by Arlo Arrow
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Sophia
Grant
Thank You for Reading!
Also by Arlo Arrow
About Arlo Arrow
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée
An Older Man, Younger Woman Romance
Arlo Arrow
Copyright © 2017 by Arlo Arrow
All rights are reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by Natasha Snow Designs.
Contents
1. Sophia
2. Sophia
3. Grant
4. Sophia
5. Sophia
6. Sophia
7. Grant
8. Sophia
9. Sophia
10. Sophia
11. Grant
12. Sophia
13. Sophia
14. Grant
15. Sophia
16. Grant
17. Sophia
18. Sophia
19. Grant
20. Sophia
21. Sophia
Epilogue
Thank You for Reading!
Also by Arlo Arrow
About Arlo Arrow
One
Sophia
My hand shakes as I raise it to knock on his study's door.
For one moment, I rest my fist against the ornately carved wood. Everything in this house is beautiful, old, expensive. I should know; I've cleaned and dusted and polished most of it during the last few years.
And the most beautiful (okay, smoking hot), old (well, only thirty-nine), and richest part of this mansion is my boss, Mr. Grant Blackstone. A tech billionaire by the time he was thirty, he'd left his old-money home and lifestyle on the East Coast and moved here, to San Francisco. He'd become an angel investor to multiple start-ups, gathering praise, fame, and more riches throughout the past decade.
He'd somehow gathered up my father and me, as well.
And now, I was leaving. I had to.
For my own sanity.
I knock on the dark, polished wood. Once. Twice. Three times. I've been practicing this speech for weeks.
“Come in.” Grant’s low, smooth growl answers my knock.
I slowly push the door open, stepping inside his private sanctuary. Out of his twenty-nine-room home, this is the one place I’m not allowed to clean. Actually, I’d only been in this room a handful of times. I glance around at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the large leather couches, and the expansive wood desk Grant is sitting behind. The entire room feels beautiful but masculine, private, full of secrets.
It feels like its owner.
“Sophia,” Grant says slowly. He’s leaning back in his chair, looking better than ever. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp, white dress shirt, rolled up and revealing muscles that belong on a Navy SEAL, not a Silicon Valley billionaire. And don’t even get me started on the tattoos I see peeking out from under those rolled-up sleeves.
And his hair—those black curls mixed with a few silver streaks—is messy. I know that look. When he’s deep in thought, he runs his left hand through his hair, tugging on it. The messiness just makes him look sexier.
He’s thirty-nine and I’ve never seen a man in real life who is as in-shape as he is. Those dark blue eyes study me as I slowly walk across the room to stand in front of his desk.
God, I’m such a fool. To adore this man. To want this man.
I remember when Grant hired my father as his driver. I’d only been seventeen years old. My mother had died when I was young, and my dad had done his best to raise me well. But the Bay Area, despite its sunny skies and beautiful surroundings, can be a harsh place to live. With the rising rents from the Silicon Valley boom, we’d been priced out of our neighborhood. Evicted. I remember the shame, the horror, the fear.
For a few months, we’d made do, crashing at different friends’ houses. But on that night I’d first met Grant, we’d been out on the streets. Truly homeless. With no place to sleep.
I’d been huddled in a restaurant’s doorway in the Mission, my father snoring next to me. I’d been too scared to actually go to sleep. That’s when I’d first seen Grant Blackstone. Of course, I hadn’t known his name at the time, just that he was the most startlingly handsome man I’d ever seen in my life. Tall and strong, he had looked like an athlete or a warrior, but with dark-framed glasses. His friends had all been laughing, walking down the street. He hadn’t joked or acted up the way the other men had. He had looked…kind.
He was so beautiful I’d half-thought I’d fallen asleep and was dreaming.
And then a man across the way had attacked a woman, demanding her purse. And pulled out a gun.
And Grant had run to help her.
“Sophia.” His low, dark voice breaks my reverie, and I look up to find him staring at me. I could bathe in his voice, it’s so warm and delicious and all-consuming. And his eyes; his dark blue eyes are as deep and mysterious and ever-changing as the Pacific ocean.
“Are you alright?”
And he always makes sure I’m okay.
He said it’s because he owes his life to me—he saved the woman from getting mugged, but he got shot for his troubles. In his thigh. His friends called 911, but for some reason I was the one who ran to his side. I’d just studied how to tend to a major wound in health class, of all things. I’d used my belt as a tourniquet and staunched the blood flow with my blanket.
“I was just thinking of when I first met you.”
Grant’s dark eyebrows rise. “Nine years ago, next month. I can never repay you.”
I feel myself blushing and I try not to fidget. I’m twenty-five now—twenty-six next month. I’m not a child anymore. I shouldn’t get this nervous around him.
But I do.
Especially because…I’m going to quit today.
Also, despite Grant’s care over the years, he’s also the most intimidating man I’ve ever seen. He’s big. He’s wealthy beyond measure. But also, over the years, he’s grown…hard.
Sometimes angry.
And now that I look at him, I see that his jaw is tense. That little muscle in his cheek is vibrating, which means he’s…furious.
And then his cell phone on the desk rings. I recognize his lawyer’s name on the caller I.D.
“Should I go?” I say.
“No,” Grant barks. He winces, and in a softer voice, he says, “Please, sit down, Sophia. I’ll just be a moment.” He points me toward the worn, leather couch. I sink into its surprisingly soft cushions as he puts the phone to his ear. He tilts his desk chair so that he’s no longer facing me, and I watch his profile as he answers.
“What? I told you I would call you when I land.” There are a few moments of silence as he listens to a voice I recognize as his lawyer’s. Then he growls, “I’m not doing it. And I’m paying you five-hundred an hour to figure out a way for me to not do that.”
I can hear the man on the other end of the line raise his voice, even from where I’m sitting.
“No, Charles, I won’t play that game. It’s fucking ridiculous! Where would I even get a woman…” Grant glances over at me and stops speaking. “I’ll call you back in ten minutes. No. No. Well, find a way.”
There’s another moment of silence on Grant’s part, and even from five feet away I can hear his angry lawyer shout, “There is no other way.”
> Grant doesn't answer. Instead, he hangs up and throws his brand-new iPhone onto his desk. It lands with a clatter and slides to the edge of the wood. I flinch. I would never throw a cell phone. Grant buys me the most up-to-date gadgets all the time, and I can barely bring myself to use them, much less toss them about angrily.
It's just another reason, I remind myself, why you have to leave. Why you have to get over this foolish…crush.
If I'm honest, it's more like an obsession.
After I saved Grant's life—though I'm sure anyone else would have stepped up to help him—Grant found my father and I living in a homeless shelter. I guess he once let it slip to my dad that he'd discovered our whereabouts by bribing the cops who took our statements, or technically "made a generous donation" to the local Fraternal Order of Police. I don't know how he does what he does, but he's rich, powerful, and focused. He seems to always go after—and get—what he wants.
And he wanted to help us. He gave my dad a job and both of us the apartment above the garage. And since the garage fits twenty-five cars, it's a pretty big apartment. I'd been a terrified seventeen-year-old, and in retrospect, it would have been easier for Grant to send me to the prissy private high school that's ten minutes away from his home.
Instead, he paid his newest driver—my dad—to take me the hour to and from my old, public high school each day, so I could graduate with my friends. I never even needed to ask for that. I wouldn't have. But he somehow knew what I wanted.
And then he insisted on sending me to any college I wanted. I had good grades, and in retrospect, I could have gone anywhere. But I didn't want to leave my Dad. I ended up going to a small, exclusive private school about an hour south.
After that, I'm sure Grant would have pulled strings to get me into any job in America. But that's when I found out my dad was sick. He needed major open-heart surgery, and there was no way I was leaving him. I came home and refused Grant's offer to stay here for free. I wanted to work.
So he let me clean his house. He has two other full-time maids, so I know it's a pseudo-job. But I work my ass off, take care of my dad and drive him to his doctor appointments. And suddenly, three years had gone by.
Dad was so much better, but he'd met a woman. Online. In Florida. He wanted to move there. And he wanted me to move with him.
And I had to face the fact that I'm a twenty-five-year-old who's never left the closest thing I have to a home. Plus—I swallow and stare at Grant's fierce profile as he types something on his laptop—I'm in love with my boss.
I need to frickin' get a life.
Get out of here.
And get laid.
I made the decision last month.
Now I just need to tell Grant.
Two
Sophia
“I’m sorry about that, Sophia. I hope my outburst didn’t upset you.”
I press my lips together so I don’t smile. I’ve read countless articles about Grant, and they all mention his fierce business acumen and intimidating boardroom behavior. But I’ve never seen that side of him. He’s always unfailingly kind and exceedingly polite with me.
Except for that one night…
Don’t think about that right now, Soph.
But how can I not? It was after my twenty-first birthday. I’d gone out drinking with my girlfriends and, of course, gotten wasted. I’d barely had a sip of beer before that. After three shots and a Long Island Iced Tea, I could barely walk. And my girlfriends were almost as bad.
And suddenly, in the middle of a shitty college bar, Grant had appeared.
He’d been furious. At first I thought he was mad at me, but he had instead given my girlfriends a stern lecture about responsibility. Then he’d sent them all home with his bodyguards.
And he’d taken me home.
I didn’t even know he could drive, but he could. Very well. He’d buckled me into the passenger’s seat, and driven fast and smooth through the midnight-blue night. And when we’d gotten home, he’d walked me to the garage and stood there, in the moonlight…
And I’d stood there, staring at him.
And then, for the first time in my life, I’d called him by his first name. Not Mr. Blackstone.
“Grant,” I’d said. I wanted to tell him—tell him he was wonderful. Tell him he was beautiful. Ask him why he was always alone, when he had so much—and so much to give.
I wanted to kiss him.
And then, I’d taken a wobbling step toward him. And he’d taken a step toward me.
And suddenly I was in his arms, and his lips were on mine, and—
“Is everything all right, Sophia?" I'm jolted right back to his office again. "Is your father feeling okay?”
I cough and shake my head. Shit. Nothing had happened. I’d drunkenly tried to kiss him, and he had kissed me back—maybe? It felt like he had. But then he’d said, “Go to bed, little girl.” And he had disappeared the next day. A month-long trip to Europe.
We’d never spoken of it again. I bet he didn’t even remember.
But I started calling him by his first name.
“Oh, yes. Dad’s great! Thank you. He’s really looking forward to moving to Miami. And spending time with Pamela.” I can't help but roll my eyes.
Grant leans back further in his chair and laughs. I love his laugh. I love the slight lines around his eyes when he smiles.
Get a grip, I remind myself.
“You’re not a fan of his new girlfriend?” Grant watches me, his eyes sharp and intelligent and so intense I feel myself blushing.
“I’m sure she’s great. It’s just—what do we really know about her, you know? He met her online. He’s visited her maybe three times. I just don’t know if it's wise to move all the way across the country for…for….”
“Love?” Grant says.
Our eyes lock, and I’m the first to look away. “Love. Or something like it.” I take a deep breath and spread my hands on my thighs. “I just want my dad to be happy. I just hope she’s a good person. And he's not doing something crazy for nothing."
Grant smiles to himself and opens one of his desk drawers. He takes out a file, then stands up and walks around to the sofa I’m sitting on. He hands me the papers and takes a seat at the other end.
“What is this?” I say, trying not to get distracted by his nearness.
“You didn’t think I would let one of my most trusted employees do something as foolish as move across the country for love, without me vetting his choice of a mate, do you?”
I open the sturdy brown folder and gasp. “You have a file on Pamela!” The front page has her name, date of birth and Social Security number. I flipped through it. There’s her childhood history, dossiers on both her parents and all her siblings, a breakdown of her first marriage—including wedding photos!—information on her two adult daughters. “Oh my God, you even included her Tweets.” I scan the page. She really loves funny cat memes.
“I didn’t include anything. I paid one of the best investigators in the business to research her.” He surprises me by reaching out and putting one of his large, warm hands on top of mine.
Holy shit. He’s touching me.
Stop acting like a...well, a twenty-five-year-old virgin who’s in love with her boss, and speak to him like a damn coherent human being!
His hand stays on mine, and I look up into those stormy blue eyes.
“She’s a good person, Sophia. I wouldn’t let your dad go for anyone less than a truly good person.”
“Grant,” I say, terrified my emotions are showing on my face. I use the excuse of returning the file as a reason to move my hand out from under his. I’m such a child, but I can’t even handle that contact. I spent an embarrassingly large number of nights fantasizing about him touching me with those strong, beautiful hands….
I need to get this over with. If I don’t hand in my notice now, I’ll never leave. I’ll die a one-hundred-year-old, untouched woman who's still following around her one-hundred-and-fourteen-year-old
boss in his futuristic, flying wheelchair.
“I have to tell you—tell you something,” I say slowly. I gather up my courage and look him in the eyes. Is it my imagination, or did he somehow move closer to me on the couch? I blink. I'm sure it's just wishful thinking.
“My dad wants me to move to Florida with him.”
Grant’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t smile or frown. I don’t even think he blinks. We stare at each other, the moment of silence stretching and becoming something else, something alive and pulsing between us. And then finally he smiles, and I can tell it’s a forced, fake smile.
Even his damn fake smiles are sexy as hell.
“That’s a big change,” he says slowly. “And I can't say it's entirely unexpected. Is that what you want?”
I bite my lip, and his eyes drop to watch—wait, do they? No. That must’ve been my imagination, because he’s looking straight into my eyes again.
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I know it’s what my dad wants. And I know I would miss him terribly if we lived thousands of miles away from each other.”
Grant sighs and runs his hand over his face. “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you and Joe,” he says. “You guys are so close-knit. He would do anything for you, and you would do anything for him. I would say that you're the perfect family, except I know how much you both miss your mother.”
I nod. Of course I miss my mom, every day. She was in a car accident when I was five years old, and I think her passing almost killed my father. I hate the fact that I don’t remember much of her, but the few photos and letters I have of hers are my greatest treasures.