And now it’s ending, just like that, and Reid looks as disappointed as I feel.
He just stares at me for a moment, his eyes communicating all the things his mouth wants to say, and a thrill of awareness runs through me, starting deep in my stomach and traveling up through my body, my limbs, my neck, and all the way to my face. I don’t have to see myself to know I’m flushing.
I don’t have to examine the reasons to know exactly what’s causing it.
“Josephine, I…” he starts, leaning closer as if he’s going to kiss me.
He smells like cedar, I realize abruptly. Like he stores his clothes in one of those big, old-fashioned cedar chests. Or, more likely, uses an aftershave that smells that way. And it’s intoxicating. In a way I’ve never experienced before. I start to lean toward him, my body moving without my brain getting involved, and my glance flicks down to his lips. His full, pink…
And at that moment, my sanity comes screaming back. I jerk in my beanbag chair, getting my feet under me, and nearly jump to my feet.
“Right, well, I guess that’s the end of game time,” I say, my voice jerky with what I’ve almost allowed to happen. Even thinking about kissing my boss is beyond the pale. I can’t believe I…
Well. I didn’t, and that was all there was to it.
“So, we’d better… I mean, we’d better get into our seats,” I continue, gesturing vaguely to where I’ve left my laptop and paperwork.
He shuts his mouth and seems to pull back within himself, and I watch him go, my heart breaking a little. But it’s the best thing. It’s the only possible thing. We’re about to be stuck together on a press tour for the next two days, and after that we’ll still be working together for who knows how long. The last thing either of us needs is any romantic tension.
Especially romantic tension that has never been there before.
This is my boss. I desperately need this job. And that means I have to put my big-girl panties on and stomp out whatever just happened.
“Right,” he finally says, getting up out of his beanbag chair and making his way toward one of the seats. “And I’m sorry for keeping you from your work this entire time.”
You can keep me from working any time—is what I don’t tell him.
“I suppose I can forgive you,” is what I do.
We don’t speak at all after that. I go back to work and get as much as I can do done, cursing Reid Billington for having distracted me during the whole flight. I’m not sure whether I want to kill him for keeping me from working…
Or throw myself at him and insist that we continue down the road we just found ourselves upon.
Either way, the descent into San Francisco International is quick—helped along, I suspect, by an astonishing amount of turbulence, which has me promising myself that I will never again fly into or out of this particular airport—and within forty-five minutes we are not only on the ground but also surrounded by the flight crew again, and out of danger.
We might have very nearly kissed when we were lounging in those beanbag chairs. But surrounded by flight attendants and then the pilots (there are, in fact, two of them)? Not a chance. I would never dream of acting on those particular instincts, and I don’t think Reid would be caught dead making a move on his assistant publicist.
So that’s that. Danger averted. Reid and I return to our normal places in the universe, disembark from the plane, gather our luggage, and make our way quickly to the town car waiting to pick us up. The ride to the hotel is awkward, but I fill it with email and messages, via my phone. I don’t want to give Reid a chance to launch us into dangerous territory again.
Because this was definitely all his fault.
When we pull to a stop at the curb, I look up and am surprised to see him smiling. It’s so out of place, considering the pall that has been hanging over us, that I pause in what I’m doing.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, immediately suspicious.
He gestures to the city around us, and then more specifically out the passenger’s side of the car.
“This is one of my favorite cities in the world, and one of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed at,” he says simply. “But you’re too attached to your phone to have been taking any of it in. And here I thought I was supposed to be the work-obsessed billionaire.”
Embarrassed, I put my phone back into my purse and glance out the window of the car—and gasp. I’ve never been to San Francisco before, and I’m not completely sure what I was expecting, but what I’m looking at boggles my mind so thoroughly that I have trouble getting any words out.
Stark white stone stands out against the colors of the city, the hotel rising up like something that belongs in Washington, DC or even in the South, rather than out here on the newer, hipper West Coast. I glance up and down the sidewalk in front of the car to see that the hotel itself seems to take up the entire city block, as well, and though the streets on the next block look crowded and rowdy, here, in front of the stately building, they seem… quiet. Peaceful, even.
“Do you like it?” a voice whispers into my ear, the breath brushing against my hair.
I jerk back—and realize that in my excitement, I’ve actually leaned over Reid to get to the window and have a better look at the place.
I slap a hand to my face, feeling the flush rising up there, and try desperately to get myself under control. Holy cats, what am I doing? I’ve been climbing all over him like we’re the best of friends, my skirt rising up further and further on my legs, and I don’t even want to think about what my hair must be doing.
I put a hand to it, patting at it in what is no doubt a completely useless gesture, and stare at Reid with my mouth gaping open, trying to figure out how to fix this.
“I’ve never been here,” I say apologetically. “I guess I got too excited to see it.”
He leans in, grinning slightly, and lowers his voice to a growl. “I like you excited. And if you think this is amazing, wait until you see the inside.”
Then he’s gone, using that ability to move without seeming to move—and without any noise!—to exit the car.
I scramble out after him, torn between the tingling he’s caused between my legs and the need to continue to look professional in front of what could be very important reporters outside the car.
Reid wasn’t kidding about the inside of the hotel. With its lofty ceilings, more of the stark white stone—now acting as crown molding and pillars only, with rich brown walls in between—and marble on the floors, the place absolutely screams money.
I look to the left and see a lounge done in deep chocolates and mahogany, and to the right at another lounge—maybe a restaurant?—done in shades of orange and red, all fire and sunlight. Directly ahead of us lies the reception desk. I can already see the manager hustling around the desk, his hand held out in front of him.
“Mr. Billington, we’re so glad you chose us for your stay,” he says quickly.
Reid laughs easily and holds out his own hand, taking the other man’s and shaking it like they’re old friends. “Marcus, you know this is the only place I stay in the city.” He gestures back toward me and I fight to close my mouth and look like I belong here. Though I know for a fact that I don’t.
I hide my hands behind my back, unable to remember whether I’ve washed all the paint off or not.
“I’d like you to meet my publicist, Josephine Evans,” Reid continues, unaware of my sudden nervousness. “She’ll be managing my schedule and keeping me in line during the trip. I want you to give her anything she asks for. She has complete signing power on my account as long as we’re in town.”
Complete signing power. I nearly choke on the thought. The man has just given me access to everything I could ever wish for, as long as I order it in this hotel. How bizarre—and wonderful—to have that much money at your fingertips. To have that much freedom. That much safety.
I’ve never been able to say that about myself. And since I graduated from college, it’s felt even furthe
r away.
The ease with which Reid has just bestowed it, the beauty surrounding us, this hotel and all its accoutrements—all the things I would never have been able to afford in my real, everyday life… Well, it all suddenly feels like far, far too much. It puts him on an entirely different level than me.
But then I remember some of the things he said while we were on the plane, and posing as friends. He became more open, and in between races, there were those comments. “I’ve never had anyone I cared to play against before,” in regard to the game, and “I almost never have people with me, and if I do, they very rarely want to do anything other than talk business.”
Yes, Reid Billington might be as rich as God himself. He might be able to buy anything his heart desires—and then a whole lot more. But it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s lonely. All the money in the world can’t buy him friends, and he didn’t hide that from me on that plane ride. The question is, though, whether that solitary life is through choice… or something that he’s brought on himself with his own actions.
Or is it, perhaps, just a side effect of having more money than Midas? Perhaps people hold him at a distance because of his wealth. Or perhaps he’s found that he can’t actually trust people, and has chosen to keep them away from him.
Whatever the cause, I’m willing to bet good money that there are days when he regrets it. No one wants to be alone all the time. Money can’t buy you that safe, warm feeling a friend brings with them. And it definitely can’t replace love.
I watch him as he gives Marcus his directions and settles the schedule for our stay. A man with everything… who doesn’t really have anything at all. And now another possibility occurs to me: Could it be that his loneliness isn’t about his choices at all, but rather something that happened for reasons I don’t understand?
Reid doesn’t act like someone who wants to be by himself. He acts like someone who doesn’t think he has a choice.
I snap back into the present to see him standing right in front of me, a concerned look on his face.
“Josephine?” he asks, the tone of his voice indicating that he’s said my name at least once already. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I blurt out. No, I wasn’t thinking about you and your lifestyle, or whether you were lonely, or whether you were craving someone to share your life with.
Of course not. Why would I have been thinking anything like that?
More importantly, why wouldn’t I have at least waited until I was alone in my room to start thinking it?
He gives me a quick grin and hands me a key. “Here’s your room key. Would you… Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
The question is hesitant, like a boy asking his first date to homecoming, and my heart warms to him immediately. But then I shut myself down again. I already know how this one ends. I already know what my answer has to be.
“No, thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice distant. “I’m… I’m not feeling that well, actually. I think I’d rather just go to my room and see about taking a nap.”
He does that drawing into himself thing again, and frowns. “But you need to eat.”
As if that’s the answer, and I’ll just have to listen to that advice and change my mind.
“I’ll order room service,” I say quickly. “Good night, Mr. Billington.”
I rush toward the elevators, glancing at the key to see that I’m on the fifth floor—my room presumably near his. I don’t have to look backward to know that he’s watching me leave. And I don’t have to reexamine my answer to know that it hasn’t changed.
We had a moment on the plane. Fine, it was a six-hour-long moment, but still. It doesn’t have to mean anything, and it would be dangerous for both of us if we tried to make it something it isn’t.
If I keep telling myself that, surely I’ll start believing it.
Chapter 10
Joey
I wake up the next morning with the horrible, bone-jarring, dry-mouth-creating realization that I’m late, and something is wrong. Throwing the covers from off my body, I explode out of bed—only to catch my foot on the blanket and trip and fall.
I lay on the ground for several moments, splayed across a truly beautiful blue-and-white throw rug that is, thank goodness, clean, and trying to figure out what just happened and whether I’ve broken anything in my exit from the bed.
A fairly thorough cataloging, some wiggled toes, and slow, cautious movement of the arm I fell on, and I come to the conclusion that I’m not actually broken.
The other part, though—that part about what happened and why I’ve woken up in such a panic—well, that still requires some sorting.
I throw my brain back to the last thing I remember, and then gasp.
I’d come up to my room and found it to be almost too gorgeous for words. Twice as big as my apartment, easily, because Reid—or more likely, his personal assistant—booked me into a suite, with two entire rooms of my own, plus the largest bathroom I’ve ever seen, complete with what looks like a bathtub combined with a Jacuzzi! Promising myself that I’d come back for the tub, I brought my luggage into the bedroom and came to an abrupt stop, completely floored by the view of the city stretching out in front of me.
I was born and raised in New York City, so big buildings don’t impress me. Traffic, gorgeous architecture, museums? I’ve seen them all. I’m completely jaded about the decorations and the parades and the millions and millions of people.
But New York City is flat. And San Francisco most certainly is not. Before me, I saw a steep drop down to another level of the city, with the row houses shoved in cheek by jowl, cozy neighbors in what had to be at least fifty different colors, each of them declaring to the world that it was unique from the others. The center of the roads featured tracks in the asphalt and lines strung over the cars, and attached to some of them were little miniature… well, train cars was the only thing I could think to compare them to. Tiny trolleys, moving along on their own as they took people up and down the steep inclines. And beyond that, the Golden Gate Bridge, rising through a layer of mist and glittering in the bright, clear California sunshine.
It was so gorgeous that I dropped my bag right there and stared for at least five minutes before finally collecting myself and getting to work with some unpacking. I had a lot of work to do before our meetings started in the morning, and I wanted to make sure I had the schedules secured, the pitches at my fingertips, and all the graphics we might need loaded up on my laptop and ready to go. I wouldn’t be going into the meetings with the investors—that certainly wasn’t my bag, thank God—but I was in charge of making sure Reid had everything he needed for those meetings. And the press outside every stop… Well, they were definitely my problem.
But instead of getting right to work, I ordered dinner—and also a bottle of champagne. Hey, Reid could afford to put us up in this hotel, I thought. Surely he could afford a bottle of champagne. Besides, I didn’t go completely crazy. I didn’t even order the best one on the menu.
That didn’t stop me from drinking it entirely too quickly, though. After dinner, I felt so relaxed that I laid down in bed for just a minute…
Oh, no.
I look down and realize that yes, I am indeed wearing the same clothes I was wearing yesterday. God, I fell asleep. And I slept the whole night—not only in my clothes, but also dreaming about Reid.
I groan and start doing a whole new cataloguing of my person at the thought. And it’s just as bad as I feared. My brain has the foggy, delayed-reaction feel of a brain that’s spent the whole night dreaming rather than resting, and the moment I have that thought, those dreams start coming back to me.
Reid and me on the plane. In the beanbags. On the love seats. God, on the floor. And we weren’t playing that stupid racing game, either. Instead, we were…
I shove the thought away, continuing my mental checklist of my body. Bra still on, check. Well, that explains some of the discomfort. And the rest…
&nb
sp; Ah, there it is. The hot, anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach, the sensation of someone having injected something into my blood and forgotten to give me the antidote. And that spot, right between my legs, where I’m both yearning and completely empty. It all makes sense now. Those dreams have gotten me worked up, and I’ve woken up feeling both confused and absolutely intent on one thing.
I want Reid Billington. And it is the stupidest thing in the entire world to want, because he is the one thing I absolutely can’t have. The one thing I can’t even think about wanting.
My boss. The way I’m managing to pay rent and—sort of—make those payments on my student loans. My paycheck.
And I have a crush on him.
I slap my palm to my forehead, furious with myself. How the hell did that happen? And what am I going to do about it?
And then the phone rings and an even more important problem occurs to me. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s already eight thirty in the morning. We have meetings starting at nine. And I haven’t prepared for a single one of them yet.
Thankfully, Reid is taking his first meeting without me, which gives me time to do some catching up. I get into my email and make sure that the reporters who wanted to interview Reid have confirmed with me, check and recheck the schedule for the day, and make sure that I have press packets for everyone in my bag. True, everyone could have used those ahead of time, but this is such a whirlwind tour that there wasn’t time for sending them out before we left.
They’ll get them when we see them. And that will just have to be good enough.
An hour after we arrived, I look up to see Reid and the businessmen he’s been meeting with walking out of the conference room, still talking. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Reid isn’t pleased with how things have gone. His face is neutral, his mouth held in a carefully maintained spot between a smile and a frown, but there’s something about his eyes that makes me narrow my own.
How to Have Your Boss' Baby Page 5