by Audrey Storm
Bridget frowned. “Any ‘in’ with him?” she repeated.
“Everyone knows the name ‘Arkell,’” Pam said tiredly. “Have known them since their billionaire daddy married their millionaire mommy and got her pregnant. They’re an old family name, and the richest men in town. Bridget, do you have any idea what kind of ratings we could get for a front page article on the Arkell’s?”
Bridget wasn’t following. “Wait,” she said, scowling. “What does that have to do…”
“Bridget, honey,” Pamela seemed to smirk through the phone. “You’re already in on the ground floor, here. Robert obviously likes you; stroke that golden goose until he pops. You write an article on the man’s daily life – oooh, no, better yet: on how it is to date an Arkell? You’ll have every paper in the city looking you up.”
That made Bridget’s eyes widen. It wasn’t a secret that she wasn’t a perfect fit for Cupid’s Call. She had a great portfolio, and a wonderful mastery of prose and grammar, but a talent for gossip topics and beauty secrets? Not her style. She belonged at a literary journal, or History Monthly.
“You do this, Bridget,” Pamela said, “And you get your big break, kid.”
“You did what?”
Bridget didn’t know why she had thought that telling her sister about Robert would be a good idea. Especially in public, at the café that they both frequented often enough that even the baristas knew them by name.
“We didn’t really do anything,” she said quietly, shrugging her shoulders.
“And, what?” Alissa raised an eyebrow. “You just left?”
“Well,” Bridget stirred her tea. “I left a note.”
“Let me guess,” her sister rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat as she crossed her arms. “The standard, ‘Call Bridget Mason for a good time. Phone number is 244—’”
“Shut up!” Bridget hissed, glancing around at the other tables. “Look, I wrote a perfectly appropriate note and told him how he could find me.”
“A perfectly boring note, you mean,” Alissa muttered.
“Now it’s up to him,” Bridget finished. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to leave Robert’s mansion without a trace that morning, not after hearing what Pamela had to say over the phone. Still, she certainly wasn’t going to try whoring herself out for a story. “Besides, I haven’t heard from him since.”
“And this all happened just hours ago?” her sister clarified.
“This morning, yes,” Bridget nodded.
“So there’s still a good chance that he might actually contact you?”
“Possibly.”
“Well,” Alissa shrugged, grabbing a napkin. “I say go for it.”
“Excuse me?” Bridget blurted out. Her older sister had never really been the ethical type, but she’d thought that even Alissa would at least draw the line at spying on a billionaire. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Bridget, you said it yourself,” Alissa said, taking a slurp of her coffee. “This could be your big break.” She set the cup down and looked Bridget in the eye. “And if this guy is game, then why not?”
“Because,” Bridget said, fishing out the teabag with her spoon. “Let’s say I do it. We go on a few dates, I take some notes, and I write the article. The moment that he sees it, I’m done. He and I are done.”
“Jesus, Bridget,” Alissa laughed at her. “Do you really expect to build a relationship with this guy? He’s a billionaire; I bet he has a new girl every week, if not every day.”
“So,” Bridget said slowly. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying,” she said, exasperated. “That you should try seeing how the other half lives for as long as they let you, and then turn around and sell ‘A day in the life of’ article. Make some cash, maybe earn a few expensive gifts from your Robert friend in the process,” she winked.
Bridget just sipped her tea, Robert’s whispered plea for her to stay the night still loud in her head.
He called at eight o’clock, but Bridget wasn’t brave enough to do anything when the unknown number flashed on her screen other than let it go to voicemail.
“Bridget,” he said hastily, his voice husky as she played the message back. “I just got home – what time is it? Damn.” A pause, then, “Sorry it’s so late. I guess that’s why you didn’t answer, huh? Look, I’m glad that you stayed last night. I don’t remember much, but I remember that, and I’d like to know if you’d, uh, like to do it again, sometime. Meet up, not get blackout drunk. Yeah. Unless you want. Uh, call me.”
By the end of the voicemail, Bridget found herself grinning from ear to ear. She hadn’t seen this side of Robert last night – if anything, he’d been a confident know-it-all who couldn’t stop calling for “one more drink.” She liked the vulnerable, spacy Robert better.
She called him back.
“Bridget?” he answered immediately.
“H-hi, Robert,” she smiled to herself, tucking a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. The moment she realized what she was doing she stopped, mortified but thankful that Robert couldn’t actually see her through the phone. “I, uh, I got your voicemail. Sorry about that, I just don’t answer numbers that I don’t know.”
“Understandable, understandable,” he said easily, and she was disappointed to hear that his voice had that poised tone to it again.
“So,” she said, suddenly uncertain. “This is me, calling you.”
“Yeah,” Robert laughed. “I called earlier because I was wondering if you’d like to join me. For dinner. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Monday,” she said, biting her lip. “I’ve got work, and I can’t guarantee that I’ll get out before ten. It’s the end of the month, so we’ll be working late to plan the next issue.”
“Right, right,” he said, and she got the odd feeling that he was nodding on the other end. “Tuesday, then?”
“Tuesday I can do.” I think, Bridget added silently.
“Perfect. Eight o’clock?” he asked.
“Eight o’clock,” she repeated with a smile. “Uh, where are we—”
“I’ll pick you up,” he cut her off.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Um, see you Tuesday, then.”
“See you Tuesday.”
Chapter 4
Tuesday couldn’t come fast enough for Bridget. It wasn’t that she was dying to see Robert, but by the time that she’d finally left work on Tuesday to go home and get ready for their date at eight, she was more than ready to cut straight to dinner and skip whatever her so-called “billionaire boyfriend” had planned for those final three hours leading up to it.
Because really, he’d done enough already.
It had all started on Monday. She’d gone into work, parking her truck around back to walk into work ten minutes early. It hadn’t been a particularly unusual start to her workweek, even with the odd traffic and cold cup of coffee that she’d waited twenty minutes in line for, but her date with Robert had seemed to infect her mood and make it all seem different; fresh.
Especially when she’d walked into the same old office and found six overflowing bouquets of red roses crowded on her cubicle desk.
Thinking fast before Pamela arrived, Bridget had been able to pass them off to her favorite coworkers and start on her work. Only, Robert’s gifts hadn’t stopped at the roses. By noon, she’d gotten a dozen different deliveries of chocolates, jewelry, and handbags, each gift more extravagant than the next as she tried as quietly as possible to return them all to sender.
Honestly, it was almost more than one introvert could take.
Locking her apartment door behind her, Bridget left her phone in her purse and marched straight into the bathroom. She shut the door and turned the bath taps on high, plugging up the drain as hot water gushed into the tub. Stepping out of her clothes, Bridget tossed her underwear to the floor and stepped into the rising water, sighing in relief as the heat naturally soothed her tensed limbs.
It was the most relaxed that she’d been i
n weeks.
Until the knock at the door ruined it.
“Uh,” she said to herself, jerking up from her reclined position as the knocks sounded again. “Just a minute!” she called, pushing herself up. Water sloshed over the sides as she kicked her feet out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her body. Walking carefully on slick feet to the door, she kept the chained lock on as she cracked it open.
Robert was grinning sheepishly on the other side in a black suit, a white garment bag draped over his arm.
“Bridget,” he beamed, but his smile quickly faltered as he noticed the water dripping down her nose.
“What happened to eight o’clock?” Bridget blurted out before she could stop herself.
“I just—sorry, were you in the shower?” he asked, glancing at the puddle gathering just inside her door.
“Bath, actually,” she said dryly. “Why don’t you come back—”
“Wait!” he stopped her from closing the door with his foot. “Bridget, can I come in?” When she just stared at him, he tried a small smile. “Please?”
She was going to regret this. “Fine,” she said, shooing him back so that she could undo the lock and open the door properly.
Bridget made him wait in the sitting area while she went back into the bathroom to dry off and dress. She stared longingly at the tub before she forced herself to pull the plug, sighing as the water that she’d filled with bath salts and her favorite rose oil disappeared down the drain.
With a rough scrub of her towel, she dried herself off and slipped back into the clothes she’d been wearing earlier, snatching them up off the floor with a groan. This was definitely not how she’d imagined her night going.
A part of her wondered why she’d let Robert in, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming knowledge that she needed that billionaire boyfriend article, which meant that she needed him.
“Okay, Robert,” she sighed, stepping back out into the living room. “What did—”
She paused. Robert was on his feet, his hands clasped behind his back as he bent to look at her cluster of books stacked under an end table. She thought he’d be on the couch, but a blue dress was draped over the cushions, resting on the white garment bag that he’d brought.
“Oh,” he said, straightening with a smile. “That was quick.”
Bridget made a mental note to compare herself to Robert’s usual date in the article: pampered, spoiled, and forever in the powder room. Maybe she could dress it up like Robert preferred her cheap habits to theirs, and give some women hope.
“I remembered the dress that you wore to my brother’s party,” he said, stepping closer. “I saw this one in a window near my workplace, and the cut reminded me of you.”
Bridget couldn’t help feeling a little insulted as he led her over to it. The dress was beautiful, there was no denying that, but it’d obviously been bought at a plus size store, meaning that he’d seen it on a plus size mannequin.
“It would mean a lot to me if you’d wear it tonight,” he said gently, reaching to pick it up. The fabric shimmered as he moved it, and Bridget couldn’t help but compare it to the elusive color of a full moon. As he held it out to her, she couldn’t help but accept it, eyeing it closely as she considered how she should describe it in the article. She supposed that a lot of women dreamed of a handsome man bringing them a ball gown to go dancing in, and that the dress in her arms would only beef up the article.
Speaking of dancing, he’d never told her where he had planned on taking her for their date. She figured, with a dress like that, Robert would be taking her somewhere that she’d never been. After all, the last thing she needed was for him to act like a cheesy prince charming and take her out for pizza.
“Take me somewhere special.” Bridget said it with a hard swallow, afraid to overstep at any moment. Take me out so I can write my article and get this over with.
“Of course,” Robert nodded eagerly in agreement. “Where shall we go?”
Bridget had no idea. “Your favorite,” she said quickly. “To your favorite restaurant.”
Robert smirked. “With my favorite gal,” he said, stooping to kiss her hand, his lips soft on her skin. “I know just the place.”
Bridget had always heard of Saints and Stones – hell, everyone in California had. It was a privately owned steakhouse that’d been ranked number one in the area for the past ten years running, and reservations were next to impossible to get because of it.
But then, her date wasn’t ‘everyone.’
“Table for two, Mac,” Robert smiled when he walked in, and a host wearing a ‘Michael’ nametag waved at him.
“Certainly, sir,” the man balanced two menus in his hand like a pizza tray. “Is the usual table alright?”
“Perfectly,” Robert winked.
As they followed the host to their seats through a maze of polished tables and brick walls draped with new age tapestries, Bridget couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. People were staring, and as they rounded another booth and Robert squeezed the hand that he’d insisted she keep on his arm, he whispered, “You look stunning.”
Bridget smiled back at him weakly. While she was positive that her clothes had nothing to do with the looks that they’d been getting since they’d walked in, she had to admit that the dress was nothing if not flattering. The soft blue fabric that she’d been worried would be near invisible actually kept her pale skin looking balanced instead of sickly white, and somehow also seemed to make her frosty blue eyes pop against her head of red hair.
If nothing else went right, Robert had, at the very least, chosen the dream dress.
“Here we are,” the host said kindly, sweeping his hand to indicate a back booth. Robert, ever the gentleman, moved for Bridget to take a seat first. As he slipped in behind her and ordered a bottle of red wine, Bridget pulled at the dress.
“You look perfect,” Robert said, stopping her hand by placing one of his on top of it. Bridget froze, all too aware of the hot hand touching hers, and she purposefully kept her eyes down because of it. “Sorry,” he said, moving his hand to his lap. She almost reached for it, internally screaming at herself when she realized what she was doing. “I know I might be coming off as a bit abrasive, but,” Robert shook his head at his own thoughts. “I’ve been dying to see you since I left you in my bed that morning.”
“Robert,” Bridget frowned, speaking slowly through her own muddled mind. “What exactly do you remember about that night?”
“Like I said, not much,” he chuckled. “But I do remember waking up from the best sleep that I’d had in weeks to find a beautiful girl in my bed, and an annoyed butler who said that you were the only reason that I wasn’t found dead in a ditch that morning.”
Bridget blushed. “A-anyone would’ve—”
“No,” he said firmly, his tone suddenly very serious. “Not in my world, they wouldn’t have.”
“Robert—”
“The Cabernet Sauvignon,” their host suddenly interrupted them, his smile wide as he showed off the vintage to Robert.
“Thank you,” Robert grinned. He nodded for the host to pour it, and dismissed him with a wave. “Leave the bottle,” he said, and Michael placed it between them. Bridget itched to snap a photo of it with her phone for the article, but she resisted the temptation and kept her hands at her sides, glancing at Robert as he picked up his wine glass.
“Mhm,” he breathed, inhaling the smell as he swirled his cup. After a moment he took a sip, and looked at Bridget. “Please, try it.”
Bridget had never been a big fan of wine, but she picked up her glass all the same and tipped it back. As the bitter taste touched her tongue, Robert’s warm hand suddenly ghosted over her thigh and squeezed.
Bridget just barely avoided choking and set her glass hastily back down on the tabletop. His fingers were warm as they gently dug into her flesh, and she swallowed as she imagined him gripping her underneath the dress. The fabric bunched as he started moving his hand further up
toward her crotch, and she quickly threaded her hand through his to stop him.
“Come home with me tonight,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss her cheek while he whispered in her ear. “I need another dose of what you gave me.”
“What I gave you?” she repeated breathlessly, her mind slow as her body tingled in a warm haze.
“I haven’t slept since that night,” he admitted, his breath hot against her face. “I see you every time I close my eyes,” he kissed her neck, his hand suddenly slipping beneath her dress.
A clink of a stranger’s silverware jerked her out from under his spell, and Bridget did the only thing she could think of.
She head-butted him.
Chapter 5
“I’m so sorry.”
Robert just waved her off, the red mark on his forehead obvious against his black bangs. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “I was being too forward.”
If Bridget wasn’t so embarrassed, she would’ve snorted at the proper words that he used to describe his attempts to jump her bones.
And, if she hadn’t been so turned on by it, then she probably would’ve been able to enjoy the lamb that Robert had ordered for her with a clear head.
“If you want to go back to your apartment, after this—”
“As opposed to what?” Bridget asked, looking up from her plate at him. She didn’t say it unkindly, and she could tell that her wide eyes and honest tone had surprised Robert.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat as he glanced away with a slight redness creeping up his neck. “There’s a dessert parlor around here that’s famous for their champagne truffles.”
That sounded like a nice ending for her article. “Sounds charming,” Bridget smiled.
Four rounds of truffles and a vanilla bean waffle cone later, and Bridget really couldn’t identify just when she’d agreed to go home with Robert.
“Bridget,” he gasped, holding her close as he ground up against her while she straddled his lap. Her hands were over his head, hanging on to the back of the car seat as she moved over the bulge in his pants. Every time she moved down, her stomach curled with warm knots that just kept winding tighter and tighter.