She's Mine: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance

by Kira Blakely

  Well, at least it’ll be easy to remove.

  Patience, Grant. Patience.

  “You look great,” I compliment her, standing up with my hands in the pockets of my jacket.

  “You don’t have to lie,” she answers, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “After all, this isn’t a date.”

  “Oh, is lying what people do on a date? I thought it was having fun.”

  She pouts. “It’s trying hard to impress each other and pretending to have fun.”

  “Really? You seem an expert on dates.”

  “Hardly. Shall we go?” She tucks her purse under her arm and starts walking. “I’d like to come back early.”

  “No problem.” I nod, following her to the door.

  After a few steps, she pauses. “By the way, what did you say the name of the restaurant was again?”

  ***

  Cubo.

  That’s the name of the restaurant I’ve booked for the evening, one that serves Filipino fusion cuisine. I’ve read that the name is the local word for hut, the traditional dwelling, but is spelled with a C instead of a K for a modern, western twist. Well, the place does look like a modern hut; the floor made of wood and the walls made of bamboo but with large glass windows and a high ceiling.

  I had read about Abby’s Filipino heritage, her parents both being Filipinos. She was even born in the Philippines but moved to the USA in her late childhood after her mother married an American.

  I guess I’m hoping that by bringing Abby here, I’ll be giving her something of a homecoming and maybe bridge the gap between us quicker.

  It’s all part of the plan.

  As I glance at her, I realize it’s working. Abby gapes in surprise as she looks around our table.

  That’s right, sweetheart. You can thank me later.

  Suddenly, though, the corners of her mouth droop.

  What? Isn’t she happy? Or maybe she’s just feeling homesick.

  “What can I get for you?” the waiter asks.

  “Oh, I’ll let my lovely companion for this evening decide,” I say, gesturing toward Abby. “She is a Filipina, after all.”

  “Oh, really?” The waiter looks pleased.

  Abby, however, doesn’t. She mumbles something to the waiter – something in Filipino, I assume – then to my surprise, she gets up and leaves. I mumble an apology of my own and follow her, catching up to her in the parking lot.

  I grab her arm. “Abby, what’s wrong? I thought you’d love the place.”

  “Because I’m a Filipina?” She whirls around, jerking her arm free. “What? Is that something Mr. Landers told you?”

  “No. It was in your file.”

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

  “So I have a file, huh?”

  I touch my forehead. “I wanted to know about you.”

  “And what else did that file say, hmm?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, let me guess what it didn’t say. I bet it didn’t say that I hate the Philippines.”

  I blink, puzzled. What? Most of the Filipinos I’ve met can’t wait to go home.

  “I haven’t been back there since I was eight, and I don’t think I ever will. I don’t have a home there.”

  “But you have relatives there, don’t you? I’m sure they—”

  “I haven’t heard from them in years. They might as well not exist. They don’t exist for me. That country does not exist for me. It hasn’t done anything for me.”

  “But you were born there. It’s a part of you. You—”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” She lifts her hands in dismay. “It’s a burden, a curse.”

  Her hatred takes me by surprise. “Well, maybe you’re taking it the wrong way. Maybe you should just accept it and—”

  “Don’t talk to me like you know me,” she cuts me off angrily, lifting a finger in warning. “You may have a file on me but you know nothing about me.” She pokes my chest. “Nothing.”

  With that, she stomps away.

  This time, I don’t stop her. I just watch her walk across the parking lot and hail a cab, knowing that it’s futile to give chase now. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve made a mistake, and, as a result, the date turned out to be a disaster even before it could start.

  Fuck.

  My fists clench at my sides as I fight a strong desire to punch something. I look up at the night sky and take a deep breath.

  All right. So, I underestimated her. I assumed she would love her heritage, which was a key part of my plan. Obviously I didn’t think things through well enough. Then again, I’ve never had to go through such lengths to win a woman over. Usually, they just fall into my lap and into my bed.

  But I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no way in hell I’m giving up. I’ll take care of her pet peeves later. For now, I’ll just work around them and concentrate on getting her wrapped around my finger, and, hopefully, another part of me, which eagerly pulses in anticipation.

  Taking a deep breath, I put my hands in my pockets and walk to my car.

  Just you wait, Abby. You’ll be mine soon enough.

  Chapter 3

  Abby

  Who does Grant think he is?

  I stomp into my room and sit in front of the dresser, still fuming.

  I know he’s my boss and he’s a billionaire but that doesn’t give him the right to dictate my feelings or my personal life.

  So, he has a file on me, does he? What? Did he have a friend of his pull out all my records or did he pay someone to spy on me? Either would be easy for someone with as much money as him. That’s not what annoys me, though. Every employer has the right--maybe even a duty-- to keep a file on his employees. But what annoys me is that he thinks that file is all I am. Now, he thinks he knows me inside out and so he feels that he can easily wrap me around his finger and that he has the right to judge me.

  Grant doesn’t know anything.

  A wealthy, pampered, blue-blooded man like him can’t possibly know about all the pain and suffering I’ve been through, about all the discrimination, alienation, or the bouts of depression. I’m looking at the mirror now but he can’t possibly know all the times I’ve loathed doing so, hating what I see or the times I couldn’t even recognize my own reflection. He can’t possibly know how many tears these eyes looking back at me have shed or those they didn’t, couldn’t.

  Grant can’t possibly know or understand.

  I pull off my scrunchie, shaking my head to spread my hair over my shoulders. Then I leave the dresser to change my clothes before throwing myself on top of the king-sized bed, sighing as I stare at the pale blue ceiling.

  Maybe it’s the way the shade of the ceiling resembles the summer sky, or maybe it’s the softness of the bed beneath me that feels like a cloud, but for some reason, my anger ebbs away. My heart and my breathing slow down.

  As my mind clears, a realization sinks in – I just raised my voice at my boss. And in public, no less.

  “Shit.” I sit up, placing my hands on the top of my head.

  Sure, he hurt my feelings, but he’s still my boss. I should have been more civil. I should have kept my mouth shut. What if he decides to fire me?

  “Ugh.” I lie back down, grabbing a pillow and placing it over my face.

  What is wrong with me? First, that voyeurism and the spilled coffee this morning and now, the spat. None of this ever happened with Mr. Landers. What is it about Grant Herbert that drives me out of character?

  It’s mostly his fault. Still, I wasn’t entirely on my best behavior. I let my emotions get the better of me and forgot my position. Plus, maybe I was a little too hard on him. After all, he was just trying to impress me. And as for him telling me to accept who I am, it may be unsolicited advice... but it isn’t wrong. I’ve known it for years. I just never had anyone tell it to my face or summoned the courage to do it.

  Taking a deep breath, I place the pillow behind my head then turn to my side, pulling the blanket up to my shoulders.

 
I’ll apologize first thing in the morning.

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” Grant says at the same time I do, his hands clasped on his desk.

  Standing in front of him with my tablet in one arm, I blink.

  He’s apologizing? He’s not mad? I thought for sure he was either going to fire me or pretend that nothing happened, like he did with yesterday’s morning “incident.”

  “I had no right to do what I did,” he adds solemnly.

  Isn’t that my line? Well, one of my lines. I had a whole speech prepared.

  “It’s all right,” I tell him as I hug my tablet to my chest, improvising now. “I’m the one who acted out of turn. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You’re still my boss, after all.”

  “You can’t be calm all the time, Abby. In fact, I’d prefer it if you weren’t.”

  Grant turns to his computer, and I just stand there.

  Now, what? Have I been dismissed? Should I go?

  “Oh, by the way, I got rid of that file.” He places his hand over the mouse.

  Another surprise. “You did?”

  “It didn’t tell me the important stuff.”

  “Important stuff?” I ask curiously, tapping a finger on my arm.

  “What you like and what you don’t like,” he answers.

  My eyebrows go up. That’s what’s important?

  “Well, if you want to know something about me, all you have to do is ask,” I say without thinking.

  This time, Grant is the one who looks surprised, his blue eyes wide as he sits back in his chair. “I can?”

  I nod. “Well, you’re the boss.”

  “I have to admit I do still want to know you better.” He touches his chin. “Tell me something you don’t like. Aside from nosy bosses, Filipino restaurants, and dirt, that is.”

  I grin sheepishly as I look at my shoes. “I guess I don’t like men with mustaches.”

  Grant runs his finger over the skin above his lips. “It’s a good thing I don’t have one, then.”

  “And I don’t like colds.”

  He shrugs. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Or horror movies.”

  He leans forward. “So, is there something you do like?”

  I take a seat. “Well, there’s one thing I really do like. Are you sure you didn’t have it in your file?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Musicals,” I tell him. “I especially like the ones on Broadway.”

  “Really?” Grant taps his fingers on the desk. “Then let’s go catch one this Friday. I’ll let you pick the show.”

  I set the tablet down on my lap. “You’re serious?”

  I’ve never watched a play with anyone before. Then again, I’ve never met a man who wanted to go with me. Usually, they’d rather watch a Knicks or Yankees game. One of the men I went out with even said that theater was for gays and I’m pretty sure Grant isn’t gay.

  “Of course,” he answers, standing up and going around his desk. “I used to watch at West End with my mother. And like I said…” He places his hand on the back of my chair. “I still want to get to know you better.”

  As our eyes meet, I see a flicker of heat in his eyes, the same one I saw before, and a delicious shiver goes up my spine. Like before, I dismiss it, though, reminding myself that he’s just doing this so we can get along better at work.

  Still, no man has ever been this nice to me before. Not even Mr. Landers.

  I get up, smiling. “All right. I’ll get the tickets.”

  He returns the smile with his own, making my heart skip a beat. “I’m counting on you.”

  ***

  Truth be told, I’ve already watched all the musicals on Broadway. I can never get enough of them, though, and so I choose one of my favorites – Miss Saigon. As usual, I end up in tears as the curtain falls so I have to go to the restroom afterward to blow my nose and fix my makeup. When I’m done, I find Grant waiting for me at the lobby, staring intently at a poster.

  I pause, staring at him in turn.

  Damn, he’s hot.

  Tonight, he’s wearing khakis and a knitted vest over a pale blue dress shirt, all of which look expensive and fit him to a tee, putting my striped slacks and pink blouse to shame. The outfit shows off his perfect figure, too, the short sleeves wrapping around his toned upper arms and the pants just tight enough to outline the curve of his firm, round butt. I wonder how his cheeks would feel against my palms.

  Wait. What? First, I was looking at his crotch. Now, I’m checking out his butt and even fantasizing about touching it? What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Hey.” I smile as I walk up to him. “Sorry about that. Miss Saigon always makes me cry. Then again, so do Phantom and Les Mis and Rent and A Chorus Line and…”

  Grant chuckles. “I think I get the picture.”

  “Yeah. Broadway shows are all tearjerkers.”

  “Yet you love them.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I’m a masochist?”

  His eyes narrow, turning an even darker shade of blue. Out of nowhere, an image pops into my mind – one of me on the floor, Grant pinning my wrists above my head with one hand and the other between my legs, stroking, exploring…

  I push the image aside as I look away, sucking in a deep breath as I suppress the shiver threatening to ascend my spine.

  Breathe, Abby. Just breathe.

  “Or maybe I’m just a woman.” No, that doesn’t sound right. “Or I’m just human, you know, with emotions and all. Not that I’m saying you’re not a human, just…”

  I stop, realizing I’m rambling.

  Once again, he’s rattled me.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask quickly, hoping to dissipate the tension in the atmosphere.

  “Actually, I was hoping for another chance at dinner,” Grant admits. “Tell me. Do you happen to like risotto?”

  ***

  “This risotto is superb,” I say as I take another spoonful of the creamy mixture of rice, seafood, and spices. “The best I’ve tried so far.”

  “Same here.” Grant digs into his own beef and mushroom dish. “I’ve been to Italy but nothing beats this restaurant’s risotto.”

  “And the side dishes aren’t bad, either.” I take a bite out of the fried eggplant. “Mmm.”

  He takes a sip of wine. “Glad you like them.”

  “You know what?” I set down my fork and dab the corner of my mouth with the napkin. “We should just get the chef here to work for you.”

  Grant’s eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know you were a headhunter, too.”

  “Well, I did help Mr. Landers find his new VP before I left.”

  “What did he tell you exactly?” He sets down his glass. “I mean about your new job.”

  “He said you needed a capable personal assistant more than he does.” I pick up my spoon. “He said he owed you a favor.”

  “Which one?” He continues eating.

  I chuckle. “That many favors, huh?”

  “So, you left just because he told you to?”

  I shrug as I eat another spoonful. “I guess I owe him a favor, too. Besides, he wouldn’t ask me to do anything that he knew wasn’t good for me. He never gets me into any trouble he can’t get me out of.”

  Grant grabs his glass again. “You and Nathan sure seem close.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say…” I stop as I notice the change in his expression, his forehead creased and his gaze distant as he drinks the wine.

  Why does he suddenly look annoyed? I thought he liked this restaurant. Is it someone who just walked in? I subtly look around as I get my own glass. It doesn’t seem as if anyone just arrived; everyone is busy eating or chattering at their tables. I don’t recognize anyone, either.

  Is it something I said?

  Something I said.

  Wait. Don’t tell me Grant is… jealous of Mr. Landers? But he has no reason to be. Mr. Landers was never interested in me – on a sexual level – and Grant can’t be.

  Is he?


  Impossible. I’ve already established that fact. Maybe it’s just something he remembered.

  “On second thought, I don’t think we should hire the chef here.” I take a sip of the wine. “I mean, just think of all the people who would miss out on life not being able to taste the perfect risotto.”

  “You’re right.” Grant puts his glass down. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be able to hire someone good.”

  I set my own glass down and wipe my lips. “Actually, the agency already sent me the CVs of their recommended candidates and there’s one I’m considering.”

  I take my tablet out of my purse and show Grant the candidate’s CV.

  “Her name is Marjorie. She doesn’t have any formal culinary education but she has done well at the restaurants and homes she’s worked in. I called some of them and they describe her as a hard worker and a quick learner. They also said she likes to keep to herself but that’s fine since she’ll just be staying in the kitchen.”

  “Likes to keep to herself, huh?” Grant hands me back the tablet. “Sounds like you’ve found yourself a kindred soul.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, so I say nothing as I put the tablet back in my purse.

  Grant sits back. “She’s single, too.”

  I blink, surprised that he noticed. Wait. He isn’t interested in her, is he?

  “But she has a kid,” I inform him.

  “Not a problem.”

  He doesn’t mind if a woman has a kid?

  “As long as having a kid doesn’t interfere with her job.”

  Oh. Of course, that’s what he means. I suddenly feel like slapping my forehead in dismay. What was I thinking?

  “I don’t think it will,” I tell him as I continue eating. “She doesn’t bring her son with her to work.”

  Grant continues eating as well. “So, who’s watching him? How old is he?”

  “His name is Jim and he’s seven. If I remember correctly, he’s with an aunt and an uncle. I can ask for more details tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. I was just curious.”

  I can tell it’s not curiosity, though. Concern? I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that his mother was also a single mom. I wonder what his childhood was like.