The Billionaire's Package (Thirsty Thursday Book 1)

by Autumn, Kyle

  The Billionaire’s Package

  Copyright © 2017 Kyle Autumn

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  ISBN:

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Books By Kyle Autumn

  Thirsty Thursday Series

  The Billionaire’s Package

  The CEO’s Baby (February 22, 2017)

  The Girlfriend’s Secret (March 22, 2017)

  The Barista’s Wager (April 19, 2017)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 2 – Chaz / Shiree

  Chapter 3 – Chaz / Shiree

  Chapter 4 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 5 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 6 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 7 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 8 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 9 – Chaz / Shiree

  Chapter 10 – Chaz / Shiree

  Chapter 11 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 12 – Chaz / Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 13 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 14 – Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 15 – Chaz / Shiree

  Chapter 16 – Chaz / Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 17 – Chaz / Shiree / Chaz

  Chapter 18 – Shiree / Chaz

  Epilogue – Chaz / Shiree

  Coming Soon – The CEO’s Baby

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Shiree

  “My name is Shiree, and I have a package for Charles Masters,” I say when I reach the reception desk.

  The receptionist squints at me. “Sherri, is it?”

  “It’s Shiree,” I tell her, used to having to explain my name. “Like ‘no Shiree, Bob.’”

  “Okay.” She points a long, manicured nail to the elevators. “Go up to the twenty-third floor. His assistant will take that box from you.”

  “Okay.” I mosey on over to the bank of elevators, my curly ponytail swishing against my back, and push the up button with my free hand.

  I’ve heard about Charles Masters. I mean, who hasn’t? Even though he’s a local celebrity, I’ve never met him or anything. So, when a package for him landed on my delivery truck this morning, I was excited about perhaps having the chance to. And, as the elevator takes me to the top floor, I think about everything I know about him.

  He’s super rich. Like ridiculously dirty, filthy rich. Like swimming-in-a-pool-of-hundred-dollar-bills rich. He works in this gigantic building in the middle of the city. He owns the company, Launchpad Systems, and I’m sure buying the whole building barely put a dent in his bank account. Pocket change or something. And I bet that means he doesn’t even work that hard, either. Anyone who has that much money makes everyone else do everything for them. He probably sits in his one-of-a-kind wingback desk chair behind his custom-made desk and stares at the gorgeous view of the city all day through his floor-to-ceiling window.

  I probably would if I were that wealthy. But working at National Express Package Delivery means I’ll never be that wealthy, even if I save every penny from now until I retire—and retirement is a big if.

  I’ve heard he’s a serial bachelor. Goes through women like they’re one of those hundred-dollar bills in his swimming pool of money. I’d probably do that if I were him too. Why not? I mean, can you ever trust that the person you’re with isn’t really in it for the money when you’re that rich? I’d hit it and quit it too.

  But I’ve also heard he’s kind of a dick too. So maybe these women can’t hang even though his net wealth is absurd.

  Okay, I guess I don’t actually know a lot about him. I’ve seen photos of him online when news sites publish stories about how his business is doing, but other than that, he’s pretty much an enigma. And I can’t imagine living a life like that—in the spotlight, where your every move could be criticized. Where you can’t have a relationship without thinking that it’s happening through ulterior motives.

  I’ll take my simple paycheck-to-paycheck life any day.

  The elevator dings, and I step off. When I reach the dark, opaque double doors that say Launchpad Systems in bold, black letters, I push the intercom button so I can enter.

  “Name?” someone says through the speaker.

  “Shiree with NatEx. I have a package for Charles Masters,” I respond.

  The doors slide open, so I walk through and approach the sleek, modern desk. Behind it, a young woman is dressed to impress and wearing a headset. She beckons me with her hand, so I head her way.

  “You can set it on the desk. Thanks.” She points to where I should leave it. Then she abruptly leaves the reception area and struts down the hall.

  A suit-clad man holding papers in his hands walks around the corner. When he lifts his gaze to me, he stops and then looks at the package I’m setting on the counter.

  “Did Janet tell you to leave it on the desk again?”

  With my hands still on the package, I say, “Umm, I don’t know about again, but she told me to set it on the desk. So I’m setting it on the desk.”

  “She keeps doing that,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know when she’s gonna learn that Charles doesn’t like that.” He points to the hall opposite of the one Janet went down. “Take it down that way. Last door at the end of the hall. You can’t miss it. If he’s not in there, leave it on his desk.” Then he disappears into an office.

  Uhh…okay.

  I head down the hall, and that man was right. I can’t miss the office door with Charles Masters, CEO in bold, white letters. When I knock, no one answers, so I let myself in to do as the man told me to do—leave it on the desk.

  As I enter, I’m taken aback by the sheer modern, fancy vibe of the room. Everything’s sleek. Rounded corners. Black, white, and gray. Little splashes of red in the form of his mouse pad, a painting, and the marbles in a clear vase on his desk. The brown of the package barely fits in with the color scheme, but the delivered box seems at home on his desk.

  Now that I’ve done my job, I should leave and get on with my day. Yes. Yes, I should do that.

  But I don’t.

  Curiosity wins out, and I walk behind the desk and sit in his chair—which isn’t a wingback chair, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a one-of-a-kind. Maybe it’s my plain taste, but I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Probably because I’ve never been in a situation like this. Surrounded by wealth, success, money. And that’s fine. Not having those things hasn’t diminished my happiness. I’m doing all right without them. My job is steady, I have amazing friends, and my heart isn’t broken.

  That being said, I could be…happier.

  But whatever. Everything happens for a reason, and good things come to those who
wait. So I’ll keep waiting while everything keeps happening for reasons.

  I lean back in Charles Masters’s chair. I don’t know what comes over me, but I put my feet up on the desk too, crossing my legs at my ankles. Then I clasp my hands in my lap and wonder if this is what it feels like to have the world at my fingertips. A smile crosses my lips as I can see how someone can get used to this.

  And then a throat clears, which snaps me out of my reverie right quick.

  I jump out of the chair. Mostly because I don’t want to lose my job if this incident gets back to my boss. Getting caught is one thing; getting fired is another.

  “Can I help you?” Charles Masters himself asks me from the doorway of his office.

  His suit is neat, pressed, and just as sleek as his office. Black pants, black jacket, white shirt, black tie. Crisp and clean.

  And it makes him way sexier than I thought it would when I saw pictures of him in the news. Which explains my lack of a comeback right now.

  “By all means,” he says as he enters the room. “Make yourself comfortable.” He points to his chair before he removes his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger near the wall of bookshelves.

  “I’m just dropping this package off,” I say, gesturing to it with my hand. “The receptionist out front said to leave it on her desk, but another man told me to bring it here. He said to put it on your desk if you weren’t in here.” Now, I’m rambling, so I stop myself. “I’ll be on my way now.” Then I nearly run toward the door.

  “You don’t need a signature for this one?” he asks, which stops me in my tracks.

  I turn around to face him and shake my head. “No. Not today.”

  He nods. Then he says, “Is it heavy or light?”

  I jerk my head back a bit. “Is what heavy or light?”

  “The package you left on my desk.” He moves behind his desk.

  “Oh. Well, it’s right there,” I say, pointing to it. “You can pick it up and see for yourself.”

  Those words came out more harshly than I’d intended, so I start to backtrack. If he doesn’t turn me in for intruding on his space, he will for my rudeness. The shock on his face tells me so.

  “I mean, it’s just that—”

  But he chuckles. “No, no. You’re right.” Then he sits in his chair and trails a finger across his desk. “So, how’d it feel back here? To be me?”

  “Good,” I spit out without thinking. “I mean, I don’t know. Comfortable, I guess.”

  “Interesting,” he responds. Then he shocks me by saying, “Well, cancel all of your plans and be ready to go to dinner tonight at seven p.m.”

  My mouth falls open. My hands rush to my hips. “Excuse me?”

  “Dinner. Tonight. Seven o’clock. Be ready. I’ll have my driver pick you up. Just leave your address with Janet at the front desk.” He picks his phone up and starts to dial numbers, apparently dismissing me.

  But I tilt my head to the side, squint at him, and say, “Um, no.”

  His hand freezes over the number pad on his desk phone. People, especially women, probably don’t tell him no very often. And I can see why. He cuts an intimidating figure, but I’m not about to cower to it. A little bit of fame and an insane amount of money won’t turn me into an agreeing puddle of mush. That’s just not the kind of woman I am.

  His wide-eyed gaze is stuck on mine. “Did you say no?”

  I confidently nod.

  “No as in you’ll drive yourself?”

  “No as in I’m not going to dinner,” I quip, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t even know you. I’m not going to drop my life for you.”

  He sets the phone back on the cradle. “I didn’t ask you to drop your life. Just tonight.”

  “And, like I said, I don’t know you,” I snark back, cocking my hip out to the side.

  “Which is why we are going to dinner tonight,” he answers. “So we can get to know each other.”

  I scoff. “I didn’t say I want to know you though.” Then I uncross my arms. Fuck it. If he’s going to report me, I might as well make it worth it, right? “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my truck is parked out front and needs to be moved. And I have to get back to work. Lots of other important people need their packages delivered, you know. You’re not the only one.”

  Then I swing my hips back and forth as I sashay my ass out of his office.

  Turns out he is kind of a dick.

  ***

  Chaz

  ***Ten minutes before***

  “Well, that just won’t do,” I say to Blake in the conference room now that everyone’s left the meeting.

  “It is what it is, Chaz. You need to look more like a family man and less like an asshole,” he tells me.

  “But I’m not an asshole!” I shout. Which doesn’t exactly prove my point.

  He gives me a patronizing look. “I know that. But the board doesn’t, and they think you need a better image if you’re going to continue to be Charles Masters, the face of this company.”

  I sigh heavily. “I can’t help what the media says about me, Blake. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  After picking up the papers in front of him—notes from the meeting with our board members—he taps the bottoms of the sheets on the table a couple of times. “Well, you actually can control what they put in the media by giving them less and less negative shit to write about.”

  “It’s not my fault they like to pay that close of attention to my private life,” I say, trying to defend myself. But it’s no use. He’s right.

  “It’s the price of success, my friend. Running a thriving Fortune Five Hundred company and, well”—he points his stack of papers at me—“looking the way you do means you don’t get a behind-closed-doors life that won’t be followed. You get noticed, and our board isn’t happy with what has been noticed lately.”

  I know this. I have to deal with it, but it doesn’t mean I want to. Or that I like it. And I’m really not an asshole. It’s that the women I meet are.

  God, that makes me sound like an asshole.

  But seriously. When you have money like I do, everyone wants a piece of it. And some people will do whatever it takes to get it. I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t trust anyone who pursues me. So I don’t. I keep them at arm’s length and use whatever they want to give me. They do it willingly—though I’m sure they think they’ll get something out of it. It’s not my problem when they don’t get what they were after, now is it?

  My tech company is worth more effort though. Maybe not what the board is asking, but more than what I’ve been giving it as far as my bedroom is concerned.

  “Okay,” I agree. “I’ll back off, then. Message received.”

  “You heard the board,” Blake responds, sitting back in his chair. “That’s not what they want. They don’t want a celibate bachelor—though you’d never be one. I know you better than that.”

  I adjust my suit jacket. “Yeah, yeah. They want a ‘family man.’” Then I look Blake right in the eyes. “Can you see me as a family man?”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Then he closes it and clears his throat. “We both know you’re meant to be a family man,” he says quietly. “But, again, this is the price of success.”

  “Which means I can’t make this happen overnight, man. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You really want my advice?” he asks.

  I cock an eyebrow at him, which says, Obviously, fucker.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he says, “Maybe you need to be the pursuer.”

  When I blink at him, he keeps going.

  “Look.” He interlocks his fingers and rests his arms on the table. “You’re always the one who lets them come to you. So you know you can’t trust them because they might be just after your money, your fame. But”—he points a finger at me—“if you go after them, if you pursue someone who’s not after you, maybe you can let a bit of your guard down.”

  “Hmm,”
I say, thinking about it. “It still sounds risky. And I’m not just going to go after the next woman who walks into my life. Maybe I sound like a pussy, but I do want love to be a part of the equation.”

  “I get it, man,” he assures me, his hands in the air. “Believe me. I of all people get it.” Then he places his hands on the table and stands. “But the sooner you get on this, the better. The board is breathing down my neck on this, and the latest headline seems like it might have been the last straw. Next time, I won’t be able to protect you and talk them out of getting rid of you.”

  “But then you could take over and I wouldn’t have to worry about this shit anymore,” I lament. Which is true, but it’s not what I want.

  Yes, I want to run my company. Of course I do. I built it from the ground up. I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into this business. But I don’t want it to be all I have when I’m old and gray. Which should be far off, though the stress of this shit might get me there sooner than I want.

  I want a genuine relationship. One that I can trust isn’t about my wealth, my fame, or my resources. What club my name can get them into. How I can benefit them. I’m tired of never knowing if something is real or not. I’m tired of disappointing everyone. I’m tired of not being able to be me.

  I’m tired of putting this act on.

  “I don’t want to fill your shoes,” Blake says, smirking as he backs toward the door. “That’s your job, and yours alone.”

  He’s such a liar. And we both know it. This is the song and dance we do, but if it came down to it, I know he’d have my back on this.

  “Well, you’re second-in-command,” I tell him, “so figure this out with me. What the fuck do I do?”

  When he reaches the doorframe, his papers in hand, he says, “The next woman you meet—you ask her out. Pursue her. See where it goes. You have to start somewhere, and it might as well be now.”

  “But that’s not a real relationship,” I counter.

  “No, but it doesn’t have to be real,” he insists. “You just have to show the board that you’re changing. That you’re not some international playboy like the media says you are. Even though you have been. Make them believe you’ve turned into the family man they want you to be. Get back in their good graces with the next woman you meet and you’ll get your control back.” Then he exists the conference room, walking down the hall and leaving me speechless.