’s her.

  Chapter Nine

  Yuna

  I stand at the door to the suite, slightly nervous, but mostly excited.

  I got up extra early, since I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t because of jet lag. Flying first class generally prevents that, because I nap enough to make sure I won’t suffer too badly. It’s that ridiculously attractive stranger at the airport’s fault. Every so often he invades my head, like some unwelcome but overly hot barbarian warrior. Then he shoots me a smile with enough wattage to melt my control and wet my lady parts.