Tributary: A Billionaire Romance (Oak Creek Book 2)

by Lainey Davis

  It seemed like a dream come true when the thick envelope showed up at my shop, with a VIP badge for the entire conference and tickets to every happy hour sponsored by scientists I admire.

  I guess I thought my association with Moorely had perked up some ears, or maybe I thought Dr. Khalsa felt bad for dropping my contract. Either way, I crammed all my best skinny pants and smart, black blazers in a bag and headed to the Big Apple.

  If he’d just booked me into a regular room I would probably have continued believing this little stunt, but now I just feel pissed off. I’m not quite sure what I expected, and knowing that he has the ability to affect me emotionally pisses me off even further.

  I pull out my phone to call up Indigo. “Ugh! I’m dying, Diana.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “I just barfed for like two hours. And my boobs hurt so bad I can’t wear a shirt. I’m hiding from the guests just barfing…topless.”

  “Well now I feel bad calling about my problem.”

  “No. Do not do that. Give me your problem to distract me so I can tell you why you’re wrong.”

  I tell her about the fancy hotel room, the VIP add-ons for the conference tickets. “I thought you said there was a problem. Hang on. Gotta barf.”

  I sink onto the bed and wait for Indigo to come back on the line. The bedding is so soft. It feels like silk against my skin. I remember how nice the linens felt in Asa’s room in Pittsburgh when I let him tie me up.

  Indigo’s voice interrupts my fantasy. “Ok. I’m back. I still think you’re making a mountain out of a marshmallow.”

  “That’s not even a saying, Indigo.”

  “He gave you that plant thing from Germany last time. The man finds gifts that really speak to you!”

  “I would never have accepted this,” I start yelling. “I just…why can’t he just be in it for the sex?”

  “Well how do you know he’s not? Is there not a bed in the fancy hotel? Have you two ever even done it IN an actual bed?”

  “Of course we’ve done it in a bed.”

  Indigo gasps. “You did? Damn, girl! You really like this guy.”

  “I do not. I was angry that Hunter’s getting married and I…went back to his house with him after the festival.”

  I hear her adjust something in the background. “Time out. Why are you angry about Huntigail? No, Sara’s right. I hear it now, that doesn’t work. But why were you angry about their engagement?”

  “I love Abigail. I don’t know! Maybe I’m pissed that Hunter grew the fuck up? Like, he really seems to have made fundamental changes in his habits.”

  “He totally is less rigid now. But, babe, why is that so upsetting?”

  “I don’t know. It was a lot all at once. And anyway, later at the party Asa must have heard me telling my brother that I was bummed to miss Bot Con and now here I am, in the penthouse overlooking the High Line. Feeling like another idiot because I actually believed the botany community was reaching out to me.”

  “They’re the idiots for not making you a VIP guest, Di.”

  I groan. She’s always so dang positive about everything.

  “Listen, friend. I’m going to go suck on a lemon and try to wear a tank top. I think you should order yourself some nice room service on Asa’s shiny dime and enjoy your fellow plant nerds.”

  I consider not taking her advice, because I’m sure he fucking loves the idea of showering money on me, but then I realize I can eat steak in the bathtub and watch Gilmore Girls on the enormous television all at the same time. Indigo sends me a text for emphasis: Go talk to the plant people all about your plant machines. After the room service.

  A few hours later, I’m refreshed and ready to head across the street to the conference hotel—a much more modest venue—for drinks with some cranky old moss experts.

  It’s good to be among plant people again. I’m pleased with how easily I slide back into conversation about soil acidity and chestnut blight. I actually let myself enjoy the conversation, and try to silence the small voice in my head screaming at me that these people all think I’m an imposter botanist. Or that I’m a fool.

  Once I shake off the persistent nag inside my brain, I find a group of scientists who are actually doing similar work to mine, partnering with engineers and computer scientists. Midway through a spirited argument about autonomous weed control, I look across the room and see the latest source of my frustration.

  The smug jerk is smiling at me, just staring across the bar, sipping whiskey while I talk about machine learning. And damned if I don’t want to just drop everything and run to him. Which, frankly, scares the hell out of me, because the last time I lost myself in a man…I never found my way back again. Not really. “Will you gentlemen excuse me? I see someone I need to speak with.” I rush away from the weed dudes without waiting for a response, and stride directly toward Asa.

  “You have some nerve,” I hiss. “At least tell me if you’re sending me on some luxury trip.”

  “Would you have accepted?”

  “Screw you.”

  “Listen,” he says, setting the whiskey glass on the bar. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to ask a favor.”

  “A favor? From me?”

  “Yes,” he says, gripping my wrist, his thumb gently circling. The sensation makes my blood sing, makes me forget why I’m upset with him. Like a damn baby, I’m soothed into complacency by his touch. “I’d like to take you to dinner on Sunday.”

  “Dinner? What?” He keeps rubbing.

  “Dinner. With me. I’ll have you back at your hotel by midnight, so you are sure to get enough sleep before your train.”

  I am hypnotized. I can feel my pulse throb in my ears. He smells so good, and looks so good. I must be drunk. I feel myself nodding, agreeing not just to nasty, semi-public sex, but to go on a date with him. “Pisiform,” I blurt.

  He raises an eyebrow and stops rubbing. “That bump on my wrist where you’re rubbing—where you were rubbing—it’s called the pisiform.”

  “You like when I stroke your pisiform, baby?”

  I nod and down the rest of his drink. “Play darts with me,” he says.

  He sidles up to the dart board—none of the botanists had been playing—and offers me my pick. I eye him warily and grab the blue darts. I line my toe up against the line taped to the floor and start to take aim, when I feel him behind me.

  I look over my shoulder at him. “You’re affecting my shot,” I say, and he just nods. I bite my lip and scowl, then consider and say, “You should know I plan to retaliate.” He responds by slipping his arm around my waist and kissing my neck while I throw. The little blue dart lands in the narrow part of a black triangle. Not bad.

  Asa reaches into his back pocket for his first dart and keeps his left hand around my waist to throw. “I think you help me concentrate,” he says, and then hisses when I reach back and rub the crotch of his pants. Somehow, he lands in the green circle anyway.

  An hour later, Asa has beaten me at Around the Clock, traditional, and every other type of darts variation, and I’m so turned on I’m worried my pants are visibly wet. “Tell me more about your fancy plants,” he says, after sinking his final bullseye and pulling me close against him. I can’t take it anymore and I spin in his arms, grabbing him for a kiss.

  “So this means we’re on for Sunday,” he asks, pulling back. God, I forgot he asked me out to dinner. But he drags his thumbs along the small of my back and I’d say yes to almost anything right now.

  “There had better be meat involved,” I say, shoving him back toward the door, start marching us across the street toward the hotel. “And I’m only bringing you up to my hotel to angry fuck you,” I tell him. “I’m a terrible loser.”

  We hurry to the corner and wait impatiently for the light to change. “I’m fine with that,” he says, continuing to rub my wrist as I hurry across the street. I shove him against the wall of the elevator and thrust my tongue in his mouth as the doors slide shut.
I bite hard on his lower lip, feeling his erection hard against my belly.

  “You do this to me all the time, Diana. I ache for you.”

  I dig my nails into the bulge inside his pants and he hisses as he rocks his hips toward me.

  He starts to pant, his fingers reaching into the waist of my slacks, stroking.

  The doors slide open and we tumble out of the elevator into my room. Asa lowers me to the floor gently and yanks down my slacks, and I decide his little stunt to get me to New York wasn’t so awful after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Asa

  “YOU’RE CHIPPER TODAY.” Andrea slides into the seat next to me in the board room before our morning meeting.

  I shrug, knowing I’m grinning like a fool, and I don’t really care. I also don’t care that Diana threw me out of her room at midnight, because she agreed to have dinner with me. And she gave me her number. I’ve already texted her ten times to remind her I beat her at darts.

  Andrea squints and taps her pen against her teeth. “You haven’t had me send a handbag to anyone lately. And I basically lost frequent flier status at Barneys this spring. What’s up with you, boss?”

  I slap the table as the rest of the team files in the room. “What’s up is our net worth, thanks to you and our team here.”

  “Coward,” she mutters, standing up to call the meeting to order.

  Several hours later, several million dollar richer, I flick the lid of my laptop closed, and look up to find my mother settling into the chair in my office.

  “Well this is a surprise,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Asa. I just stopped by on my way from meeting the caterer. I thought I’d ask how you’re doing getting rid of your chametz.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Since when are we keeping Kosher for Passover?”

  My mother flushes. “Honestly, Asa. We always follow the rules.”

  “Mother,” I pat her hand. “You serve lox and bagels as we’re getting ready for shul most years.”

  “Well if you must know,” she says, fanning herself. “I’ve been talking to the rabbi.”

  “About…”

  “His daughter, of course!” My mother smooths her skirt and looks quite pleased with herself. “You’re 32 years old, Asa. It’s time you settle down.”

  This again. I sigh. “Mother, I don’t really see myself marrying the rabbi’s daughter.”

  She seems flustered. “Well just who do you see yourself with then? Certainly not that lawyer woman you brought to the club this winter!”

  “I told you Becca was just a friend.”

  My mother harrumphs and moans a bit more about my need to settle down, followed up by several reminders that I have to also work my ass off to honor the family business and do better than my father before me. She tugs at her pearls for awhile and swishes out of the office.

  I take a look over our portfolio, feeling no small sense of satisfaction at how we’ve diversified this year. Seven new industries this quarter alone. And I’m getting involved less and less on the day to day now that we are fully staffed with invested partners. I scan through each business until I get to Epi-D, and I frown.

  I stand and walk across the hall, rapping on Andrea’s door frame.

  “You usually bellow,” she says, not looking up from her monitor.

  “I’ll work on not doing that,” I tell her. Andrea is dedicated to her work. And I know she’s been delegating a ton of the shit work I send her to the staff of assistants she’s got lined up in cubicles down the hall. I remind myself I need to give her a raise and also stop treating her like she’s still my intern. I’ve sort of been ignoring her growth here…but she’s got info I need. “I was just wondering if you had any more info on Buford and Epi-D.”

  “Ugh!” She groans. “Yes. It’s gross.” She rummages in her desk drawer and pulls out a folder. “This is a bunch of news articles about Epi-D, a cannabidiol drug the FDA approved for epilepsy. Which you know, of course, because Wexler Holdings was an initial investor in Epi-D.” I nod. “All the research leading up to the approval was conducted at Princeton, and you’re right—the name Diana Crawford is all over the studies and trials. Right up until the product was patented.”

  “So how the hell would Buford go about eliminating Diana from the patent? Why the hell didn’t she intervene?”

  Andrea shrugs. “Beats me. But here’s her signature on paperwork giving that asshole full access to the intellectual property leading to the formation of Epi-D.

  I lean back in my chair. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

  She taps the table with her nails. “She signed this affidavit, and it’s notarized. Either she did it willingly or he forged her signature or something similar.”

  “Thanks for all this, Andrea.”

  “I wish I had something more conclusive for you.”

  I stuff the folder in my bag and stand up. “I’m just going to have to talk to him myself, I think.”

  Not until after my date with Diana, though.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Diana

  I FEEL POSITIVELY electric after a three days schmoozing about incorporating artificial intelligence and machine learning into plant propagation and fertilization. There is a whole world of young botanists and agricultural scientists who are now partnering with tech developers. I even met people using AI to perfect beer recipes.

  My phone rings as I’m walking back to the hotel and for once I’m excited to babble to Indigo all about my day. “You wouldn’t believe all the herbalists here,” I tell her. “How’s the nausea?”

  “It’s great. Don’t change the subject. Did you bone Asa Wexler again?”

  When I try to veer back to plants, I hear her beckon Sara over closer to the phone and the two of them cajole me into telling them all the details of my conference trip so far. Which, as far as they’re concerned, involves whooping and hollering about my dinner date with Asa.

  Sara hollers in the background, “What are you going to wear on your date? Not the blazer with the shoulder pads.”

  “Oh, good point, babe,” Indigo counters. “Switch me to video chat and show me your choices.”

  I pause. I don’t have anything that works for dinner out with a billionaire. I don’t even know where he’s taking me, come to think of it. “What do I do?”

  Indigo laughs. “Ooh this is amazing. You march your cute butt down to the boutique on the first floor and charge something to the room! Take me with you. On video chat.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll call you back once I’m down there.”

  “Video. Chat.”

  I steel myself to enter a frilly boutique, thankful I wore my nice underwear. I grab a handful of dresses in my size and hustle to a fitting room, where I situate my phone on the shelf and call Indigo back.

  She immediately scolds me for the plain dresses I brought in with me. “Everything in this damn store is dripping with sequins,” I tell her.

  “Then ask the sales girl to help you,” she says. “Don’t hang up. I want to hear you ask her. These dresses you picked are, like, job interview dresses. You need a cocktail dress, friend.”

  Sara snickers, pushing herself closer to Indigo. “Get it? Cock!”

  “You guys are worse than my brothers.” I sigh and approach the front of the store, where a woman my mom’s age is stocking merchandise. I bite my lip and explain to her that I need a dress for dinner, and before I can babble through any more explanations, she’s got a dozen frothy dresses in my arms.

  She smiles and waves at Indio and Sara on my phone. They’re literally eating popcorn and watching me try on dresses. “Why don’t you guys call Abigail over while you’re being so damn nosy.” I shrug into a tight purple dress that is a few inches shorter than I’d like.

  “Pass,” Sara says, shaking her head at the purple dress. “And Abigail’s on her way straight from work. No worries!” They burst into giggles when I toss the rejected dress over the phone screen. Since when do I get
worked up over what to wear?

  Indigo’s voice is muffled when she asks, “How long has it been since you went on a proper date anyway? What do you usually wear out to those bars where you pick up one night stands?”

  “Oh my god, I bet she wears tank tops and jeans,” Sara says, her mouth full of popcorn. She’s right, of course. I wear whatever the fuck I want to slink into a bar and meet some nameless stranger. But none of them make me come the way Asa can, I think. And none of them make me feel like my veins are erupting when I look at them.

  I hesitate and reach for a soft pink dress. Pink is far outside my comfort zone, but the design is pretty and I feel drawn to it for some reason. I slide it on, and it hugs my curves comfortably. I don’t even look like myself in this dress. I look…well, I look like the sort of woman who goes out on dates with Asa Wexler.

  “That’s the one!” Indigo and Sara shout in unison with the clerk, who pulls back the curtain on the dressing room to show me some shoes. Indigo starts clapping her hands. I smile, spinning around to check out the drape of the dress in the back.

  “Oh, yes, dear, this one really accentuates your ending,” the clerk tells me, gesturing at my backside.

  “My ending?”

  Sara snickers. “Charge the shoes to the room, too,” Indigo pipes in. “Tell her you want some actual makeup while you’re at it!”

  By the time Asa’s due to pick me up, I’ve been trussed and brushed, and shoveled into a strapless bra.

  I phone down to the front desk to let them know Asa will be meeting me at my suite, and at 6 sharp, I hear a knock at the door.

  Grinning and unusually giddy, I open it to find Asa resplendent in a tux, his blue eyes gleaming beneath tousled dark hair. The jacket and pants fit him so well, and I flush, remembering the feel of the naked body it covers. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows, then coughs.