Bedside Manor: A Billionaire Baby Romance (The Londonaire Brothers Series Book 3)

by Amanda Aksel

  I roll my eyes. “Nothing. Mick and I ran into each other and had a . . . friendly exchange. It was nothing.”

  “She said it was tempting,” Kate whispers at Garret.

  He gasps. “Really?”

  “What are the odds of you two meeting like that and then ending up here?” Kate says, clearly in la-la-love land. Oh, how the tables have turned. And not in my favor.

  “It’s New York. You can’t walk the block without running into someone you know.” Good downplay, Beau. Too bad you don’t believe it yourself.

  “What? No, this isn’t six degrees of Kevin Bacon,” Kate says.

  “For me, it’s only one degree,” Garret interjects. We shoot him a strange look. “What? My housekeeper used to be his housekeeper . . . unless she lied on her resume.” Garret frowns at the potential transgression, seeming slightly more disappointed at the thought than what’s warranted.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m on strike,” I say, grabbing my butter knife and holding it up like a picket sign.

  Kate reaches over and lowers my spear-clenching fist. “But think about it. If you and Mick fall in love and get married, then you and I will be sisters-in-law.” Wow, she really is living in a fantasy. Maybe that’s what life is like when you marry a billionaire.

  “We’re sisters-in-heart. Isn’t that enough?” I ask, hoping the sentiment will be strong enough for her to give up being on Team Beauick or Team Mickeau. See, we don’t even make a good celebrity-couple name.

  “Of course! I’m just saying it would be really cool.”

  “Totally,” Garret chimes in.

  The waiters begin setting the first course around the table, and Drew and Mick return to their seats. Mick seems quiet. The light has faded from his eyes. Garret seems to notice, too, because he’s not trying to engage him with probing questions about his life. The piano sounds of Billy Joel’s top hits reverberate throughout the room over the lively conversations shared across the long table. Ordinarily, I would be fully engaged in the chitchat, but Mick’s somber energy is just as distracting as his gorgeous eyes. I glance over at him as he stares at the watercress on his fork.

  The guy practically drooled over me at the airport, not to mention the first few minutes after I entered the room. Now nothing. I was a little standoffish but not rude, was I? I don’t want the guy to feel unwelcome. At the same time, I can’t let him feel too welcome.

  “So,” I say to Mick, and he finally looks at me. “Kate says you’re a doctor. What kind of medicine?”

  “I’m a heart surgeon,” he says modestly. For a moment I can’t breathe. Of course, he would be a sexy, confident foreigner who also fixes broken hearts. I wonder if he can fix mine?

  “That must be a lot of responsibility,” I say, which is not exactly how I meant to react. A simple, That’s impressive! or That’s great! would have sufficed.

  Then he lowers his fork and looks me in the eye, exactly the way he had at the airport when he recognized me. “It is. But there’s nothing more humbling than holding someone’s heart in your hand.”

  He’s clearly talking about handling an organ but it feels like so much more than that. I swallow hard, taking in the weight of his words. Mick knows firsthand that hearts are as delicate as they are strong. “I can only imagine.” And I can only imagine. No one has ever truly let me hold their heart.

  “Mick is the one who’s humble,” Drew cuts in. When did he start listening in? “He’s one of the best heart surgeons in all the UK. Practically a prodigy, this one.” He points to his brother, and Mick’s cheeks turn the color of pink champagne.

  “What about you? What do you do for work?” Mick asks, seeming to have loosened up some.

  “I don’t have a job, exactly. I have the means not to have to work.” Usually, I’m proud to say this but whenever I’m talking with someone who makes a real contribution to society, I begin to think I should be doing more with my money and my life.

  “So do I.”

  His is a rare response, and I’m almost positive that he’s judging me. I’m used to judgment. It doesn’t really bother me. But with him . . . I don’t think I like it very much. And just before the silence that hangs between us gets too awkward, he asks, “Don’t you have a passion?”

  Mmm, I love the way he says passion. But telling him that I have a passion for travel, delicious cuisine, and handsome foreigners might make my existence sound even more frivolous. Especially since I’m currently traveling and about to eat a tasty New York strip across from a very fine Londoner. I’m living the dream right now. Or I would be if I could show him my passion later tonight. But I can’t go there. Not today. Not with him. I shake off the thought and try to imagine food on his dimpled chin or a unibrow across his wrinkle-free forehead. It’s not working. I shake my head and shrug.

  “Well, I hope you find it,” he says with a sincere gaze.

  For the moment, I surrender to the feeling of desire burning in my chest. Something I haven’t allowed myself, or even wanted to give in to, for months. The vibration of the piano keys shifts to “New York State of Mind,” a song that embodies the nuance of this city. But to me, the rhythm is romantic, there’s almost a yearning for more.

  Drew stands and holds out his hand to his fiancée who gives him a shy smile like she has a crush. Can you imagine marrying someone you have a crush on? He walks her over to the piano and pulls her close, swaying to the music.

  Garret leans in, watching them across the room. “I want what they have.”

  I let out a wistful sigh. “Yeah, me too.”

  Mick’s the only one at the table not watching them. Instead, he cuts into his medium-rare steak with precision, and a little bloodstained juice escapes onto the plate. Not everyone is a romantic, I suppose. Once the song is over and Kate and Drew return to their seats, our friends from Los Angeles call Garret and me down to the other end of the table. I pass Kate’s dad along the way, sneaking up behind him.

  “How’s it going, Mr. Golden?” I ask, with my hands on his shoulders and popping my head in next to his.

  He startles for a moment but then smiles at me. “Beau! Good to see you, darlin’. How’s your dad?”

  I hunch down, resting my hand on the table. “He’s doing better. Maybe you can talk to him about retiring soon. He can join you out on the golf course or something.”

  Kate’s dad scoffs. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Maybe if you let him win, he’ll listen.”

  “I can talk to David but there’s no way I’m letting him beat me on the course.”

  I giggle and pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Mr. Golden.”

  I continue on to our group of friends. Garret’s already settled into the crowd. Half of their faces are lit by the blue screens on their phones as they multitask. Lisa, Kate’s stepmom and one of my mother’s best friends, rises from her chair and opens her arms to me.

  “Beau, you look gorgeous, honey. How are you?” She plants a glossy kiss on my cheek. Aside from finding true love, the only thing I want is to age as beautifully as Lisa. She looks more like Kate’s older sister than her stepmother.

  “I’m well. You?”

  “Fantastic as usual. It’s too bad your mom couldn’t make it.” Lisa frowns.

  I shrug. “Yeah. Duty calls, I guess.” My mom is in Australia for the next few months shooting a film for my family’s studio that she’s both producing and directing. I told her that she’s the boss and should be at the wedding. But she didn’t want to delay production for even a few days. Maybe that’s why she and my dad fell apart. They’re both workaholics.

  Lisa nods, then beams with a bright smile. “I’ll let you go join your friends.”

  “Thanks.” I squeeze her hand and finally make it over to the end of the table. The crowd gives me a warm greeting.

  “I think we’re going to head to the bar in a few minutes. You coming?” Garret asks.

  I glance over at Mick who is in the middle of chatting with a small crowd of people I don�
��t recognize.

  “Um, sure. That sounds good.”

  We make our way over to the hotel bar but our group has grown. I glance behind me. The Londoners are following us. Garret taps on his phone, and a second later a bird-like tweet sounds from inside my clutch.

  “Check your message,” he says.

  GARRET: You and the best man? I don’t hate it.

  I don’t hate it either. But I shake my head at Garret.

  GARRET: Why not?

  I roll my eyes.

  BEAU: You know why.

  And he does. I glance at Mick over my shoulder one last time, wanting to overrule all objections and just see what happens. But I’ve done that time and time again. Things have to be different this time.

  Mick and the other Brits take up one half of the bar, while we take up the other. As much as I try to stay engaged in the conversation, I can feel Mick’s eyes on me. I turn to look at him and his gaze shifts away. We play that game a few times, but I shouldn’t be playing games at all. Every inch of my body is begging me to go to him. Besides, what’s more perfect than a couple of drinks, a hot guy, and a hotel room upstairs?

  That’s right.

  Nothing is better than that.

  “Here,” Garret says, shoving a full shot glass near my lips.

  I take it. “You tryin’ to get me drunk?”

  “I do love Drunk Beau and we’re celebrating. Drink up!” Garret lifts his shot glass and shoots it back.

  I shrug and follow his lead. The sting of the tequila burns inside my chest as I wipe my bottom lip. Any more of these and I’ll be all over Mick Bonnaire. I glance at him and this time he keeps his eyes on me, giving me meet-me-upstairs eyes. And if I stay here any longer, I will. Time to go.

  “I think I’m gonna head to bed. I want to be fresh for tomorrow,” I tell my friends.

  “What are you talking about? The night is still young,” Garret protests.

  I fake a yawn. “I know, but I’m crazy tired and Kate’s not even here.” There are only two places the bride and groom could be, and my guess is alone upstairs. Well, at least someone’s getting a happy ending tonight.

  Garret frowns. “Okay, doll. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I plant a friendly kiss on Garret’s cheek and make my way across the lobby and toward the elevator. Inside the small, mahogany-lined box, I press the button for the thirteenth floor. Just before the doors shut, Mick steps inside. I clench my bag in my fists, practically wringing the fabric strap. What is he doing? Did he follow me?

  He shoots me an innocent look. “Heading to bed?”

  The man is like a magnet. I can feel myself wanting to cling to him. Instead, I answer with a simple, “Yep.” The elevator ascends and we stand side by side in silence for a few moments. “What floor?” I ask, holding my finger near the keypad.

  “Thirteen.”

  “Oh.” Is he saying that because I’m on the thirteenth floor or is it another happy coincidence?

  Mick rocks on his heels and folds his arms. “You know, a lot of hotels don’t even have a thirteenth floor.”

  “You mean because a lot of hotels don’t have that many stories.” Odd choice of small talk. Then again, it’s probably better than some sexy innuendo that could push me over my limit.

  “What I mean is that some hotels don’t have rooms on the thirteenth floor. It’s the same thing with hospitals,” he says, shifting his stance so that he’s an inch closer to me.

  For the first time since the doors closed, I take in a deep breath. The scent of his cologne fills the air. “Why?” I ask, when what I really mean is, Why are you taunting me? It’s like he secretly knows I want him and can’t have him.

  “Some people are very superstitious. They think it might be unlucky. Can you imagine being a triskaidekaphobic and then having surgery on the thirteenth floor?”

  I raise my brow, loosening my grip on my bag. “A triska-what?”

  “Triskaidekaphobia, it’s the fear of the number thirteen.” Mick doesn’t slow down to enunciate the convoluted word. Is he insulting my intelligence or trusting it?

  Part of me wants to ask him what it’s like to be a gorgeous know-it-all, but I don’t want to encourage him to toe the line. “Don’t tell me you believe in that stuff.”

  “Of course not. But you have to admit, if the phobia has an official name, there must be something to it.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in bad luck.” Aside from meeting the perfect foreign man at my best friend’s wedding and not being able to do anything about it. Then again, that’s irony, not bad luck.

  He smiles and I just barely shift my eyes. I will not look directly at his face. I can’t. I shan’t—don’t they say that in London? “That’s good. Considering we’re staying on the thirteenth floor. We wouldn’t want to bring any bad luck to the wedding tomorrow.”

  Oh, great. I was already worried about being at this wedding with him and now he’s planting bad juju ideas in my head? “Nothing bad is going to happen at the wedding tomorrow. Kate and Drew are perfect. They’ll have the perfect wedding.”

  Mick scoffs. “The perfect wedding.” The disdain in his voice is so palpable that it triggers my memory. I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten about his infamous wedding day. I remember when Kate told me about it last year. What a huge mess. My heart’s been murdered on more than one occasion but never as bad as he got it that day. Poor guy.

  “I hate weddings,” I offer, only half meaning it in the moment.

  Despite my best effort, I look at his face. He flashes me an understanding smile. “Me too.”

  The elevator comes to a halt, breaking my gaze. Time to jet. “Goodnight,” I say, stepping out onto the floor, fully expecting him to turn right as I turn left.

  “Goodnight,” he says, still walking by my side.

  “Oh, is your room this way?” I point ahead of us.

  “Yeah. Why? Do you think I’m following you?”

  I let out a high-pitched, overcompensating laugh. “No.” Of course I thought he was following me. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a part of me, mostly between my legs, that wants him to follow me.

  He stops, just as I’m about to. “This is me,” he says, pointing to his room door. Now, guess whose room is directly across the hall?

  Yep, you got it.

  Okay, now I believe in bad luck.

  I almost ask if this is a joke, but since his key seems to work, I know it’s not. Not his joke at least.

  “If you need anything, don’t be a stranger.”

  I need you to not be in the room across from mine. What do I do now? I can’t let him know what I know. “Okay. Thanks.” I send a friendly wave, giving no indication that I’ve also arrived at my final destination.

  He smirks and disappears into the dark room, shutting the door behind him. Whew, he’s gone. That was a close one. Then, I get a brilliant idea. Instead of just walking into my own hotel room, right next to me, I keep walking and literally watch my phone clock for two whole minutes before returning—giving the illusion that my room is far, far, far away. As if he’s watching me through the peephole. Yeah, right. I know I’m overthinking this. Tomorrow I’ll just request a different floor. Not sure about this thirteenth floor stuff now anyway.

  As soon as I’m safe inside, I slip off my toe-pinching, yet stunning stilettos, and let them clunk to the floor. I fling my handbag onto the loveseat and head for the bathroom. “You did good tonight, Beau. You did good,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.

  I turn on the shower, ready to wash away the bad luck of the evening, and reach for the buttons down the back of my dress.

  Uh-oh.

  If I couldn’t get into this thing by myself, why would I think getting out would be any different? “Shit!” I whisper and grab my phone.

  “Call Garret,” I instruct my device and a moment later it rings. And rings. And rings.

  Crap. I take a deep breath and unfasten the first couple of buttons, losing my balance on the second
one. This would probably be easier sober. Then, I pull the dress up over my hips, but it gets stuck on my rib cage. It’s too tight. I plop my butt on the edge of the tub. Garret hasn’t called back or texted. I really don’t want to do this, but . . .

  “Call Kate.”

  Her phone doesn’t even ring. It just goes straight to voicemail. Okay, the way I see it, I’ve got two options. I can rip this one-of-a-kind designer dress off of my body or I can call in a favor.

  My heart pounds against my chest as I step out into the hallway, hoping there’s a stranger passing by who can help. But no luck. Damn thirteenth floor. My quivering fist knocks softly on the door. A moment later it swings open, revealing a sexy, shirtless Mick. My eyes trail up his defined torso, slowly. Just like the tips of my fingers would. I bite my lower lip.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

  4

  W ELL, WELL, WELL, looks like my luck has changed. I doubt Beau’s here to borrow a cup of sugar, but I will definitely give her something sweet.

  I lean on the doorframe, noticing her freshly flushed cheeks. “Let me guess. You realize you’re a triskaidekaphobic and you don’t want to sleep alone.” Her bottom lip falls as if I’ve caught her off guard. “It was a joke.” No, it wasn’t. “Come in.” I wave her inside and the sound of her tiny feet against the rug and the door slamming shut is music to my ears.

  I turn back. Beau’s standing with her arms folded, shoulders slightly hunched. “Are you all right? You seem a little nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous!” Beau says a little too jumpily, almost startling me.

  “So, what can I do to you?” I shake my head. “I mean, what can I do . . . for you?” Please, say I had it right the first time.

  “Um, I hate to ask this, but none of my friends are answering my calls right now.” She won’t look me in the eye. It’s difficult to seduce a woman when she won’t even look at your face. Maybe my luck hasn’t changed. Damn you, thirteenth floor. She motions to her back. “I can’t seem to reach these buttons. Could you lend a hand?”