Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  One Tuesday around noon, I was mulling all of this over while nibbling on crackers at my desk, which, as it turned out, was located in a spectacular office right next to Zane's.

  Even now, I could hardly believe the office was mine.

  I had a huge window, my own coffee maker, and a front-row seat to all of the comings and goings of the billionaire next-door.

  As much as I loved the office – which I totally did – I knew exactly why I'd been assigned this one, and not the dark and dingy cube I'd been expecting. It was because here, Zane could summon me with a series of knocks – no, not on my office door, but on the wall that divided our two offices.

  Just like Zane, it was unconventional – and rude as hell.

  I was still dwelling on this when a knock, this time on my partially closed office door, made me look up. Carla, the receptionist, poked her head through the opening and asked, "Can I come in?"

  "Sure," I said, waving her inside. Even though I'd been working here for weeks, I'd found it surprisingly difficult to make any friends, even with Carla, who was friendlier than most.

  It's not that anyone was rude, exactly. It was just that for some unknown reason, everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells whenever I tried to talk to them. Granted, this wasn't often, considering how busy Zane had been keeping me. And yet, it was a little strange.

  I'd never had problems making friends before.

  Carla stepped into my office and shut the door behind her. With a worried frown, she hurried to my desk and said in a hushed voice, "There's a visitor."

  Her worried expression told me all I needed to know. "Let me guess," I said. "The vlogger's back?"

  Just yesterday, Carla had been the one to inform me that a celebrity vlogger was camped out in the executive lobby and was refusing to leave without interviewing you-know-who.

  As usual, Zane had been entirely uncooperative, even though the vlogger was a rabid fan-girl who was promising tons of favorable coverage in return for just five minutes of his time.

  In the end, even after hours of waiting, she received exactly zero minutes, and she hadn't been happy. If she was back for more, that would definitely explain Carla's nervous demeanor.

  But already, Carla was shaking her head. "No. It's not her." She bit her lip. "It's someone else." Looking more worried than ever, she whispered, "It's a guy. For you."

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. "For me?"

  She nodded. "In the executive lobby."

  She looked almost afraid.

  Hoping to calm her nerves, I tried to make a joke of it. "It's not an ax-murderer, is it?"

  "I, uh, don't think so."

  Well, that was reassuring.

  I gave her a perplexed look. "But you don't know who it is?"

  She shook her head. "He wouldn’t say. He said it's a surprise."

  Now, I was almost afraid, too. "A work surprise?"

  Again, Carla shook her head. "The other kind."

  "What kind is that?" I asked.

  She leaned close and whispered so low, it was a wonder that I heard her at all. "The personal kind."

  Okay, now I was really confused. I'd been far too busy to date, and other than a few visits with Charlotte and a mother's day weekend at my parents, I'd been doing nearly nothing outside of work.

  Obviously, there was something I was missing. I looked to Carla and asked, "And why are you whispering?"

  Her gaze shifted toward Zane's office, just beyond our shared wall. She mouthed, "You know."

  I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I don't..." And then it hit me. "Ohhhhh…You mean because I'm at work?" I waved away her concern. It was true that Zane was a hard-ass, but he was surprisingly decent when it came to visitors showing up during lunchtime.

  Just last Friday, I'd had Charlotte up for lunch in my office. And Zane – in a rare moment of civility – even had the decency to say hello and refrain from cursing for five whole minutes.

  But now, in front of me, Carla was looking more uncomfortable with every passing moment.

  Looking to ease her concerns, I gave her a reassuring smile. "It's okay. It's lunchtime, right?"

  Again, her gaze shifted to the wall. She chewed on her lower lip for ten whole seconds before whispering, "Well, then you'd better hurry while he's on that telecon."

  I didn't know which telecom she meant, but it was easy to guess who she was talking about. "You mean Zane?"

  She froze. "Uh, right. Mister Bennington."

  Around here, everyone called him Mister Bennington – well, everyone except for me. But there was a good reason for that.

  It stemmed from an argument during my second day on the job. After yet another tense meeting, where I'd tried – and failed – to help keep things civilized, I'd flat-out demanded to know if there was something else I was supposed to be doing.

  Zane's response had caught me totally off guard. "Yeah. You can pretend I'm not an asshole. And while you're at it, call me Zane."

  The first part of his request was hard, because in truth, Zane was an asshole. As for the second part, that was easy, because I'd always thought of him as Zane – not Mister Anything – probably because I'd first met him outside the office.

  In front of me, Carla was still looking tense and uneasy.

  "Don't worry," I assured her as I got to my feet, "it's not a big deal, honest."

  Unfortunately, that turned out to be a big, fat lie.

  Chapter 29

  My visitor was big, bearded, and burly. He was gripping a vase of flowers with his right hand and the handle of a brown briefcase with his left.

  It was Professor Lumberjack, except today, he'd ditched the flannel in favor of tan slacks and a brown sports coat with dark elbow patches. For once, he looked more like a professor than a guy who cut down trees for a living.

  When he spotted me emerging from the door behind the reception desk, his face broke into a wide smile. "There you are."

  I stared at the guy. Yes. Here I was.

  But where was Paisley?

  Not here, apparently.

  I hadn't seen her in days, probably because the rent was due the day after tomorrow. For once, my checking account contained more than enough to cover it, but that didn't mean I was willing to pay Paisley's share on top of my own.

  Aside from catching up on my own bills, there were too many other people who could use a little something extra. There were my parents, who hadn't gone on a vacation in forever. And then, there was Charlotte, who was working her way through nursing school. As soon as I got caught up on my finances, I vowed, I'd treat all of them to something special.

  But when it came to Paisley, I couldn’t afford to be stupid. Sure, I had a great income now, but how long would it last? For all I knew, Zane would be telling me to fuck off tomorrow. Or next week. Or whenever the mood struck him.

  After all, he did have that history.

  In the executive lobby, Professor Lumberjack – I still didn't know his name – thrust the flowers out in my direction. "For you."

  I blinked. Huh?

  We were still several paces away from each other, with the tall reception desk acting as a barrier between us. I glanced at Carla, who'd returned to her usual spot behind the desk.

  She was making an obvious effort to look at anything but me or my flower-toting visitor. I could see why. After all, I was pretty darned uncomfortable myself.

  Reluctantly, I looked back to the professor and said, "For me? Why?"

  He lifted the flowers a fraction higher. "An office-warming present."

  I'd had this job for two months now. My office was plenty warm already. Still, I reluctantly circled the reception desk and summoned up an awkward smile as he handed me the vase.

  Trying to be polite, I gave the flowers a perfunctory sniff and murmured the appropriate noises about them being lovely or whatever.

  In truth, I hardly knew what I was saying. Against all hope, I told myself that maybe the flowers had to be from Paisley, too.

  After
all, stranger things had happened, right?

  The professor leaned closer and said, "So, you got time for lunch?"

  I felt my brow wrinkle. "With who?"

  I wasn't even playing dumb. This little visit was so out-of-character that I felt certain I was missing something. Like maybe Paisley would be joining us?

  In front of me, the professor gave a hearty smile. "With me. So do you like Chinese?"

  "With only you?"

  "Yeah. There's a place down the street. I hear they have great egg-rolls."

  Screw the egg-rolls. I felt my gaze narrow. "Where's Paisley?"

  He shrugged. "I dunno."

  Shit.

  Happily, there were no other visitors in the lobby. This made it only slightly less awkward when he added, "I saw you on TV last night. You looked really good." He gave me a sly wink. "And smooth, too, like melted butter."

  I so didn't want to encourage this. "I looked like butter?"

  "No, I mean you handled it smooth, like a real pro, when the reporter was asking you about the fight."

  I knew which fight he meant. Thankfully, it hadn't been the physical kind. But it had involved a whole lot of yelling – all on the part of Zane's latest victim, a hotshot land developer whose condo-construction plans were squashed when Zane refused to sign on the proverbial dotted line.

  I'd handled that part of the interview just fine. But when the reporter started asking about Zane's latest dinner companion, some spokesmodel named Serena, I didn't have a lot to say.

  So I'd pulled out the only response that didn't get me in trouble.

  No comment.

  I swear, it was becoming my catch-phrase.

  In front of me, the professor said, "And you look really good today." His gaze dipped to my legs. "That skirt looks nice on you."

  I glanced down. I was wearing a tailored skirt, along with a creamy silk blouse. I did love the outfit, but I could hardly take credit, since I hadn't picked it out or paid for it personally.

  No. The clothes had been selected by the shopper and paid for by Zane – or his company. I still didn't know which, and in truth, I tried not to think about it.

  Absently, I mumbled, "Thanks."

  "I always thought you were gorgeous…" The professor chuckled. "…even if you did dress like a troll."

  Now, that got my attention. "What?"

  He held up a hand, palm out. "Hey, I meant it as a compliment."

  Okay, first of all, he'd seen me dressed like a "troll" because he and Paisley had this annoying habit of coming in so late that I was already in my pajamas – which lately, yes, had consisted of comfy sweatpants and a T-shirt. But that didn't mean I always dressed that way, not even for bed.

  In truth, I would've loved to lounge around in sexy lingerie, but lingerie was expensive, and I'd always been too busy or too broke for those kinds of luxuries.

  And besides, who was he to talk? He was like Paul Bunyan without the ax – or without the big blue ox, for that matter.

  I felt my gaze narrow. "And what about your wife?"

  He gave it some thought. "She dresses, okay, I guess."

  Oh, for crying out loud. "That's not what I meant." I felt my jaw tighten. "I meant, where is she today? Would she be joining us for lunch?"

  He looked away and mumbled something that I couldn’t make out.

  I gave an impatient sigh. "What?"

  He looked back to me and said, "She, uh left me, actually."

  "Oh." I felt sympathy for only a split second before reality kicked in. The guy was a cheating, pompous toad. If he wanted sympathy from me, he was barking up the wrong tree.

  I said, "What about Paisley?"

  He gave loose shrug. "We've got an understanding."

  What a crock.

  When I made no reply, he said, "So about lunch…?"

  I was still holding the flowers. He was still holding his briefcase. I looked to Carla. She was holding a pen, but doing absolutely nothing with it.

  I knew why. She was listening to every word, even if she was still making a point not to look.

  It was long past time to end this. I looked back to the professor and said, "No."

  His eyebrows furrowed. "No what?"

  "No to lunch and whatever else you're thinking."

  "What do you mean?" He had the nerve to look offended. "I'm just here as a friend."

  Call me skeptical. After all, no one needed "an understanding" to have lunch with a friend.

  I looked to the flowers. He'd claimed they were an office-warming present. But they didn't look like an office-warming present.

  They were a lush, romantic shade of red, including the vase. It's not that I didn't like the color. I loved it, in fact. But I wasn't stupid. This wasn't the kind of arrangement you bought for a friend – or the roommate of the girl you'd been banging on the side.

  No. Those were fuck-me flowers.

  For some reason, I thought of that stupid red shoe, the one I'd tripped over in Zane's office. I hated that shoe. I hated the flowers. And I especially hated the fact that a byproduct of Paisley's poor judgement had infested my workplace.

  I gave the professor a no-nonsense look. "I think you should go."

  His mouth tightened. "But what about lunch?"

  "I already ate."

  He was frowning now. "Then why didn't you say so?"

  "I did. Just now."

  He looked to the flowers. "But what about those?"

  They felt like poison in my hands, and I wanted to fling the whole arrangement right in his face. But I didn't, because the last thing I needed now was a scene at work.

  So instead, I asked, "Do you want them back?"

  He was still frowning. "What would I do with them?"

  You could shove them up your ass, that's what.

  But I couldn’t say it, not here. So instead, I gave him a thin smile and suggested, "You could give them to Paisley. Or to your wife."

  He stiffened. "Ex-wife."

  "Oh, please," I said. "You're separated, and just barely. And what about Paisley?"

  "What about her?" he asked.

  "Is she your ex, too?"

  He sighed. "Can I be frank?"

  "No," I said. "Definitely not."

  Ignoring me, he confessed, "She's a bit of a drama-queen, if you know what I mean."

  "Really?" My tone grew sarcastic. "I had no idea."

  He nodded. "Oh, but she is."

  God, how clueless was this guy? I made a point of looking at the reception area door. "You really need to go."

  He didn't budge. "What if I don't?"

  I stared at him. What kind of question was that? We had security. They were top-notch. Technically, I could call them right now and have Professor Lumberjack tossed out on his ass.

  I was so tempted.

  But that was hardly the way to avoid a scene. So instead, I said, "Please. Just go, okay?"

  When he still didn't move, I marched past him toward the big glass door that led out of the reception area. I yanked the door open wide and said, "Thanks for stopping by. But I really need to get back to work."

  He still didn't budge. "But I just got here," he whined.

  Damn it.

  With growing desperation, I said, "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  His gaze narrowed. "When?"

  Double damn it. "Tonight. Whenever." Just leave already.

  But he didn't. Instead, he muttered, "Oh, shit."

  I was momentarily confused until I heard something that made me curse, too. It was Paisley's voice shrieking out from somewhere behind me. "I knew it!"

  Chapter 30

  I whirled around and came face-to-face with Paisley, who was wearing an annoyingly familiar black dress – mine, in fact. Her eyes were wild, and she was trembling with apparent rage.

  She practically spat in my face. "You bitch!"

  I drew back. "What?"

  "I knew you liked him!"

  Obviously, she meant the professor. But she was crazy. I didn't
like him. I barely knew him, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  In the calmest voice I could muster, I said, "Sorry, but you've got it all wrong."

  Her gaze zoomed in on the flowers, and she gave a snort of disbelief. "Do I?"

  I looked down at the flower arrangement still clutched in my hand. My fingers were tight around the neck of the vase, and for the briefest instant, I wanted to hurl the whole thing, vase and all, straight at the professor. Or cripes, even onto the floor.

  Instead, I thrust the flowers out in Paisley's direction and said, "If you want them, you can have them."

  She eyed the flowers with obvious disgust. "I don't want them. They're used."

  Behind me, the professor mumbled, "They are not. I got them an hour ago."

  God, what a dumb-ass. I turned toward him and said, "You know what? Why don't you and Paisley go out to lunch and settle this like adults?"

  Behind me, Paisley demanded, "What are you saying? That I'm immature?"

  Oh, for crying out loud. Once again, I turned to face her. "I'm not saying anything. I just think the two of you need to settle this somewhere else."

  "Oh suuuure," Paisley sneered, "you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes, actually." I glanced toward the professor. "And besides, your boyfriend was just leaving."

  Paisley gave a little sniff. "That's right. My boyfriend, not yours."

  I muttered, "Thank God."

  Her gaze narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing." Or least, nothing I wanted to discuss here.

  At work.

  In front of an audience.

  I was still holding the door, and I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if I just let it go. Would it smack Paisley in the face? And if so, would it knock any sense into her?

  Her beloved professor was a cheater and a creep. Whatever Paisley was feeling, he wasn't worth it – not that she was any prize herself.

  I snuck a quick glance at Carla. She'd given up on pretending not to notice and was now watching the theatrics with obvious concern. I could totally relate. I was getting pretty concerned myself.

  So far, I'd been incredibly lucky that Carla was the only person witnessing this spectacle. But my luck couldn't last forever.

  I gave the professor a pleading look. "You said you wanted Chinese, right? Well, Paisley loves Chinese."