Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

  I take out my hair pin and smooth my hair, refastening it, slowly but surely coming to my senses. What the hell am I doing? I’m here to save our building and instead I’m letting him seduce me!

  I go back. The video is still playing. Has he actually been watching it?

  I sit.

  “Dessert?” he asks.

  I give him a stern look. “I think we’ve gone crazy enough tonight, don’t you?”

  Malcolm studies my face. “We have three minutes left.”

  “I’ll let it slide.”

  “Do I get a tick?”

  I snort. “We’ll see.” I grab my purse. “I should go.”

  He’s impossibly handsome in the candlelight, mischief dancing in his eyes.

  “And if you think this is how future sessions will be…” I shake my head.

  “You didn’t think that was a good session?” he asks. “I thought it was a great session.”

  It’s nine thirty West Coast time and twelve thirty in the morning New York time when I get back to my room. I call Francine, and I’m so grateful when she answers.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I gust out. “Why was I thinking that I’d be any match for somebody like Malcolm Blackberg?”

  “What happened?” she asks. “Last time you called, he was actually watching Jada’s videos. Is he not watching the videos anymore?”

  “No, he’s still watching,” I say.

  “That is an amazing accomplishment right there, Noelle! You are getting him to watch the videos, like a boss. You are doing this. By the way, we’ve been discussing his John-in-love-with-Maisey theory. He may be onto something.”

  I flop back on the bed, reliving the way he touched me. I can still feel it in my veins, like the remnants of a magical potion. “I feel like I’m losing control of the situation, Francine.”

  “Noelle, you are doing this. It is mind-blowing, how far you’ve gotten. We are all completely blown away. You’re this brave warrior for our building. The worst that can happen is he tears down the building. He was already gonna do that.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Are you feeling nervous or homesick?” she asks. “Oh my god, is he being just a complete asshole?”

  “It’s not that…”

  “None of us would blame you if you felt like you had to come home,” she says in a small voice. “If you wanted to come home, we’ll buy the ticket. You’re all alone in a strange place—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s more that I feel like, it might be a lost cause. He’s pretty into his development going the way it is, and my resolve might be weakening.”

  “Wait, what?” Francine barks. “What have you done with Noelle? You have the most resolve of anyone I know.”

  I object, but she keeps on, talking over my protests.

  “You set your mind to things and you make them happen,” she says. “It’s what you do. Nothing stops you from doing what you set your mind to. You have the most resolve of anybody I know. Think of how you fought for your mother. Think of how you moved out to New York all alone. And as a letter carrier, you’re out there braving all kinds of weather. Like that Christmas Eve blizzard you told us about? And it was a crazy amount of snow, and you were stranded in some cabin, but you ventured out to deliver that last package?”

  I close my eyes. I did do that. Half the mailboxes were drifted so deep, no way could they be served without a shovel.

  “You said you just started in and kept going. And you made it happen. That’s what you’re doing now, and we’re all so freaking proud of you.”

  Would they be proud of me to know I was getting hand jobs from Malcolm?

  I make her tell me the latest news from the building. Jada and Antonio are an official item now—not a surprise to any of us. Mia’s show is getting raves. Maisey made caramel corn for the new letter carrier. The updates help.

  I’m about to wash up for bed when I notice that I have messages from Nisha and Coralee—the traveling team is going out dancing.

  It’s ten at night, a bit late to go out, but maybe dancing would be a good way to blow off steam. I’m definitely not tired.

  I text back.

  Me: I’m into it! Have you left yet?

  Nisha: We’re in the lobby waiting for the Uber. ETA?

  Me: I’ll be there in seven!!

  I change into my skirt outfit and rush down. We pile into an Uber and head out to a club with pink strobe lights where the people are packed into a thronging mass.

  Nisha and Coralee and Lawrence and I do shots and then head out onto the floor where we make a fearsome foursome. It’s totally fun, and I’m thinking, maybe things aren’t so out of control. Maybe I can do this. I just have to find a way to get us back on track of him focusing on the videos and on my neighbors.

  My phone is buzzing in my pocket. It’s nearly midnight—who would be calling?

  I pull it out and see that it’s a New Jersey number. I have a mini heart attack. I don’t think it’s Stella’s number, but it’s the same area code, and I have this feeling like it might be bad news. I see that the same caller has tried me three times in the past hour while I’ve been dancing.

  But there are no messages.

  What does it mean? Have I been found out?

  The call goes to voice mail and again, no message is left. I wish I’d answered—I’ll agonize about it until I know what’s going on. Or should I call the number back?

  A fun song comes on.

  “Come dance!” Nisha screams from the dance floor. Lawrence waves. Coralee rushes over to where I am. “Come on, Elle!”

  My phone starts vibrating yet again. I hold it up and point to it. “I have to take this.” I rush up the stairs and around the corner into a quiet hallway that leads to the restrooms. “Hello?”

  “Stella?” It’s a man.

  I swallow. “Excuse me?” I say. “Who is this?”

  “Is this Stella?”

  “Who is this?” I ask again, pulse racing. It’s the middle of the night on the East Coast. What is going on?

  “I need to speak to Stella of Bexley Partners. It’s very urgent. About her current assignment.”

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “Is this Stella, then?” he asks.

  “What is this regarding?” I ask.

  “Don’t freak out,” he says, softening his voice. “I’m just pulling your leg. I know you’re not Stella. Actually, Stella told me all about what you guys are up to. She told me to tell you hi from Estonia. She says the teaching’s going well. The students’ understanding of past tense, not so much.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “What is it?”

  “This whole thing with you taking her place and all…have they shown any awareness that you’re not her yet? She wanted me to ask you.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, trying to be vague.

  “None the wiser?” he tries.

  “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “A friend of Stella’s—not you, the real Stella.”

  It’s here I remember what she said about her asshole ex subletting her place. “Are you the one subletting her apartment? Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, actually. AJ Doyle at your service. Here’s the problem that we have—you’re committing fraud.” His voice is no longer friendly.

  Cold shivers bloom up my spine. “W-what?”

  “Don’t act stupid,” he says. “You’re in San Fran pretending to be her? To a client? Stella may be okay with that, but I might not be okay with it.”

  “How is it even your concern?” I say. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.” It’s so strange to talk to somebody in this tone. A month ago I wouldn’t have taken this tone.

  “Man,” he says, “old lady Bexley is not going to be happy when she finds out about this little scam you two are running. Or that client? Blackberg Inc.? I hear the guy’s an A-one prick. Imagine what he’ll do when I tell him what you’re up to.”

  I grip the phon
e as the music pulses below.

  “I could see somebody pressing charges,” he continues, “charges against both of you. But luckily for you, I’m in a good mood.”

  I frown. I have a definite feeling that I’m not going to like this.

  “Here’s the thing, I’ve been a little stretched thin lately. And you know that sweet little per diem you’re getting? It would really help me out.”

  “You want me to...pay you?”

  “That would be nice. A hundred fifty bucks a day. That’s the cost of my silence.” The exact amount of the per diem.

  “But it doesn’t come in the form of money,” I say. “It’s there for when I want to sign for meals and things.”

  “You can order shit from Amazon, though. Off your per diem? What you do is you order gift cards, and you email them to me. Don’t worry, Stella’s done it before, when I was in a bind.”

  “They’ll think I’m stealing.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine. Gift cards in my inbox by ten in the morning Eastern time every day from now on. Or else. I’ll text you the email.” He hangs up.

  I stare mutely at the call ended message on my phone, pulse going crazy. What am I going to do? It’s morning in Estonia. I give the real Stella a call. She picks up all groggy from sleep, but when I tell her what AJ is demanding, she wakes up really fast.

  “Uh,” she says. “I’m so sorry. He’s such a devious piece of shit.”

  “What should I do? Will he follow through? Will he tell on me if I don’t pay him?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “There’s not a lot AJ wouldn’t do. He’s not a good guy. I’m fine, I’ll play dumb, but you need to either disappear or pay him. It’ll probably be okay.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “He’s always broke—he’d be stupid to kill the golden goose,” she says.

  I hang up the phone, not entirely reassured. My web of lies is starting to feel like a noose around my neck.

  Briefly, I consider fessing up to Malcolm, but how could I do such a thing? I’d be abandoning this project, my friends. And I’m not ready to put an end to my time with Malcolm. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t want to walk away from all of this now.

  But if I stay, I have to pay AJ. And sure, I can go without the per diem. It’s what I’ve been doing already. But paying it all to AJ feels like stealing.

  I head back to the bar and find Lawrence. He buys me a shot of tequila, and I slam it, and then I buy him one.

  The shots make me feel more confident. I’ll brazen it out, I decide. Maybe it can still work out.

  I head out onto the floor and dance like mad.

  20

  Malcolm

  * * *

  I wake up at dawn feeling energetic, and set out for a nice run through Golden Gate Park in the crisp San Francisco morning.

  Usually I stop thinking about a woman the minute she leaves my sight. What is there to think about? Either I’m actually spending time with a woman and we’re talking or eating or screwing or I’m doing other things that don’t involve said woman.

  Talking and eating and screwing does not require a lot of extracurricular thought. There are no decisions to wrestle with, no strategies to develop. And I would definitely not reminisce. What point would there be to that?

  But all bets are off when it comes to Elle. I pound the trail, passing under trees collected from all around the world, every imaginable shade of green, reminiscing about soft gusts of pleasure, and intelligent eyes gazing sideways. The rush of excitement I felt when she made it clear she enjoyed my hands on her. The warm, coconut-scented silk of her skin under my lips.

  I want you to unzip it, please.

  The nervous-brave combo is definitely working for her, or at least it’s definitely working for me—that naïve vulnerability of hers mixed with steely determination, the peanut butter and chocolate of the world of women.

  God, I loved how she asked it, her voice wavering a little, like she was striding out of her comfort zone, but there was this determination inside her words. I felt like she was showing me something intimate. Like a gift of trust.

  Foolish of her—a gift of trust is not really something anybody should be giving to the likes of me. But still she gave it.

  I don’t know what to think of it. It turns me around in my head to think of it.

  I can’t stop going back to things she said. And of course, there’s the million she turned down. The absolute gobsmackery of that.

  I get back, shower quickly, and hop on a call with the New York team, but I’m thinking about her blue-striped tie the whole time.

  I could’ve unclipped it and cast it aside. Or better yet, I could’ve made her remove it. And then I undo a button.

  Briefly, I imagine it as the non-clip-on kind, and conduct thought experiments designed to answer the question of whether it would have been more satisfying to pull it free with speed and efficiency, or to draw it from her collar slowly and provocatively.

  All in all, not the most productive use of a conference call.

  Those ties. She has no idea.

  Or does she? She’s smarter than she looks. She’s more than she looks in every way. Does nobody else see her but me? It’s difficult to imagine, but I also prefer it. I wouldn’t like the idea of other men seeing her the way I see her.

  I prepare for today’s negotiation, turning our conversation over in my mind—the money, the tie, even that video and the drama of the bike rack, which I have definite opinions on, and if I were keeping that building, I would locate it in the obviously perfect place that the dancer picked out. A couple of the first-floor guys wanted it in the back of the building and it’s just an obnoxious place for it.

  I have my New York PA make a reservation at my favorite place on the bay for the next night. It won’t be easy to get, but I’ve given her leeway to spread some money around.

  I get down to the lobby early, looking forward to seeing her and having the secret knowledge between us. It’s a new feeling for me.

  I’m surprised when she’s not there; my country mouse is primly punctual in addition to being secretly full of heat. I frown, not liking that. I see Lawrence coming and I take out my phone. I want to talk to Elle, but not anybody else. Luckily, Lawrence has his phone out, too.

  The rest of them come. I stay apart. I want to ask about her, but I don’t want to show extra interest in her.

  Coralee is the one to finally turn in the brilliant observation that Elle, who is typically the first to arrive, is currently late. I stay fixated on my phone, ears perked up.

  Lawrence is laughing. “I’ll be surprised if she shows up at all,” he says.

  I frown. “Elle not coming?” I mumble.

  Nisha is glaring at Lawrence, trying to shut him up it seems.

  “What’s going on?” I demand.

  “Nothing,” Coralee says. “We went out dancing last night, that’s all.”

  She went dancing? With Walt? Lawrence? The team?

  “And it got late, let’s just say.” Lawrence seems to be trying to conceal a smile. Late? What the hell does that mean?

  “Yes. Late,” Coralee agrees.

  Finally Elle appears, fast walking across the lobby, complexion green, dark circles under her eyes, toilet paper stuck to her shoe.

  “Hey, soldier,” Walt says.

  She mumbles her hello. She can’t even look me in the eye.

  So she went out after we were together and got drunk? A wave of unease blooms through me. Was our dinner that upsetting that she had to go get drunk? And now she can’t look at me? How drunk did she get? Is she okay? Did she think to hydrate?

  I should ignore her—I really should, but I can’t. “Elle and Coralee, ride with me.” I head toward the cars and get in, determined not to pay any special attention to Elle. I’m usually having to remind myself to pay more attention to women, to remember to ask about their well-being and what they’ve been up to.

  We start rolling
and I sit silently, willing them to talk about their night, but employees never talk about their personal lives in front of me. Why start now?

  “Night out at the club,” I say.

  Coralee seems alarmed. “We just wanted to check out a big club, that’s all. See some of this famous San Francisco nightlife we’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “And? Was it all it’s cracked up to be?” I ask blithely.

  She looks at me, surprised. “Pretty amazing.”

  “Very amazing,” Elle says, expression carefully blank. What is up with her? Coralee goes on about the décor and the lights, as if that’s the part that I’d be interested in.

  The car drops us at the curb in front of the Kendrick building. “Elle, a quick word on today’s proceedings.”

  “Catch you later!” Coralee says, heading up the steps.

  Elle clutches her brown bag to her chest. She has on her most somber of butterfly ties, a light brown affair with black dots.

  “What’s going on?” I demand.

  “Nothing,” she says. “Personal matters. A situation that I found out about—just a bit upsetting. I didn’t think that I would be able to sleep.”

  “Personal matter,” I echo, burning to know what it is.

  “And I might have had a drink or two. I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” I say.

  She simply nods—she’s not falling for my repeat-the-last-words trick.

  I can’t stand that she might have some dire situation, and that she’s feeling hungover, or worse, remorseful about what happened between us.

  “Come on,” I say.

  She looks alarmed. “What?”

  “A ten-minute detour.”

  Her eyes widen. “We can’t. We can’t…not anymore,” she says.

  “A juice,” I say. “I can’t have you going into the session looking like you’re about to pass out. You need a juice and there’s a juice bar…” I point down the block. “What did you think I was proposing?” I text the group that we’re ten minutes out. I head down the block, steps hard on the concrete. She catches up. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”