Pretty Nerd

by Maggie Twain

  Pretty Nerd

  A Billionaire Rogue Novella

  Maggie Twain

  Pretty Nerd

  A Billionaire Rogue Novella

  By Maggie Twain

  Copyright © 2020, Maggie Twain. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Consent may be obtained by emailing: maggietwain@protonmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Maggie Twain

  Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexual content.

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  Contents

  Pretty Nerd

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Also by Maggie Twain

  Find Me Online

  Pretty Nerd

  She's got spex appeal!

  When one of Blake Ruddiger's employees suggests his daughter takes work experience at his company, at first he's dead against the idea. Young female interns are bad news in a male-dominated high-pressure environment. However, the moment the billionaire investor sees the pretty nerd, all he knows is that he has to have her, no matter the obstacles in his path.

  Male rivals, an over-protective father who won't let her out of his sight and worst of all, a time limit of three months before she starts Harvard. How can these complications be dealt with?

  Ever since Alice left boarding school, men are looking at her differently and she can't quite seem to figure out why. However, there's this hunky billionaire who's particularly intent on securing her affections. Would there be any harm in going behind her father's back, just for a little while?

  What is it about this pretty nerd that drives men so wild?

  If you like seductive billionaire rogues and sweet young women in their primes then you'll be enchanted by Pretty Nerd, the latest novella by Maggie Twain.

  *Mature young adult / new adult: sexual content and language. For readers 17 and older.*

  For fans of Alexa Riley, Lucy Darling, Mink and Ella Goode.

  Chapter One

  Blake

  Today is a good day.

  I lean back in my Italian leather chair and inhale a beautiful breath as I stare at the photo ID of the caller on my screen. For years I’ve been awaiting this moment and now, even as I can see his name in big red letters, not to mention his dumb looking face, I still can’t truly believe this moment has come.

  I press receive and place the caller on speaker, “one minute,” I tell him. After so long, he can wait a few seconds. “Sonja?” I call to my personal assistant sitting at her desk on the other side of my office.

  She stands and strides towards me in her heels, long slender legs leading to a perky ass, a flat abdomen and even perkier tits, her long blonde hair cascading past bare shoulders. “Yes, Blake?” Oh, and a Russian accent. Why she can never get a twitch from my pants, I don’t know, it’s almost like my raw ambition has killed that part of me.

  I clasp my hands behind my head and feel the way my suit purchased on Fifth Avenue restricts my biceps from expanding. “A glass of Dom Perignon, if you would be so kind.”

  Her eyes widen because it’s a strange request, even for me, especially for me, because I never drink but this forthcoming display of groveling requires something expensive to mark the occasion, as well as another victory for my portfolio. “Of course,” she says after she’s over the surprise.

  I drag my hands through my hair, position the camera so that I’m center and then unmute the caller. “Bob?” I say in the kind of way that makes no attempt at disguising my glee.

  “Mr Ruddiger…” immediately, that’s the first tell, right there, because this jackass always took such pleasure from calling me Blakey-Boy. But things are different now. How ten years changes things. “I hope you’re well?”

  I breathe in another beautiful breath of air. “You might say I’m extraordinarily well, Bob,” I add a slight mocking tone to his name and decide I like how it sounds, so I’ll do it often throughout this conversation.

  His eyes seem to be studying the entire screen, not just myself, but the New York City skyline that fills the vista all around me. It’s the view from the 120th storey of the Central Park Tower. In contrast, he looks like he’s calling from the basement of one of his failed coffee franchises. He also looks total shit, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, or eaten much either but then, if the reports are true, Bob has problems. He seems distracted, perhaps because I haven’t returned the question to him.

  I decide to be polite. “I’m sorry, Bob, where are my manners. How are you?”

  His bottom lip quivers. “I’m, um, well, at least as far as my physical health goes, but the business … I’ve no doubt you keep abreast of developments, so there’s no point in trying to pull the wool over your eyes. Things are not as good as they used to be, Mr Ruddiger.”

  I prop my feet up on the desk and cross one incredibly expensive shoe over the other in a way that ensures he sees the Berdini logo on the underside. “Oh, no, this doesn’t sound good at all.”

  Of course, I already know all about Bob Stoddard’s financial position. Indeed, it has been of great interest to me over these last few years and I’ve always made sure Sonja brings to my attention any article she comes across regarding his failing coffee empire.

  “I thank you for your sympathy and I’d like you to know that I’ve always considered the manner in which we parted ways to have been the biggest regret of my career.” He leaves it there and I try to fathom how hard he’s scrutinizing my face for clues as to how I’m feeling about this. Truth is, I’m finding it hard not to laugh. My pops always said never to kick a man when he’s down, it’s just a pity this is advice Bob Stoddard never followed himself.

  I nod and feel my eyes soften. “You did what you had to do, Bob, you wanted to make your fortune and you felt that I was holding you back.”

  It had been ten years before when Bob and I had opened our first fledgling coffee house. I’d put my blood, sweat, tears and entire life into that thing, built it up from zero, sacrificed relationships, my health, even my family. Then it had come time to restructure and expand. The only problem was that my pops had died the week before signing the lease for our second premises and understandably, my head had been all over the place at the time. Bob had used some fancy New York lawyers to screw my share in the company down from fifty percent to nothing, all for a nice payoff so that I wouldn’t sue. It was true that I hadn’t read the fine print when I came to sign but then I hadn’t been expecting my best friend to screw me over the way he did. I’d turned up to our second store opening only to find myself confronted by security, being told I was no longer a partner and that Bob was the sole owner of BrewHouse Coffee. There was nothing I could do because he had my signature that proved I’d agreed to everything and all I had to show for it was a measly fifty thousand bucks to start all over again from scratch.

  I’d had it with the grind, pardon the pun, and decided instead to make my fifty big ones work for me, which is how I ended up in venture capitalism, a career that al
lows for certain advantages.

  Bob’s body relaxes and he exhales with relief. “You have no idea how good it is to know you’re not pissed, I mean, if anyone has reason to be pissed, it’s you.”

  My pops had another saying. Revenge is a dish best served cold. “I was angry for a long time,” I flap a dismissive hand to reassure him, “perhaps if you’d waited less than ten whole years to bury the hatchet, I might have been brandishing my letter opener right about now.”

  He squints, perhaps because he’s unsure as to the extent of my sarcasm. I’m a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch which, in fairness to Bob was one of the reasons he decided he’d had enough of me. No doubt that and my other foibles. Hey, I never pretended I was perfect, though that doesn’t mean to say I deserved what I got. I lean forward for a better look at my old friend. He’s still squinting into the camera and he starts to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat, probably because he knows how few cards he has to play, his impending bankruptcy has seen to that, so he has to at least pretend I’m taking him seriously. If you think about it, it’s kind of pathetic, running out of options before groveling to your former friend you screwed over years back. “I’m…” he begins but I cut him off.

  “Why don’t you cut to the chase, Bob? We could talk about old times if you want? About how I worked through the night fixing up our first joint, or about how I spent six months sleeping behind the bar because I’d plowed my rent money into the premises, but I’m not sure that’s why you’ve waited ten years to call, right Bob?”

  He sighs and shows his palms. “You’re the absolute last person I can count on.”

  I raise a devilishly handsome brown eyebrow. “Me?”

  “I’m in trouble, Mr Ruddiger, and was wondering … um, I was hoping you might wish to consider investing again in BrewHouse Coffee?”

  There it was, he’d dropped the bomb I’d known was coming. In fact, not only had I known it was coming the moment he called but I’d known it was coming these past ten years at least.

  If there’s anyone who knows the coffee business, it’s me, which is why after I got screwed over, I went on a bit of a road trip, searching America for that one place that served the best coffee, owned the coziest venue and possessed the most eye-catching branding. I took my time because I wanted to get this absolutely perfect and throughout those months in which I was living in the abyss, I discovered many incredible coffee houses, though for whatever reason, none of them had triggered my instinct or had given me that feeling that would scream at me that I’d come home.

  It wasn’t until my twelfth month when I was in fits of despair and was so close to giving up on my search that I found it. I remember the day as if it was yesterday.

  It had been raining, I was low on gas and down to the last few coins in my pocket. A couple more days on the road and I’d have been forced to forget my dreams and spend the rest of my life living in my car.

  It was a tiny place in a completely nondescript town in some New Hampshire backwater. What first caught my eye was the name and my gaze glazed over when I read it in such fancy font above the store. In two short words, the name described my life so completely that I decided it just had to be a sign. When I entered, I was completely blown away by the place, the intimate feeling, color scheme, seating arrangement, the incredible bitter odor that filled every inch of breathing space. It was all so perfect but surely, the coffee could not match up to the rest.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Stepping up to the counter, I read the chalk menu on the wall behind who I assumed to be the owner, a little old lady who surely ought to have been long retired by now. I ordered an Americano and was handed my drink in an eye-catching paper cup. Finding a seat, I held my breath and took my first sip.

  Now, at this point in the story, it’s important to recall that I’d spent the last year of my life traveling the country, visiting thousands of independent coffee houses in search of perfection.

  On that day, I finally found it.

  I approached the owner and asked if she was interested in taking on an investor. I told her she would not have to do anything, to leave the hard work to me and that within a year, I’d have one of her franchises in every town in the county. In two years, I’d have one of her franchises in every town in the state. In three, every town in New England. Give me five years, I told her, and I’d have one in every town down the east coast. Give me ten and I’ll have one in every town in America.

  The old lady had indeed wanted to retire but had been unable to make ends meet. I told her that if she wanted, she could retire today and that I’d pay her a generous pension for the rest of her life.

  She agreed, and that’s the story of how Has Beans became the largest coffee franchise in America.

  That was the hard part, making the discovery that I knew would change my fortunes. The next part of the plan was easy and merely involved shadowing BrewHouse Coffee every step of the way, doing everything the same only better. Has Beans is superior in every way and we manage to sell our coffee, not to mention a better experience, at a cheaper price than Bob’s failing company. Wherever Bob goes, I go, and have been doing for years now, squeezing his profits until the pips squeak.

  So there you have it. I’ve spent ten years waiting for this moment and now that it’s finally arrived, I plan to enjoy it.

  Oh, just one more thing. I’m the money man and have been very careful about keeping my name out of things. As far as the world knows, the brains behind the operation is the unassuming face of the brand, Mrs Lyla Parsons, now one of the wealthiest old ladies in the world. Bob does not know that I’m the guy behind his downfall.

  I narrow my eyes at my old friend. “You’ve not tried the bank?”

  He’s about to answer but I hold up a silencing hand because Sonja’s returning and she’s holding a large, very expensive bottle. She strides around the back of my desk and I notice how Bob’s mouth parts in sickening lust as my assistant pops the cork and the foam gushes from the spout like creamy seed from a prized stud. When she bends forwards from the hips to fill my glass with Dom Perignon, his face is beyond comical. Sonja packs that damned skirt better than just about any woman on the planet and yet it never ceases to amaze me how little I feel, that I’ve never so much as considered bending her over my desk and plowing that ass from behind, though I’m certain Bob’s assuming the billionaire must be spending his days fucking her. She angles around slightly, giving him a shot of her cleavage before strutting away. Bob looks like he’s about to be sick.

  I take a sip, it’s beyond delectable, and nod into the camera. “You may answer, Bob.”

  He throws up his hands. “Blake, I’ve…”

  “That’s Mr Ruddiger,” I correct him.

  He looks absolutely white. “Mr Ruddiger … it’s been the damnedest thing but I’ve tried the banks and not one of them will agree to any loans.”

  I rub at my stubble and take another sip. “How strange.” I can’t imagine who might have played a hand in that, in asking my buddies on the boards of every New York institution to blacklist BrewHouse Coffee. “A bank that won’t agree to a loan? I can only imagine that your credit must be about as good as your profits.” I uncross my ankles and cross them again the other way around. “And now that you’ve been refused, you’ve come running to me for money. Is that what it is, Bob?”

  His face turns from white to red. “Well … um, you invest in businesses in exchange for shares,” he hesitates, almost like he can’t believe he’s about to make his offer, even though I know it’s all he’s been thinking about for a long time, “alas, BrewHouse needs a cash injection to keep afloat. So, the board has agreed to grant you an incredible forty-nine percent stake in the company in exchange for a full bailout.”

  I whistle, remove my feet and sink back into the plush Italian leather, pretending to be surprised. “Wow, Bob, that’s really something, but I read that you require half a billion dollars,” I make a deliberate move for my checkbook, as though such a
sum is nothing to me, but then hesitate with my solid gold pen and look back at the screen. “You know, Bob, I’m not in the business of losing money. My pops, you remember him, right? he’s the guy who died, enabling you to take advantage of my mental state at the time … anyway, he once told me never to throw good money after bad.” I give him a quizzical look. “How do I know this investment won’t end up being thrown down the pan?”

  He puffs out his cheeks. “We’re making reforms.”

  “Like what, Bob?”

  “Um, we’re training our staff better, cleaning more often, changing our branding and incentivizing our farmers to produce superior quality beans,” he sounds real desperate.

  I pucker my lips. “All this sounds great, Bob, but what I’d really like to know is what you’re planning on doing about Has Beans?”

  His entire face clenches up at the mention of the company responsible for his predicament. “I … I …”

  “You don’t have an answer, do you, Bob?” I shake my head sadly. “If I bail you out, it will only be a matter of time before I’ll need to bail you out again. It won’t really matter how many shares you grant me, there’s not much use in owning a failing company, is there, not when I could simply invest in … I don’t know … somewhere like Has Beans.”

  He leans forwards and brings his hands together like he’s praying. “But I thought that … because of old times … you’d want to help an old friend?”