by Sierra Rose
The Billionaire’s Assistant
Part 1
By
Sierra Rose
Copyright 2016 Sierra Rose
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Billionaire's Assistant (Taming The Bad Boy Billionaire, #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Visit Sierra Rose at www.authorsierrarose.com
Chapter 1
I had never really believed in fairytales.
Raised by a single-mom in a crummy apartment in Brooklyn, the entire concept seemed a little too ironic for words. I read different sorts of books as a child. Books that lacked the wings and whimsy designed to instill in little girls that unreal expectation of magical godmothers and true love’s first kiss. When I lied, my nose didn’t grow any longer. When I looked at birds, I didn’t expect them to sing. If I saw seven dwarves marching towards me with a glass coffin—I’d probably sprint the other direction.
Call it ambition. Call it practicality. Call it twenty-two years of living on the ‘wrong side of the bridge,’ gazing wistfully out my window at the city lights beyond the water, always sparkling just a little out of reach. Just like Jay Gatsby, basking in the green glow of the wrong Egg, I’d always felt a little removed. A little detached. Unwillingly peripheral to the exciting things going on around me. But, also like Gatsby, I had found a way in.
It probably isn’t what you’re expecting. It sure as hell wasn’t the conventional route. The thing is—in the years I’d spent getting chewed up, and spit out, and toughened up by New York City—I had discovered a valuable lesson.
I didn’t need to live in the castle, if I was the keeper of the keys.
Two words, ladies and gentlemen. Two little words, but they had created an entire lifestyle. Opened doors I never imagined. Haunted me day in, and day out.
Public Relations.
No, I had never really believed in fairytales. But this one came damn close...
* * *
I felt like I was floating on a sea of chiffon. Billowing waves of cream and pink that whispered over the tile as I breezed into the room. The air around me was warm and scented with the faintest hint of peppermint. The twinkling lights dripping from the ceiling cast a soft glow.
It might have felt like a dream, yet everything about the place was familiar. After all, I had been here countless times before. Just...never under quite these circumstances.
“Abigail?”
I glanced up to see Melanie, the nightshift hostess, walking towards me with a bright smile. Like all women employed in such an elite establishment, she had not an ounce of fat on her, and legs that went on for days. The heels she’d selected for ‘work’ were easily seven inches tall, but by now, that didn’t stop any of us city girls from tempting fate, again and again.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming in tonight.” Her face grew suddenly pale as she reached compulsively for her datebook. “Oh gosh...did I forget to write something in the schedule? Are you here with—”
“A date,” I interrupted quickly, stopping her panic attack in its tracks. “I’m here with a date, actually. For...for myself.”
I wished it had come out smoother. Why was it that all the professional confidence that kept me cool and collected, under even the craziest of circumstances, seemed to vanish the second I wasn’t talking about my clients? The second I was talking about me instead.
But that’s why you’re doing this, I reminded myself. You’re learning to advocate for yourself. Prioritize your own needs for once. Create some well-deserved boundaries.
“Oh,” Melanie raised her eyebrows in surprise, slowly closing the book, “so no—”
“Nope, just me,” I cut her off before she could finish. In the cab ride over, I’d made a solemn vow: no work, not tonight. I would not mention his name for an entire evening. “Well, there’s me and...and the date, of course.”
Again with the smooth! Way to put all those public speaking classes to good use.
The whole thing came out so stilted, it almost felt fake. But Melanie glanced over her shoulder with a conspiratorial smile. “Well, I hope the date is the guy with the black hair sitting at the table in the corner. We’ve all been staring since he came in. He’s hot as hell!”
Melanie was a sweet girl, who didn’t have a lot of brains. The man she was describing had a similar affliction, but at the moment, I didn’t care.
She was right. The guy was hot. Hot, and dumb, and simple. A guaranteed evening of fun, carefree sex—no strings attached, no spin to create the next morning.
Coincidentally, he was also the perfect patsy on which to practice this new ‘doing something for myself’ thing I was trying.
“Actually, it is.” I returned the grin. “Fitted tux and everything.”
For the last two weeks, the two of us had engaged in a flirtatious game of did you catch me staring at the gym. In the end, it was me who had to saunter over and make the first move. A rather significant pet peeve. But one I was willing to forgive in light of his good looks. That and the new resolution I’d made to try to cultivate some kind of personal life.
“Hey, do me a favor.” I smoothed down my new dress, feeling suddenly nervous. “Make sure it’s Marco who plates the appetizer instead of Pierre. We don’t want another prosciutto incident, if you know what I’m saying...”
Melanie’s face pulled up in a sudden frown. “Oh—right.”
She hurried off to do my bidding, leaving me fidgeting in the middle of the lobby. The initial thrill of coming to an upscale place like this on my down time, instead of for work, had given way to a sudden surge of anxiety that almost turned me straight back to the door.
What the hell was I doing?
My dark hair was curled, for once, instead of ironed straight. My feet were stuffed into heels so high that even I was having trouble keeping balanced. My eyes were easily three times their normal size—thanks to a makeup artist who owed me a favor. And I was wearing a dress that cost well over half a month’s rent.
I’d left the tags on, for fuck’s sake. Tucked carefully down the side.
Don’t get me wrong. I was used to dressing up. I was used to fancy things—at least—a professional approximate that gained me entry to the types of places I needed to go to do my job.
But there was something different about this. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on until I caught
my reflection in a passing glass of champagne.
I look like one of my clients.
The thought stopped me cold. Freezing me with an unholy kind of fear.
But as quickly as it had come, it was soothed by another.
You always look like one of your clients. That’s one of the reasons you got this job in the first place. As long as you don’t act like one of your clients, you’re fine.
And so with that, I lifted up my chin and glided across the room to the sounds of Mozart drifting down from the quartet on the balcony just above. Ready to embark upon the kind of event I’d often dreamed of, but hadn’t experienced firsthand in longer than I cared to imagine.
Abigail Wilder goes on a date.
(For herself.)
Fuck it. I’ll never be smooth.
Chapter 2
“Ryan?”
The man jumped to his feet the second I walked over, all smiles. I beamed back and leaned in for the obligatory kiss on the cheek. It was then that I noticed he faltered slightly.
“It’s Cameron, actually.”
Cameron? I froze. Then why had I written the name Ryan on the inside of my palm just to remember? I’d thought myself so clever at the time—even though I was still desperately scrubbing it off as the taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant.
Who was Ryan? The pilot? The ice sculptor? Was he the caterer I’d been trying to get a hold of for—
NOPE! No work! You made a vow!
“Cameron, of course.” I tapped my head like it was the silliest thing in the world. “Sorry, I was just on the phone with my brother Ryan in the cab.”
Great—now I have a brother. Better write that down on my hand to remember it too.
I flashed an apologetic smile, and leaned over as I sank into my chair so he could see just the tiniest hint of cleavage. Everything was forgiven.
“Oh—I didn’t know you had a brother,” Cameron said brightly as he sat down as well.
“Baby brother.” I smiled sweetly, as if remembering all our nostalgic times. “Just turned eighteen—he’s out celebrating.”
And it’s my brother’s birthday.
“Gosh—eighteen.” Cameron shook his head, leaning casually towards me. “That seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”
I nodded quickly.
“Sure does.”
In reality, eighteen had only been four years ago for me. But I had long since stopped telling people my real age. When you worked in PR, age meant experience. Experience meant currency. I had been ‘twenty-nine’ for as long as I could remember. It was just easier that way. It helped that I had one of those faces. A face that could pass for whatever you needed it to.
“So, Cameron,” I flashed a seductive grin, eager to move the conversation past my fake family, “what are we drinking?”
As if on cue, a waiter appeared with a bottle of Margaux—expensive vintage. I leaned back in surprise as it was expertly poured. First the restaurant, now this? Was this guy seriously loaded and I’d just failed to notice because I only ever saw him at the gym? It was always hard to gauge a guy’s social standing in sweatpants. A one-time dinner to impress me was one thing, but the wine was too pricy for just that. It was a serious gesture. The kind that I’d grown accustom to seeing another man make. A man who went through bottles of Margaux like they were—
NO WORK! Do not even THINK of him! This is YOUR night!
“This is wonderful,” I said charmingly, taking a delicate sip. “First growth?”
“You know it?” Cameron looked surprised, then pleased. “Yes, I believe it is. Pairs well with the soufflé, or so they tell me.”
Wrong.
“At any rate, it’s supposed to be uncannily dry.”
Wrong again.
Somewhere across town, a certain billionaire—who shall not be named—was shaking his fists towards the heavens, not really knowing why.
I smiled again and took another sip.
“Like I said—wonderful.”
“I’m glad you like it. In fact, I’m glad you even agreed to come out tonight.” His hand reached tentatively across the table and rested upon mine. “You always seem so busy. Whenever I see you at the gym, you’re almost always on the phone.” He laughed nervously. “I learned to tell you were coming by the sound of your ringtone.”
Ah yes, the phones. There were four of them. All with a different number. All with a different purpose. All four of them were currently stuffed inside my purse, locked on vibrate.
“It’s a cardio experiment,” I teased. “Try to run on the treadmill while maintaining an overseas phone call in a language you don’t fully understand. A real calorie burner.”
He laughed again, a pleasant sound I could tell was already growing on me.
“So what is it exactly that you do?”
No work talk? First obstacle.
Fortunately, I was saved from having to reply when Marco (not Pierre) placed the complimentary appetizer down upon the table. He did so with a relish, and flashed me a conspiratorial wink. Melanie must have told him about the date.
“And what will we be having tonight?”
The servers here were forbidden from using pen and paper. Everything had to be memorized—no matter the size of the table.
“I think I’ll get the salmon with sauce on the side.” Cameron shut his menu and turned expectantly to me. “Abigail?”
“Just a salad for me, thanks.”
Cameron blinked in confusion, while Marco simultaneously kicked my chair.
Shit—I’d fucked up already!
Salad was a knee-jerk reaction. The one safe, cheap thing on the menu I always ordered while sitting at a table by myself. Safely out of ear shot from the real date, but close enough to jump in should anything go wrong. (With my roster of clients, things often went wrong.)
But salad was hardly a date food, just by itself. Already, I could feel the heat begin to rise up in the base of my neck, as two sets of eyes bore into me.
“Actually...the salmon sounds great.”
I handed up my menu to Marco, carefully avoiding the man’s gaze. It didn’t matter. I could practically feel the smirk.
“Right away.”
Then he was off. Leaving me several steps back from where I’d started.
“So, Abigail,” the hand was back on mine, paired with an affectionate smile, “you never told me what it is you do.”
As if on cue, one of the phones buzzed in my purse. I set the clutch on the ground without looking, keeping a smile fixed on my face.
Just get it over with, Abby. It’s a standard question. Get it over with and move on to the FISH—you idiot—not the SALAD.
“I work in public relations, actually.”
He leaned back in surprise.
“You’re a publicist. Really?”
I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and laughed as nervously as him.
“Why? Do I not look like one?”
“No, it’s not that, just...well actually, yeah.” He laced his fingers through mine with a wide grin. “You don’t really look like one.”
I got that a lot.
Mostly because I looked like I belonged on the other side of the bridge. The wealthier side. The easier side. The side that threw the parties, not the side that worked them.
I had once gotten all the way to the second floor of a Russian palace—after receiving a 911 text from a client—before being escorted outside by security. The rest of the team had found me later, gloating in the snow.
But I appreciated this guy’s honesty either way. Another endearing trait. If it weren’t for the fact that I already had a fake brother to maintain, I might actually start to like this Cameron.
“I work with a myriad of disguises,” I joked again, trying to divert the attention as much away from my job as possible. “But what about you? What is it that you—”
But Cameron was on a roll.
“My father hired a public relations team for our company once,” he continu
ed, utterly oblivious to my attempts. “Not one of them looked anything like you.”
Great. This guy was probably a trust fund baby, just like all the rest. I should have picked up on it. The restaurant. The wine. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to leave here with a job offer.
“I guess that explains the phone. They were always impossibly busy.”
Again—the damn thing buzzed in my bag. I kicked it under the table.
His face twisted up into a little smile.
“Do you need to take that?”
“No,” I said quickly, reaching for my glass of wine, “not at all. I’m off tonight.”
...we’ll see.
“Good—then I get you all to myself.” He clinked his glass against mine, a row of perfect teeth sparkling in the soft lamplight. “To chance encounters. May they always—”
Now both phones were buzzing. Egging each other on as my purse began to shake.
My smile tightened, but I deliberately ignored them—locking eyes with Cameron.
Keep talking, buddy. Just keep talking.
In his defense, he really did try.
“May they always—”
A third phone added to the clamor. Between the three of them, we were starting to draw a bit of attention. It looked like they were trying to shake their way out of my bag.
“You really can answer,” he said graciously. “I don’t mind.”
That’s sweet, but this little social experiment is hardly about you.
“No,” I said firmly—more firmly than was required. “This is my night off. Everyone knows it. There was a memo, for fuck’s sake. They’ll just have to get by—”
The fourth and final phone made a loud entrance into the fray. This one actually didn’t have a vibrate setting—as it was only meant to be used for emergency calls. A digitalized song cut the air between us, ruining Cameron’s attempted toast once and for all.
‘It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men—’
“There’s that ringtone...”
“I’m so sorry!” I reached hastily down into my purse and began snapping them off, one by one. “It’s usually not like this—I swear.”