by Nikki Chase
Billionaire Protector
A Bad Boy Romance
Nikki Chase
Contents
Billionaire Protector
1. Alice
2. Alice
3. Alice
4. Seth
5. Alice
6. Seth
7. Alice
8. Alice
9. Alice
10. Seth
11. Alice
12. Seth
13. Alice
14. Alice
15. Alice
16. Seth
17. Alice
18. Alice
19. Seth
20. Alice
21. Alice
22. Seth
23. Alice
24. Alice
25. Seth
26. Alice
27. Alice
28. Alice
29. Seth
30. Alice
31. Alice
32. Seth
33. Alice
34. Seth
35. Alice
Epilogue
Preview: His Virgin
1. Caine
2. Daisy
3. Caine
4. Daisy
Bonus: Guilty
Prologue
1. Cole
2. Emily
3. Cole
4. Emily
5. Emily
6. Cole
7. Emily
8. Emily
9. Cole
10. Emily
11. Cole
12. Emily
13. Cole
14. Emily
15. Emily
16. Cole
17. Emily
18. Cole
19. Emily
20. Cole
21. Cole
22. Emily
23. Cole
24. Emily
25. Cole
26. Emily
27. Cole
28. Emily
29. Cole
30. Emily
31. Cole
32. Emily
Epilogue
Preview: Stripped
1. Jessica
2. Jacob
3. Jessica
4. Jacob
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 Nikki Chase
Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is for mature readers. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some.
All sexual activity in this work is consensual and all sexually active characters are 18 years of age or older.
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Billionaire Protector
1
Alice
Ugh. Not this guy again.
I’ve heard so many complaints about him from the waiters, and tonight he has specifically asked for me. This can’t be good.
“How can I help you, Sir?” I plaster a serene smile onto my face, even as impatience brews inside me.
It's eight on a Friday night. The restaurant is buzzing with activity. I have to speak louder than usual to make myself heard over the din of conversation and the clanging of cutlery.
All this to say, I should be in the kitchen, working on order upon order of soups and pastas and steaks. I should not be out here, catering to every whim of this one diner.
“The steak is undercooked.” He looks up to stare at me with his stunning blue eyes. He seems about the same age as me, probably in his early or mid-thirties.
He's impeccably dressed. This being a downtown restaurant, we get a lot of businessmen in suits. This man is different, though. There's not a crease in his navy-blue suit, not a strand of hair out of place. He looks dapper, like the leading men in silent movies.
From up close, he looks familiar, but I can't quite place him. I’m probably wrong anyway. I’ve never been very good at names and faces. Oh well, he's probably a diner whom I’ve seen before. I don't know how I could've forgotten a face like that, but apparently I have, somehow.
It's the depth of his blue eyes that stun me into silence, though. I feel like there's something dangerous about this man. If I know what's good for me, I’d stay away.
“I’m sorry, I believe you asked for rare?” I ask when I finally find my voice again. I inspect the piece of meat on his plate. It has barely been touched.
“Yes, exactly. I didn't ask for it to be so raw I can practically hear the cow bell ringing in my ears,” he says brusquely.
“Actually,” I hear myself say, “We only serve U.S. beef here. That's why we're called The Local.” I want to stop myself, but it's too late now. “As far as I know, our farms don't use cow bells anymore. The animals don't like them. Apparently, they're the reason why thousands of Swiss cows are deaf.”
I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. Damn it, I always do this word-vomit thing when I’m nervous. It’s some kind of a weird impulse to fill the gap in an awkward conversation with the stupidest thing I can think of.
“Swiss cows, huh?” He smirks. He doesn't actually say anything insulting, but his eyes mock me.
“Yes, Swiss cows. All kinds of Swiss cattle. Poor creatures. They have sensitive hearing.” I smile sweetly.
I may have said something dumb, but the smartest thing to do, now that it's done, is to stand by my words. At least he doesn't seem angry anymore, and he can't see me blushing in the dim light of the restaurant.
“But this didn't come from a Swiss cow?” He points at the steak on the table.
“No.”
“He probably wasn't deaf, then.” He’s toying with me.
“No.” I grit my teeth and force a smile.
“Ah, lucky American cow. Probably lived a good life filled with many different kinds of wonderful sounds.”
“I guess.”
“Too bad it died just to turn into undercooked steak,” he says.
There it is. I knew an attack was coming.
“Again, I apologize, Sir. I’ll take that back to the kitchen and send out a rare steak for you.”
“Good. While you're here, I should also let you know that there's too much black pepper in the sauce.”
Thank you! I want to exclaim. I’ve been trying to tell the owner for months the same thing, but he disagrees. He says I'm just supposed to follow the recipe that's already been provided.
The Local has been using the same recipes for decades. I wasn't hired to get creative.
I keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve said enough to this rude stranger.
“It's the famous original sauce here at The Local, Sir. I’m afraid I can't change that for you,” I say.
“That's too bad. That's good meat right there, but it's lathered in so much sauce and seasoning I can't taste it.”
Another thing that has been on my mind for a long time! I could see us bitching over poor handling of good ingredients, if he wasn't such an asshole. Too bad.
I give the man a smile, then pick up the plate and take it with me as I walk away. It's time to disappear
into the kitchen and hopefully never see him again.
2
Alice
Do you know what hunger feels like?
Not the kind of hunger where you’ve already wolfed down a Big Mac and a large fries but you still have room for another one.
Not the kind of hunger where you’ve had a salad because you’re on a diet but you really crave some deep-fried junk.
Not even the kind of hunger where you didn’t have time to get lunch, so now your stomach rumbles loudly in the middle of a meeting, while you count the minutes until you can leave the office.
I’m talking about real hunger.
Like when I had to spend recess at the library so the other kids wouldn’t notice me not eating.
Or like when I had to eat the Halloween candy bars one bite at a time so they’d last longer.
Or like when I only had a few pieces of crackers, but I gave all of them to my little sister and went straight to sleep so I wouldn’t feel the hunger pangs.
I started working as soon as someone would hire me, for as many hours as it was legal.
By the time I was fourteen, I was already juggling school and the maximum eighteen hours per week of work. Sometimes, my boss let me work more and paid me the extra in cash.
My first job was as a waitress in a family restaurant. It was heaven. I could eat as much as I wanted during my breaks, and I could bring leftovers home for Emily, my sister. Suddenly, we didn’t have to depend on our mom to consistently put food on the table—something she was never any good at.
Then, I started working in the kitchen, learning the basics of food preparation, like peeling and cutting vegetables. I immediately fell in love.
Cooking, to me, has always been an almost spiritual thing. It’s an amazing thing, to get paid to create things that feed and nourish people.
I’ve worked as a chef for years now, and it still feels special when someone eats something I’ve prepared. It feels like I’m giving them a piece of myself.
It’s a great way to meditate, too.
I’ve had numerous struggles throughout my life, many of them of the financial kind. I was always stressed out, growing up.
But when I’m in the kitchen, it’s like I forget everything else and focus only on turning the raw ingredients in front of me into something edible—delicious, even, if I may say so myself. It’s like nothing else matters except for the present.
You can’t make good food without giving it your all. No one batch is the same, after all. It’s not just about the recipe. It’s a craft. Some even call it an art.
After high school, all my peers went off to college. I already knew where my passion lay, so it was easy to say no to tertiary education. I continued working in kitchens, learning by doing—and getting paid the whole time.
Unlike those suckers who ended up with huge debts after college, I had years of relevant work experience, savings, and a stable income by the time I reached my early twenties.
It was nice to have the resources to help Emily whenever she needed me. I could at least give her a place to stay and as much food as she wanted to eat so she never had to worry about, you know, staying alive.
She doesn’t need me much these days, though. She has her own kick-ass job, for which she moved from San Francisco to Seattle. She’s also married now, and her husband does a good job taking care of her.
It’s lonely now that I’m on my own, but I’m happy for Emily. At first, I didn’t approve of Cole, her now-husband, but I’ve grown fond of him. Whatever makes Emily happy, makes me happy.
I have to say, though, that seeing her so in love makes me a little envious. I’ve never had a man look at me the way Cole looks at her. I want someone to love and cherish, too, damn it.
Instead, all I have is one ex-boyfriend, although he’s been sending me flowers to ask for my forgiveness. I wonder if I should give him a second chance.
I mean, I’m not getting any younger here. I’m officially in my thirties already.
If this keeps up, I’ll end up dying alone in a tiny studio apartment, with random body parts having been nibbled off by my many cats before the cops could find my body. Serves me right for giving everything to my work, I guess.
But hey, at least I’m doing well, career-wise. I’ve actually appeared in some interviews for the food section of some small foodie magazines and websites, too.
I used to work at one of those restaurants that actually like creative chefs. But then I had to get involved in some workplace drama—involving the previously mentioned ex-boyfriend—and quit that awesome job.
Still, I’m now the head chef of one of the most popular mid-range restaurants in San Francisco, The Local. I regularly cook for people whose names regularly appear in the paper, like Emily’s rich in-laws.
It’s okay. I’ll find some other job soon, where I can have some freedom to shape the menu.
God, it would be so nice if I had the money to open my own restaurant, but that’s not going to happen—not unless I save up forever, which means I’ll be, like, seventy, when I have enough money.
It’s okay. Take a deep breath.
I’m doing fine for thirty-one. It’s normal to examine my life at this age.
I have a roof over my head and food on my table. I have a job that both pays the bills and is relevant to my field of expertise. I have a lot more than many other millennials.
I’m doing okay, and things are looking up.
I even have a date tomorrow night with Fred. Maybe we’ll manage to work things out. Fingers crossed!
3
Alice
“I’m glad you could make it,” Fred says as soon as I walk into the coffee shop.
“Yeah. It’s been a long time.” I give him a nervous smile. I take a seat across the table from him.
Fred and I met at work. We had an on-again, off-again relationship for as long as I can remember. Every time we broke up, I always told myself never to go back to him again. Then, like some masochistic moron, I went back to him, every time.
I hope this time will be different, though.
We’ve never been separated for this long before. It’s been five months so far.
Maybe Fred has had some time to reflect and change. Maybe he really wants to make it work now.
He has a laptop with him and he’s already drunk half the contents of his transparent plastic cup. I wonder how long he’s been here.
He’s wearing a lightweight black crewneck T-shirt and a pair of jeans, looking casual as can be. I guess we’re not going anywhere nice this afternoon.
I’m glad I picked a versatile little black dress to wear. I won’t look out of place no matter where we go. Along the spectrum of outfits that range from frumpy to trying too hard, this dress lies at just the right place.
“You look good.” He shoots me the sweet smile that used to send my heart pounding. It doesn't have the same effect on me anymore, I realize with a little surprise.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling even as my own lack of emotions confounds me. “Thanks for the compliment, and for the flowers.”
“What flowers?”
“The roses that you sent me last week for my birthday.”
“Oh, right. Happy birthday.” There's something strange with his smile. It reminds me of when we were just on the verge of breaking up. He's hiding something.
“It wasn't you, was it? You weren't the one who sent me the flowers.”
“I could've done that.” He shrugs.
“Yeah, but you didn't. That's what matters. God, I feel like such an idiot right now. I’m going home.” I get up, letting the metal chair legs drag on the floor noisily in my rush.
Why did I even bother coming?
I thought I was done with him, until he started sending me cute little bouquets of flowers, with the biggest one being the one he sent me for my birthday. I thought he was finally changing.
He was never an attentive boyfriend. I had to remind him to buy me a cake whenever my birthday came
around. Then he’d show up with the sorriest excuse of a cake that he bought from the gas station at the last minute.
He put the minimum effort necessary to keep the relationship going. It was never bad enough to end things altogether, but it was also never good enough for me to imagine a happy future with him.
Then he cheated on me with a colleague.
He was the manager of the restaurant at the time and we all had to keep working together, which made things really awkward for everyone involved.
That’s why I got the job at The Local and moved away from that whole toxic situation.
To be honest, a small part of me was relieved that he’d done something so permanently damaging to our relationship. I thought that was exactly what we needed to finally end it.
But with Emily gone, and me having to adjust to living on my own again, and the flowers…
Now, I realize agreeing to see Fred was a mistake. He doesn’t care about me; he never has. He only gives a shit whenever my dissatisfaction affects him.
I’m heading toward the exit, when a familiar hand wraps around my wrist. Fred has gotten up from his seat and grabbed me, stopping me from walking away.
“Let’s sit down and talk this out like adults,” he says under his breath.
“I’m done talking with you, Fred.”
“You’re angry over some flowers? Jesus, Alice, you’re being childish right now. If you want some flowers, I’ll go and buy some for you, okay? Just sit down, will you? Let’s not make a scene.”
He’s right. People have turned their heads to steal glances at us. I take a deep breath and sit back down.
“This is the problem with you,” Fred says as he removes his hand from my wrist and takes his seat. “You don’t tell me what you want. If you want something, just tell me. It’s not like I can’t afford to buy you flowers. I can’t read your mind. This is such typical girl behavior, it’s not even funny.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, just ask him for what I want. I know how that would go. It would be the birthday cake thing all over again.