Billionaire Beast (Billionaires - Book #12)

by Claire Adams

  When I showed up to the café, my mother waved me over to the corner table she was sitting at. I ordered a mocha and then made my way over and sat down.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. I got held up at work.”

  “Busy day at the salon?”

  I was about to answer when the barista called my name. “I’ll be right back,” I said. I went over to the counter and got my drink. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me the whole time. I knew she thought I was wasting my time at the salon. Maybe she’d be glad to hear that I had a new job. I took a tiny sip of my drink and then walked back over to the table and sat down again.

  “I actually started working at a new place,” I said. My mother raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh?” she said. “I didn’t realize that you’d left the hair salon.”

  “Yeah, I did. I was ready for a change.” I hadn’t mentioned any of that to her; I wanted to wait until I had a new job before I told her I’d left.

  “I thought you were pretty happy there.”

  “I was.”

  “So where is this new job?”

  “It’s at Hard Tail Security.”

  “Hard Tail Security? What is that, exactly?”

  “It’s a security firm. I’m handling the administrative work there mostly. This guy I know from the gym, Jonathan, he’s the manager there and he got me the interview.”

  Mom nodded. “Does it have potential for growth?”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. “Probably,” I said. “I haven’t really talked to them about that though, since I just started. I wanted to get used to everything before I began asking about moving up.”

  “What about going back to school?”

  “I don’t think now’s the right time for that.”

  Mom pursed her lips. A few tables over from us, a girl who was probably just a few years younger than me sat with her laptop, textbooks open on the table in front of her. She had that focused expression of someone who was deeply involved in whatever she was studying. Mom cast a sidelong glance her way and then looked at me pointedly. “You’re not getting any younger, Daisy. The longer you stay away from school, the harder it’s going to be to get back into it when you finally decide that you want to go back.”

  “But what if I don’t want to go back?”

  “What are you talking about? You’re going to work in offices for the rest of your life?”

  “It’s a job, Mom. And there’s nothing wrong with working in offices. It’s the sort of low-stress work environment that will let me focus on my writing when I’m not there. I don’t want a job that comes home with me every night; I don’t want to work at some high-stress company.”

  “How is your writing going, anyway?”

  I bit my lip, not wanting to lie to her, but not wanting to admit that I hadn’t worked on anything in at least a month. Maybe more. This whole thing with Noah was just completely taking my focus away from pretty much everything else. What made things worse was the fact that she was working on a book of her own, though a nonfiction one, something about the effects of women’s empowerment on economic growth. In other words, something that I’d never write about, but there was now a rather unpleasant competitive underpinning whenever she asked me about writing.

  “I’ve had a lot going on lately,” I said, purposefully not asking her about her own book, which I was sure was going swimmingly. “I’m . . . I’m thinking about moving to a new place.”

  She had been about to take a sip of her coffee, but after I spoke, she put her cup down before it had the chance to reach her lips. “You’re what?” she said.

  “Thinking of moving.”

  “Daisy—you live in a rent controlled apartment. Do you have any idea what people are paying these days for a one-bedroom? It’s insane. It’s simply unaffordable. There’s no way your salary as a secretary is going to be able to cover it.”

  “Admin,” I said.

  My mother looked at me irritably. “What?”

  “I’m not a secretary.”

  “Whatever you want to call it. You’re working in an office, and not as the CEO. I would strongly suggest that you not give your apartment up, unless you’re planning to move to Saugus or something. Why do you want to move? I thought you loved your apartment. What brought all of this on? Are you having some sort of quarter-life crisis? I heard a segment on the radio the other day about that. One of my colleagues is actually writing a book about it as we speak. Carl Weiland. Remember him?”

  “Not really.” Though I did have a vague recollection of a scruffy, bearded, glasses-wearing guy who I didn’t think was much older than myself.

  “Well. He is, and perhaps it would behoove you to speak to him. He’s including case studies, so if you’re going through one of these things right now, then it very well could be in your best interest to speak to him about this.”

  I sighed. My mother always had some colleague or associate who was writing this or working on that, and perhaps it would be a good idea for me to get involved. I never did, if I could; I tried to stay as far away from that sort of thing as I could. My whole life my mother had been analyzing me, critiquing me, not just from the standpoint of a mother, but also as a psychologist. Some people might have found such a thing helpful, but it just made me feel like I was some sort of insect that was trapped under a microscope all the time.

  “I’m not going through a quarter-life crisis,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “It essentially amounts to not knowing what direction you want your life to take, and sometimes making radical changes in order to help you discover what your purpose is. According to Carl, anyway. I think the problem these days is that people your age think they’re owed something when they’re not. And that discomfort is something to run away from. Which is why I’m curious about your sudden decision to move, to start a new job, to make all these changes.”

  She didn’t know about Noah. I hadn’t been planning on telling her, either, but I suddenly found myself relaying the whole story to her. Maybe she’d be able to help. My mother wasn’t the sort of person who would ever have a stalker—she simply wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps she’d have some helpful advice for me.

  But when I finished my story, she was just shaking her head. “Daisy,” she said. “You’ve really got to have a better head on your shoulders when it comes to deciding who you let into your life.”

  “All I did was get a smoothie with him!”

  The girl a few tables over glanced our way. I hadn’t meant to shout like that.

  “And then you gave him your number, after the fact? If you knew that you didn’t want to continue any sort of relationship with him, why would you give him your number like that? Why not just be upfront and honest and tell him that you weren’t interested?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. He caught me off guard. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “Well, perhaps that would have been better than leading him on like this and allowing this fantasy that he’s obviously created to perpetuate. Have you called the police?”

  “No.”

  “That might be the next step.”

  “I didn’t think they’d be able to do anything. Because he hasn’t really done anything yet. Aside from thinking that I’m the one. Like, his soulmate or something.”

  My mother didn’t respond right away; instead, she finally took that sip of her coffee and then took her time putting her cup back down. I had talked my way into some sort of trap, I knew it—I just didn’t know what yet. She had a way of doing this. She was a pro, really, when it came to this sort of thing, and though we’d never talked about it, I knew this was one of the main reasons why she and my father had gotten divorced.

  “Exactly,” she finally said. “He hasn’t done anything yet. You just said so yourself. So there’s no reason for you to move. If he hasn’t done anything that you can report to the police, then it makes absolutely no sense for you to uproot your whole life like this.
How long has it been going on for?”

  “Five weeks? Maybe a little more than that.”

  She shook her head. “Come on, Daisy. It sounds to me like you’re making a big deal out of nothing. And wanting to uproot your entire life because of it is just foolish. Now, if it were because you were thinking about going back to school or something along those lines, I would be far more receptive. But this whole thing just sounds like a bunch of nonsense.”

  I took another sip of my drink, the sweetness hurting my teeth. Before she’d become a professor, my mother had had her own private practice. Many times, I had wondered if she’d ever even think of saying to those clients of hers the same things she’d said to me. Like, someone had just laid bare their soul to her, and she’d just shake her head and say it was nothing more than a bunch of nonsense. I knew for a fact she’d never dream of saying anything like that to them—it still perplexed me why she seemed to think it was okay when it was me.

  “I don’t know why I even bother to tell you these things,” I said. “You’re probably the least supportive person in the world.”

  “Daisy.” She had that tone that suggested I was being no better than a petulant toddler. “This is not a matter of supporting you or not; this is a matter of indulging these fantasies of yours—”

  I choked back a laugh. “Fantasies? I don’t know who you think I am, Mom, but I’m not fantasizing about having a stalker! I’m not making this up!”

  The girl a few tables over had put down her pen and was making no attempt now to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping, as was every other table within earshot. But I didn’t care. My mother had a way of bringing out this side in me.

  “I shouldn’t have even brought this up. Just forget about the whole thing,” I said. I stood up. “I actually have to get going.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” my mother said in a slightly sing-song voice. She shrugged. “But that shouldn’t really be much of a surprise, should it? I was hoping that we’d be able to sit down and have a nice chat today, and you’d tell me that you’d decided to actually do something with your life, instead of wasting it away in some office, dreaming up some scenario where you have a stalker.”

  “Did belittling work on your other clients?” I asked. “Because it’s really not working here.”

  I left before she could say anything else. I tried not to feel too upset; so far as interactions with my mother went, that certainly wasn’t the worst, but I resented the idea that she thought this whole thing with Noah was some sort of fantasy. Clearly, he was mentally unbalanced, and of all people, shouldn’t she have been able to see that? But when it came to me, she seemed unwilling, for whatever reason.

  Chapter Seven

  Ian

  That Monday, Jonathan and I were both in the office early, and I could tell he was anxiously awaiting Daisy’s arrival. He was dressed a little spiffier than normal, too, and I thought that maybe I caught a whiff of some sort of cologne.

  “So what the hell is wrong with you?” I asked with a grin. It was meant to be a joke, but Jonathan got this crestfallen look on his face. “I’m kidding, you know,” I said.

  But he was shaking his head. “No, no, you’re absolutely right. There is something wrong with me.”

  “What? I know you like Daisy. That much is very obvious. You don’t need to be skulking around here, pretending like you don’t.”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “Yeah, I do like her—a lot. And I thought that if she was working here, it would just be . . . easier, I guess.”

  “What would be easier?”

  “Talking to her. Asking her out.”

  “So you want to date one of the employees. Isn’t there a rule against that?”

  “There certainly isn’t one about sleeping with the employees.”

  “But you want more than that.”

  “Well, yeah, of course I do. She’s an amazing person. I’m attracted to her, but it’s more than just wanting to sleep with her. I want to get to know her better. Spend time with her.”

  “Long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners?” Fucking hell, excuse me while I go barf.

  But Jonathan was smiling like a fool, no doubt imagining these long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners. “Yeah,” he said. “I would love that. I want to do all that with her. She deserves to be treated right. Especially after all this shit with the stalker.”

  “What’s up with that? She hasn’t said anything.”

  A satisfied expression flashed across his face. It was gone in a second, but I caught it—he was happy that she had confided something with him that she hadn’t with me.

  “It’s not something she really likes to talk about,” he said. “Can you blame her? The whole thing is sketchy.”

  “I suppose you could consider Annie a stalker.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “Well . . . I don’t think you’re in any fear of Annie doing you physical harm. She could try, but there’s no way she could hurt you.”

  “You could kick the stalker’s ass. You’d be like Daisy’s knight in shining armor. She’d at least owe you a blow job.”

  An image of Daisy down on her knees, that sweet mouth of hers wrapped around my cock, flashed through my mind. I smiled.

  Jonathan looked horrified. “For Christ’s sake, Ian, will you stop it?” he snapped. “You’ve got to be so . . . so . . .”

  “So what?” I asked.

  “So vulgar! I sure as hell wouldn’t be expecting a blow job if I did something for her!”

  “Well, something’s wrong with you then. Are you sure you’re not gay?”

  Jonathan flushed. He was too easy to get riled up, always had been. “I’m not gay,” he snapped. “If I was, I wouldn’t like her so much.”

  “What the fuck is the problem then? Am I missing something? She seems to like you.”

  His eyes widened. “Do you think so?”

  “Sure.”

  “See, that’s the thing. I can’t tell. Sometimes I get these really good vibes from her, and I think that things are going well, and then other times, it seems way more formal, business-like, almost.”

  “Well, you are her boss.”

  “No I’m not,” he said, almost recoiling in horror at the suggestion. “You’re the boss.”

  “You’re her superior then. Whatever you want to call it. Co-worker, if you want everything to be on even ground. So why wouldn’t she treat you in a business-like way?”

  “Because that completely goes against her liking me!”

  Growing up, I had wondered if Jonathan was gay. Not because he seemed especially interested in other boys, but because he was so fucking in touch with his feelings. It was probably due to the fact his mom, Jenny, (who still called me most Sunday mornings at ten o’clock) was one of those people who never got mad; instead she’d say something along the lines of, “What was going through your mind when you decided to throw that rock through Mr. Porter’s windshield?”

  This conversation that we were having now could go on for hours. And if there wasn’t anything more tedious than having to talk about feelings . . . I didn’t know what it was. If this was going to end, I’d have to be the one to do it.

  “Just ask her out,” I said. “You don’t even need to make it formal or anything; just ask her if she wants to go get a coffee or a drink or something.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. All you need to do is grow a pair of balls and then do it.”

  “That’s essentially what happened with Noah.”

  “Who?”

  “Noah. Her stalker. He asked her if she wanted to get a smoothie with him after they worked out. So I can’t do that. If I did that, she’d probably say no, even if she wanted to go out with me, just because she’d be thinking about Noah.”

  “Then how about you tell her you want to give her the hot meat injection.”

  He looked pissed that I’d dare say something
like that and I couldn’t help but start cracking up. Goddammit he was too easy!

  “I don’t want to mess this up,” he said. “I really don’t. I can’t remember the last time I liked someone this much.”

  I tried—not very successfully—to not roll my eyes. “If that’s the case, then do you think it was such a smart idea to get her a job at the same place you worked?”

  “I thought it was a great idea. That way I’d be able to see her a lot. Plus, I’d be helping her out, because she really needed work.”

  “You mean I’d be helping her out. Since I’m the one signing the paychecks.” The paychecks were not actually signed, though they did have my stamped signature on them.

  “She needed a job, and we needed an admin. I’d get to see her more. Five days a week. Maybe more than that if we kept up the same gym schedules. It all sounded pretty good to me. Except . . . it’s not going exactly how I’d hoped.”

  “She seems fine. That whole thing with changing the water was pretty mint, if I do so say so myself.”

  “You should have offered to help her.”

  “I did. And she turned me down. What did you want me to do? Force her to accept my assistance?”

  “No, of course not. And she is doing great here—I don’t think it was a mistake to hire her. I just thought I’d have an easier time talking to her.”

  “You’re such an amateur.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say you’re an expert in the category, either. How well did things go with Annie?”

  I waved my hand. “She ended up being a little more unbalanced than I first thought. We all have a lapse in judgment from time to time. Listen, Jay, if you like her that much, just ask her out. What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of making a fool of myself! I’m afraid of her saying no. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”