The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

I snort. “Trust me, you don’t know the meaning of the word. And terrible boundaries. One of my clients keeps trying to set me up with his brother, and I’m like…are you serious? After I’ve spent my whole night holding your hand while your head was in the toilet, and you insisted that you were Wolverine and that the Statue of Liberty was chasing you, you think I want to have anything to do with your gene pool?”

  She laughs. “Is he hot, at least?”

  “Well…” I glance around me, as if I’m about to reveal a secret. “I probably shouldn’t say, but you remember Fine magazine?”

  “Oh, no! Not that guy.” Her eyes widen. “I mean, he is hot, but…seriously?”

  “Come on, he’s not that bad.” I grin at her. “I could give you his number, if you want.”

  “Oh my God, my grandmother would have a heart attack.” She snickers. “Can you imagine?”

  I can’t, actually, but I just smile and nod. Most of these people are in the habit of talking only to those who already know their entire social circle, so they tend to forget that random strangers have never met their families. “Seriously, though,” I shrug. “It’s 2018.”

  “Not around here, it isn’t,” she counters. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s probably pretty charming, but…I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about where he’s been before. And in this case the answer is ‘everywhere.’”

  “But aren’t you curious?” I allow myself a cheeky little smile. “I mean, there has to be a reason why he does so well for himself.”

  “Oh, hell.” My target shrugs. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t spend the night with him. But he’s hardly husband material.”

  “Well, I’m not looking to get married,” I chuckle. “But I know what you mean.”

  Her reaction was basically what I expected. What I didn’t expect was my reaction.

  I’m…not offended, exactly, but the way she dismissed him out of hand - without even knowing him - it doesn’t sit right with me. I mean, at least get a taste of his smarmy personality before you decide that his bad qualities outweigh his amazing body.

  Come on, Cass. Snap out of it.

  Despite the shell of professionalism I always try to keep around me, I tend to take every case personally. It’s one of the reasons I’m so good at my job. It’s the reason why I raced across town to try and save Steffie’s sobriety, even if it meant getting flashed by a stranger.

  And this is exactly what I didn’t want. Getting emotionally invested with a guy like Wakefield, who’s going to be nothing but trouble.

  ***

  I strike up a few other, similar conversations in a few other hot spots in town. The results are always the same. By the end, I’m feeling equal parts irritated and demoralized. My heart’s already taken on Wakefield as a client, even as my head frantically waves emergency stop signs. He’s going to be bad for me.

  Then again, I’m doing the same thing that I’m accusing those women of doing - I barely know the guy. Jokey, flirty emails don’t count. I really shouldn’t make any premature judgements, negative or otherwise.

  It’s time to do a little more research. I settle down in a cafe in a slightly less hoity-toity part of town, somewhere I can feel less out of my element. And I search.

  The first thing I look for is something that puts him outside of his comfort zone. There are plenty of interviews, even more op-ed pieces, but mostly he’s on his turf. Bros talking to bros. I can practically read the fist bumps between the lines of some of these articles, and it makes me a little nauseous.

  When I stumble across an interview in the progressive, girl-power zine called Kane, I admit I’m surprised. I used to read it when I was in college, and they usually don’t pull any punches. Even more interesting, the interviewer played devil’s advocate to really bring out Wakefield’s true feelings.

  K: Do you worry that men don’t know how to be men anymore?

  W: My father gave me a piece of advice once, after I got into a fight at school. He said, “Devon, worry less about what it means to ‘be a man’ and focus on being a human being.”

  K: And you found that to be good advice?

  W: I seem to be free of the neurosis that plagues so many modern males, so I’d say yes.

  K: What neurosis is that?

  W: Entitlement, mostly. The great paradox is that I have a lot of sex with a lot of women because I don’t approach interactions with them assuming they owe it to me.

  K: So you have to earn their interest?

  W: Not really. I think setting out to “earn” anything from anybody without having the slightest clue if they’re prepared to give it to you at all…well, that’s just as bad. A lot of men seem to assume women aren’t interested in sex, so if they don’t aggressively pursue, it will never happen. They couldn’t be further from the truth.

  K: What do you say to men who argue that you’re able to “sit back and let women come to you” because of your good looks?

  W: Well, admittedly I’m lucky in that regard. I won’t try to deny it. But you’d be surprised how many women won’t approach me because of how I look. It’s no different from how many men are too intimidated to talk to attractive women. I think my primary advantage is confidence.

  K: So you think a conventionally unattractive man could have your same success with women if he developed the same confidence you have?

  W: I don’t know, but it can’t possibly hurt. Attraction’s a lot more complicated than what we see in magazines. Not looking like a model isn’t a character flaw. Not everyone is looking for a one-night stand with the hottest person they can find. And it really depends on how you define “success.” I’ve been shot down plenty of times, I’ve had lots of good sex, I’ve had plenty of bad sex. I don’t think of it in terms of “success” and “failure.” Just live your life.

  K: A lot of people would say you can afford a laissez-faire attitude towards sex because you’re getting enough of it.

  W: Oh, of course. And they’re not wrong. But by the same token, when you’re not getting any, it’s easy to believe that’s the source of all your problems. But it’s never healthy to focus so much on just one aspect of life. We teach boys about sex in a way that creates this false sense of scarcity. It sounds cliché that you need to just stop worrying about it, but…you need to stop worrying about it. Desperation stinks.

  K: Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh towards men?

  W: No. Harsh would be “Stop obsessing and get a grip.”

  Shit, it could have been ripped straight from my frustrated early-twenties diary.

  I’m really in trouble now.

  Chapter Five

  Cassie

  “Hold up, hold up, hold up.” Becca waves a french fry at me. “You’re saying you’ve been exchanging emails with Devon Wakefield? For months?”

  “I wasn’t aware I had to disclose all of my correspondence to you,” I reply, dryly. “Anyway, the point is…”

  “The point is,” she cuts me off, “there has to be a reason why you’ve been keeping him as your dirty little secret. What’s really going on, Cass? Do you like-like him?”

  “Ugh. You’re such an embarrassment.” I poke at my salad. “Because, I knew you were going to scold me no matter what I decided to do.”

  “Wait, you’re not going to work with him?” Becca gapes at me. “Are you kidding? He’s got to be the richest client that’s ever fallen into our laps.”

  “My lap,” I correct her. “And it’s not like I’m going to charge him more because he can afford it.”

  “Why not? He’s rich, he’s a little bit sleazy - call it the Unmarriagable Asshole Tax.” Becca’s on the verge of jumping out of her chair.

  “Calm down,” I tell her. “I’ve made my decision, and it’s final. The first thing any woman’s going to do is look him up online, then she’s going to pull up his website, and she’s going to back right out of the room.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Becca replies.

  “Might want to rethink t
hat.” I flip my laptop screen around to show her the lurid splash page that loads when I type FinePeople.com into my browser. The slogan - “A Night to Remember” - goes quite well with the half-naked body on the banner.

  “Hmm,” Becca intones, approvingly. “Nice.”

  Sighing, I flip the computer back around. “That’s not the point.”

  It’s a point, certainly - and a good one - just totally irrelevant to the issue at hand. Nice is really doing a disservice to the owner of this particular headless torso. His skin is sun-kissed, his muscles perfectly defined without being too bulky. He’s probably tall and lean, with black or brown hair, judging by the color of what’s scattered across his chest and arms. Not too much, not too little. It’s unusual to see in this kind of glamor shot, because apparently, most male models wax to make their muscles pop better. This guy certainly doesn’t need the help.

  “What is the point?” Becca presses. “Wakefield is a dream client. Hell, I’ll take him on freelance if you won’t. I don’t care how many nipples are scattered on his website.”

  “You don’t get it.” I make a series of vague gestures, which just causes Becca to wrinkle her nose and shake her head at me. “People are still puritans when it comes to this kind of thing. Nobody wants to marry a playboy. A rake.”

  Becca guffaws. “A rake? What century is it? Oh my goodness, none of the noblemen will want their nubile daughters married off to such a confirmed scoundrel!” She presses her wrist to the back of her forehead. “My goodness, Cassandra! Just think of the scandal!”

  “Look, I barely have time to deal with the clients I’ve already got,” I remind her. “I’m not having a lot of luck with Willow.”

  “Willow needs to lower her standards,” says Becca, sagely. “I told you, I can go hunting for you.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Come on. Where would I be without my best admin?”

  “Your only admin,” she reminds me. “But you know I’m overqualified for the job. Let me go on the prowl for you, we’ll find Willow’s dream guy twice as fast. And then you’ll be free to hunt down Wakefield’s bride. Just think about how that’ll look on your resume. Even if you never come back to the business, you’ll always have that feather in your cap.”

  I don’t like it when Becca talks about my sabbatical that way - like it might be a permanent thing. That was never the idea. Except that, of course, it’s a possibility. The elephant in the room. I don’t want to do this job for the rest of my life.

  The problem is, I don’t know what I want to do. Being in public relations nearly ruined me. The long hours, the frantic late-night phone calls, constantly cleaning up other people’s messes. I was like a harried mother with fifty children stuck in a permanent state of Terrible Twos. Imagine the worst-behaved toddler you’ve ever met, then make them an adult with a driver’s license, a massive bank account, and access to the kinds of drugs that scientists haven’t invented names for yet. That was every client I ever had.

  But this? This isn’t much better. I was never much of a romantic to begin with, but I’ve reached truly epic levels of cynicism now.

  Either way, I have to meet with the guy. It’ll get Becca and Wakefield off my back, for a little while at least.

  One can only hope.

  ***

  Mr. Wakefield arrives for our meeting, five minutes early. He’s wearing a dark gray suit with a deep maroon tie, like a splash of blood. He looks distinguished and a little bit dangerous.

  Clean up on aisle My Panties, Becca would say.

  There’s a stack of interviews and articles about him on my desk - I make no attempt to hide it, because it makes perfect sense that I’ve been doing a bit of digging. But somehow, I still feel a little guilty, like I should be shoving it into a drawer before somebody spots me.

  “Been doing your research, I see.” He nods approvingly.

  “I have to admit, Mr. Wakefield, you’re not quite what I expected.” I give him an assessing look. “Unfortunately, the real soon-to-be housewives of the upper Eastside are exactly what I expected.”

  His eyebrows twitch. “Did you go around taking a straw poll?”

  “Almost. I can’t disclose my exact methods. The point is, everybody wants to get in your pants, but nobody wants to marry you. Which is unsurprising. I understand you’re not somebody who’s used to disappointment, but I think you have to accept that the life you’ve built for yourself…”

  He’s already checking out of the conversation. I can practically see his eyes glaze over while I’m talking.

  “You’ll scandalize their grandmothers,” I tell him, in a slightly sharper tone.

  “Fuck their grandmothers,” he replies, with a wicked grin.

  “…and, yes, exactly.”

  “Well, I’m not going to talk like that in front of their grandmothers.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I remind him. “They’ll know you by reputation, and that’s bad enough. You could be an actual saint at the dinner table, and it’s not going to matter. Whether you’re photographing naked women, facilitating casual sex on a website that makes a big deal about being ‘discreet,’ or just banging every celebrity from here to the west coast…”

  “Just the women,” he points out. “Don’t forget to leave that out. I mean - I’m not medieval, but it sounds like these people are, so you probably shouldn’t add ‘implied bisexual’ to that list. They’re going to need a whole new set of pearls just for clutching.”

  “Fine. A manwhore. A straight manwhore, but a manwhore nonetheless.”

  “I never pretended to be anything else,” he says, calmly. “What century is this?”

  “Funny.” I shake my head, looking down at the pile of papers on my desk, like it somehow holds the answers to my current predicament. “My sister said the same thing.”

  “Smart girl.” Wakefield leans back in his chair. “So I’ve got a resume. You have to be able to spin that to my advantage. How many appalling people have you managed to pair up?”

  “None with a resume quite like yours,” I tell him. “You realize, right, how difficult of a sale this is? Your wife won’t be able to watch a single TV show without wondering how many of the actresses you’ve slept with.”

  “Probably about half of them,” he says. “Statistically. And you realize what I did with Fine People was revolutionary, right? We’re not OK Cupid and we’re not Ashley Madison. We exist in the naughty-but-nice gray area where everybody wants to be.” He quirks an eyebrow. “You should be writing this down.”

  I roll my eyes at him, but it doesn’t stop him talking.

  “Most dating sites are eager to market themselves as wholesome and cute,” he says. “Couples smiling and holding hands, laughing over half-price appetizers at the sports bar, snuggled up together reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. They’re asking people to skip over the most exciting part of falling in love, and imagine themselves already in a relationship where the most exciting thing that happens is the nightly argument over who’s going to empty the dishwasher. I thought maybe the world could use something different.”

  “And your definition of different is…” I rotate my laptop around to show him the screen - God knows why. It’s not like he’s unaware.

  He grins. “I’m particularly proud of the custom headers. There’s over forty options, you know. It’s all based on your search data, your reactions to ads on social media…very interesting.”

  I can feel my ears start to burn. He’s probably just psyching me out. Forty options? Search data? “That sounds like a pretty major breach of privacy,” I say, calmly, hoping to call his bluff.

  Mr. Wakefield cracks his knuckles. “So you don’t read the terms of service. Don’t feel bad. Almost no one does. With any luck, that’ll be what keeps Fine People in business.” He inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly as he lets it out. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  “What?” I manage to keep myself from snapping at him, but only just.


  “Nothing.” His smile has taken on a very sly quality that I don’t like. Not at all. “We’ve got splash pages to fit every taste, every preference.” For a second, he looks thoughtful, his eyebrows going up slightly. “Almost. Now that I think about it, I should make some additions. There’s always room for improvement.”

  He’s looking at me, meaningfully. I don’t know what he’s driving at, but I have a feeling I’ll regret it if I ask.

  I need to change the subject.

  “I liked your interview in Kane. Very…atypical.” I’m not even sure if I’m being sincere anymore, but he seems to take it at face value.

  “I thought you might.” He smiles a little, glancing down at his interlaced fingers. “Do you ever do that thing where you’ve met someone new, and you find yourself going back over all your social media profiles and the interviews you’ve done, the blogs you’ve written, and try to see yourself through their eyes?”

  I clear my throat slightly. “Sometimes,” I admit. He’s implying, of course, that he did this with me. And he’s implying it without making eye contact, which is…

  Well, that sure is something.

  I have to remember that everything about this guy is calculated. He’s a public figure as much as he’s anything else, and he’s also very, very good at the art of persuasion. He’s going to get what he wants from me, and he’s going to get it on his terms. Unless I keep my wits about me.

  “So you don’t think you can give me the standard treatment. Fine. Your website says something about…a la carte services.” He seems to be fighting a smirk, the urge to make this into an innuendo almost overwhelming him. “Particularly, something that sounds like…dating practice.”

  Well.

  Taking a deep breath, I shift in my chair. “That’s something I’ve done for a few clients,” I tell him, cautiously, fighting the urge to run screaming from the room. “It’s not usually something I offer as a standalone.”

  “Well, nothing about my case is usual,” he mimics me. “I think you’d agree with that.”