The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  “Thanks for the support.” Tim might talk like this, but when he has to, he does whatever he can for his clients. He’d put on a pink tutu if he thought it’d help me land a role.

  Yuna nods. “That’s fine. It’ll be fun!”

  “Thanks, Yuna.” I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.

  If Tim tries to pressure her, I’ll step in. It’s bad enough that her family is trying to force her to marry somebody. She shouldn’t have to fend off my agent as well.

  The valet brings out my car, with Tim’s Maserati next. I slip the guy a twenty and climb behind the wheel.

  Once we’re on our way, Yuna sips her coffee, looks like she’s about to burst out laughing, then sips her coffee again. Finally she lets out a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I think all the coffee’s making it hard for me to control myself. Caffeine makes me ridiculously happy and giggly. Sorry.”

  “You don’t sound sorry. How many did you have?”

  “Just two, but back to back. I shouldn’t be loading up like this.”

  “Okay, but what’s so funny?”

  “Remember the woman who talked to us after lunch yesterday? Jessica?”

  “Oh shit.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

  “She insisted on talking to me. She claimed she wasn’t stalking me, but who knows? I didn’t want her making a scene, so we went to Starbucks, which is where I got my second latte.”

  “Oh, no.” Fucking Jessica. She has no shame and no brain, but makes up for it by being extra obsessive. I can just picture the unpleasant conversation that must’ve ensued and make a mental note to give Yuna some kind of hazard bonus. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was highly entertaining. Apparently, you’re only worth two hundred bucks. And all this time, I’ve felt like a second-rate loser because I was only worth two hundred million won.”

  “You’re going to have to explain.” For one thing, my net worth is well over a billion because of a few lucky crypto investments I made. I cashed out when they shot up like a rocket. After that, I diversified into other things, which helped push my portfolio higher into the billions. “And what’s two hundred million Korean won in American dollars?”

  “A little under two hundred thousand.”

  What the fuck? It’s ridiculous that anybody could think I’m worth only a couple of Benjamins, but even more ridiculous to think Yuna’s worth only about two hundred K. The woman’s fingers alone are worth a million each.

  “Okay, what did Jessica do?” I ask.

  “She told me to leave you.”

  I resist an urge to bury my forehead in my hand. Jessica’s a drama queen, but this is going too far. I should consult Aiden about legal options. There should be something for this level of crazy.

  “So I told her I wouldn’t do it for free and to make me an offer,” Yuna says, warming to her story. “Her offer was two hundred dollars.” She laughs. “Can you imagine?”

  Honestly? No. “It’s hard to imagine Jessica having any money at all.” She spends every penny the second it lands in her account. I’m glad Yuna finds it funny, because for me it’s just exasperating. Jessica should’ve accepted that we were over when I told her. I made it extra clear by not attending her birthday party or sending a present for the occasion. Hell, I didn’t even text her. Her obstinance is irritating, and harassing Yuna two days in a row is completely beyond the pale.

  “Anyway, don’t worry about it,” Yuna says. “She’s no match for me.”

  Her confidence uplifts my mood. I expected a bit of helplessness on Yuna’s part…maybe even annoyance, based on past experience. This attitude is fresh and just too damn sexy. It’s all I can do to not press a kiss on her hand, then her smart, smiling mouth.

  “Oh,” Yuna says, “and if you run into her again, ask her if she needs a recommendation for a lawyer specializing in medical malpractice.”

  “Medical malpractice?”

  “Uh-huh. You’ll appreciate her reaction.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Declan

  When we’re back at the house, I get a call from Chantel. I call her my stepmom, but our relationship is more complicated than that.

  Phillip Winters was a shit-tastic human being. He had an affair with my mother while he was married. Then, when he got caught, he dumped her like a rotten fish and went back to his wife.

  He didn’t care that my mom got pregnant. Or that she died before I turned ten and I got put into a shitty foster home with a woman who only wanted the checks she was getting from the government.

  While Phillip looked the other way, it was Chantel—his wife—who agreed to take me in and raise me. She didn’t have to do that, especially when she must’ve had some deeply rooted resentment against Phillip and my mother. So I consider it my responsibility to take care of Chantel in return, even if I actively despise her daughter Ella.

  “Hello, Chantel,” I say, keeping my voice friendly. It isn’t her fault her daughter is a bitch. “How are you?”

  “Oh… I’m all right, I suppose.” She sighs.

  She can’t lie very well. Which is why I like her. “Truth?”

  An embarrassed laugh. “Well. It’s… I could be doing better.”

  “What can I do for you?” I ask, since she wouldn’t be calling if she didn’t think I could help. She knows I’m busy and tries to avoid bothering me as much as possible.

  “It’s about Ella.”

  “Ah.” So, as usual, Ella ran to her mom to sob and wheedle her way out of trouble she’s in. Big fucking surprise. My eyes slide toward Yuna. She’s going through some clothes my personal shopper Jill dropped off while we were out. Then I look at the Band-Aid on her leg. Whatever mercy I might’ve mustered for Chantel’s sake vanishes.

  “She’s under a lot of pressure right now.” Chantel’s voice is soothing. It’s a tone she knows works well on me. “She’s trying to plan a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

  But all I’m feeling right now is irritation and anger. “I’m trying to ensure her attacking my employee stays a once-in-a-lifetime event as well,” I say stiffly.

  “Is there any way we can come to some sort of compromise? Maybe she can go over there and ask for forgiveness? She’s willing to apologize to you.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Chantel trying to make things right for Ella only annoys me more. And I don’t need a fake apology, especially if it comes with a price tag of fifty thousand bucks. “I’m not the one she should say sorry to. She attacked my assistant.”

  “Okay, to Benedict, then.”

  “No, Benedict’s on leave. I have a temp right now. Ella attacked her and left a gash on her leg. It could scar.”

  Chantel makes a distressed sound. “I… I had no idea. Ella didn’t tell me that.”

  “Ella doesn’t tell people a lot of things.” As if that’s going to make everyone think she’s never done anything wrong. But it’s the only way she can manipulate her mother into calling me to have this awkward conversation. Since I hate having to turn Chantel down, my resentment for Ella shoots up. Forget the goat sacrifice. I’m going to offer up an entire animal farm!

  “So…” Chantel clears her throat delicately. “Is there any way you can forgive her?”

  When I’m deader than Al Capone’s accountant, yeah, sure. But I bite my tongue. Yuna might have a different idea. And since the person who got injured is Yuna, she should get a say.

  “Hold on a second.” I pull the phone away and turn to Yuna. “Yuna, Ella wants forgiveness. What would it take?”

  She turns to me. “I don’t know. Why are you asking me?”

  “Because she hurt you. The decision should be yours.”

  “Oh. Well…” Yuna considers for a moment. “I think it’s best if we never see each other again, don’t you? Maybe she runs the other way when she sees me. I think that’d work quite well.”

  “That’s all you want?” I say. I expected more vindictiveness. Most women would
squeeze a little harder. “You don’t want her to lick your boots or something?”

  Yuna makes a face. “Ew. No, thank you. I don’t need rabid saliva on my shoes.”

  I laugh a little, then force myself to get serious as I go back to Chantel. “I can be lenient if Ella never, ever comes near me or my employees ever again.”

  “Your employees, maybe, but you? You’re her brother! And how is she going to avoid you at her wedding?”

  Chantel was there when Ella told me I had to come to her ridiculous wedding. And when I flat-out rejected the idea. Did that idiot tell her I changed my mind? “Easily, since I won’t be there.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why you sound so stunned. I said I wasn’t coming.”

  “But… I thought that was just out of anger.”

  “Chantel, I’m still angry with her. She broke into my home. She screamed and yelled and got violent. She embarrassed me—and you—because my assistant is definitely wondering how she was raised.” I lay it on thick. Chantel hates being embarrassed. Maybe she’ll be embarrassed enough that she won’t listen to Ella’s bullshit anymore. Or call me to change my mind.

  “But who’s going to walk her down the aisle?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. I’m sure she’ll figure something out.” If she can’t, she should get a tattoo on her forehead that reads, I’m dumber than a lab rat, and I also throw away puppies because I’m a bitch like that.

  Chantel inhales sharply. I know what that means. She’s going to start a long talk to convince me. Since I hate saying no to her, it’s best not to even let her begin. “Sorry, but I have an appointment. I gotta go now.”

  “But…”

  “I hope you like roses,” I say, doing my best to avoid we’ll chat later, because that would be a lie.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Cool. I’m sending you some. Love you.” I hang up. “Yuna, can you arrange for a flower delivery for Chantel Winters? Her info is in the phone. Let’s make it…a hundred red roses.”

  That will ensure she won’t call me later, ostensibly about the missing roses, but really intending to continue the pointless discussion about Ella. Chantel wants me to get along with her daughter. She seems to think it’s something she can talk me into, and my time’s too valuable to waste like that.

  “Got it,” Yuna says. Then she pulls a shirt out of one of the boxes, comes over and puts it in front of me. “Hmm. I’m not sure why she included this one.”

  “Why do you say that?” I’d look at the shirt, but I’m too distracted by the cute way Yuna’s frowning and pursing her lips.

  “The color’s weird. This shade is too watered down… It looks a little dingy, like somebody spilled spoiled cream over a poorly pigmented green. It just isn’t your color.”

  I glance down and see what Yuna means. The color is a little weird. Surprising, because Jill’s usually better than this, but everyone has an off day once in a while. Or maybe she saw something in the shade that none of us are seeing.

  Yuna continues, “I’m trying to decide what she must’ve been thinking. I assume the people who work for you are good at their jobs, right?” She frowns. “Maybe it’ll look better once it’s actually on…”

  “Well, one way to find out,” I say.

  Yuna looks at me and then all but slaps her forehead. “Oh, right! I should text her.”

  “No, no, no. I meant this.”

  I take off my shirt. But I don’t just pull it over my head like some out-of-shape schmo. I use every bit of technique I’ve picked up from my modeling career to ensure I show everything off as sexily as possible. The abs stay super tight. The torso twists just enough to lock in the obliques. When I pull the shirt over my head, the fabric skims my hair and leaves it perfectly tousled, as though from a light Pacific breeze. I slow everything down a little so Yuna has enough time to appreciate what she’s seeing. And when I finally bring my arms back down in front of me, I flex my pecs and lats so as to set the shoulders and provide max contrast between how wide they are and the narrowness of my waist.

  When I look at Yuna’s face again—my eyes properly set into a scorching I want you laser-gaze—her mouth is slightly parted. The long pianist fingers curl around the shirt.

  Ohhh yeah. Pride swells in my chest. I work hard to maintain this body, and I love it that Yuna can’t tear her eyes away.

  I gently take the shirt from her and put it on, again giving her a display. Her gaze caresses me like a lover’s touch. I start getting a little hot myself, which is new. Some women go gaga over my body and begin talking a blue streak. But Yuna’s dazed silence is hella hot. It’s all I can do not to kiss her.

  “So…” I say, “What do you think?”

  Two heartbeats pass before she clears her throat, her cheeks flushed. “Um. Yeah. Amazing.”

  “So it looks better on?”

  “No, I meant…your body.”

  Oh, you noticed? “Yes…?” Let’s hear some adjectives.

  “You know what I mean,” she says, a small smile on her lips as the adorable flush in her cheeks deepens. “But that color’s still bad. It makes you look kind of…sickly. Probably because your skin reflects your shirt. It happens with white people.”

  I laugh. “I think that applies to the eyes, not the skin.” There’s a mirror on one wall, and I regard myself critically. “But I see what you mean about this color.” It’s just…nope. Jill should do better. “Well, I don’t want to walk around looking all, you know, pallid and weak. So lemme just get out of this thing…”

  I pull the shirt off. Yuna’s small but audible inhalation as it goes over my head makes my gut tighten.

  Topless and flexing all my muscles, I shift toward her. I make sure I have a super-sexy smile on my face, the kind every photographer I work with wants.

  Yuna stays rooted, but her eyes have grown so wide they’re almost completely round. I reach out, my arm almost brushing against hers, our bodies close. My heart is racing, and her throat works as she swallows, her eyes riveted to mine.

  Time seems to slow down. I reach…

  …out…

  …past her and take another shirt—one she laid out over the back of a couch. “Maybe this one will be better.”

  “Um. You should try it on.” Her words come out unsteadily.

  I put it on. The fabric is thin and slightly stretchy, molding to my torso.

  Yuna licks her lips. “Wow. That one’s totally fantastic.”

  “You think?” She still hasn’t blinked. “Let’s see how it looks with the right pants.” I make a show of looking around, although the pants package came last week.

  Yuna bursts out giggling, sounding both amused and turned on. “You’re going to change into new pants right here?”

  “Why not? I can also do underwear. After all, that was how I got my start.” I wink.

  Her lips are twitching. “She didn’t send any underwear.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Nope.” Yuna laughs again.

  “Okay, what? Share the joke,” I say.

  “It’s just… You’re outside my brother’s office window.”

  Doesn’t make much sense. “I am?”

  “What I mean is, there’s a huge billboard in Seoul with your picture on it. Black and white, with you modeling some underwear or other. Eugene can see it every time he goes into his office.”

  “That’s probably your brother’s favorite underwear now,” I say smugly. Brands have told me I’ve moved more units than any other model.

  She laughs again. “I doubt it, although I never asked. I don’t even remember the underwear company’s name.”

  “Well.” I run a hand across my chin. “I can be distracting.” And I’m okay with distracting Yuna.

  “So. What do you want to do about the shirts she sent? Keep them all, or…?”

  “I’m keeping this one, but you can send the rest back to her.”

  “All of them?”

  I shr
ug. “Pick out the ones you like, if you want. But she always sends way too many. She expects me to reject a few.”

  Yuna nods and makes a note on her phone.

  “Okay, time for a workout. Come to the gym upstairs,” I say. “I need someone to count reps and make sure I stay hydrated.” And I want to enjoy having her watch me, like just now, when I modeled the shirts for her.

  “You can’t count for yourself?”

  “Nope. Just be happy. You’re the first woman to do the honor.”

  Because I’m not going to waste an opportunity to lift heavy things topless and flex the shit out of my muscles until all she can dream about is my bare torso.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Yuna

  Counting isn’t rocket science. I mean, some animals can do it. Plus anyone studying music learns to count beats. So I should be an expert.

  But holy shit. My brain’s mushy. And it isn’t because I’ve been drinking.

  I run my fingers along my mouth, just to be sure I’m not drooling like an idiot.

  Nope. The skin is dry. Yay. A win.

  Neither Nike nor Under Armour must’ve offered Declan enough to wear their stuff, because he’s working out topless. The only thing he has on is a pair of black shorts whose logo I didn’t see—or care about—and gray athletic shoes.

  A stack of weight moves steadily up and down as Declan pulls on a bar attached to an overhead pulley. I don’t know what this exercise is called, but it showcases the gorgeous muscles in his back and arms. I also like how wide his shoulders are while his waist is so damn trim. Bet I wouldn’t be able to pinch anything but a bit of skin on his side. He’s that lean.

  Beads of sweat trail down the strong lines, and I’m too busy tracing them with my eyes to concentrate on some number. Damn. Him topless in his home gym is even hotter than him in his underwear outside Eugene’s office.

  “How many so far?” he asks, pausing with the bar hovering in the air. The position pulls his arms up, elbows slightly bent, his back flexed. Sweat rolls down the deep gorge formed between the well-developed lats I want to bite, just to see if they’re as hard as they look.