Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Poppy Dunne

  “Oh, I’ll tell you what I want.” Evelyn’s got that Grande Dame tone to her voice now. It should be accompanied by the sharp opening of a fan and a sting of dramatic music, just so you remember she’s the villain of the piece. “Or what I don’t want. I don’t want to see you or your loser brother at my daughter’s birthday party. Do you understand that?”

  Now my temples are throbbing, and I’m grinding the second Advil to a powder between my teeth.

  “Evelyn. Pete had nothing to do with this, all right? You can do whatever you want to me, but you don’t have any reason to suspect Pete.”

  “I don’t think Pete wants to be tied to breaking and entering or charges of stalking, do you?” she says with that poison sweet voice. I take a deep breath and clench my jaw, the only way I can avoid screaming at her. Screaming in a negotiation means you’ve lost, and I haven’t lost yet. Not yet.

  “Like I said, Pete had nothing to do with it, and you can’t prove shit.”

  “But I can make things more difficult for him with this divorce, and I’m not afraid to,” she says. I swear, she must be painting her nails red with the blood of innocents while she’s on this call. That, and eating a bowl of small puppies as a snack. “I’m putting out a restraining order on you, but if Pete shows up to this party, I’m going to raise hell. I’ve already called my lawyers, and they truly think it’ll be best for the children to not have a scene at the party. After all, Pete claims to care about the kids more than anything else. This is his chance to prove it.”

  It takes a minute for me to marshal my anger, which is sort of akin to emotionally wrestling a rutting buffalo to the ground. Finally, I’m calm enough to speak. “What did he ever do to you, Evelyn? Why are you hurting him like this?”

  There’s a good long silence at the other end, so long I’m pretty sure she’s hung up. Then, she says, “It’s all your fault, you know. All you had to do was give him a position that was all title, no work. He could have made more money, and—”

  “You know Pete could’ve had a job with me anytime he wanted, and at any salary. You also know that, if you guys ever wanted a bigger house or a fancy vacation or a nicer car, it could’ve been yours. No strings. No interest. But Pete didn’t want that life, you understand? He wanted a nice, quiet life with his family and his job. He wanted to respect himself. Is that such a goddamn crime to you?”

  “What about what I wanted?” She’s all but shouting now.

  “You can do whatever you want! You can bang whomever you want! I don’t give a shit! If the middle class life really isn’t for you, I’m not going to judge. But you’re punishing Pete for not turning himself into someone else, and that makes you an asshole!” Now I’m shouting; fuck good negotiating tactics, I’ve had enough of this.

  Liv puts a finger to her lips, her eyes wide. Oh, fuck. I did it now. The silence on the other end is ice cold. Finally, Evelyn speaks so softly she’s almost whispering.

  “If I see you here again, I’ll call the police. Tell Pete to stay away.” Then, finally, she hangs up the call. Pulling the Bluetooth from my ear, I rub my eyes. Well. Great job, genius.

  “So.” Liv taps something else into her phone, probably a memo to remind herself that the guy she works for is a raging tool.

  “I fucked up. I know.”

  “Well, I won’t pretend I haven’t muttered what a bitch Evelyn is every time I hang up on a call with her, so I can’t give you too hard a time.” She snaps the tab on a Coke and drinks; cleaning up my bullshit must be thirsty work. “So. You can’t go over there or you’ll get arrested. Right?”

  “But Pete, Liv. She’s trying to edge him out of the kids’ life. I can’t let her do that!”

  “California divorce court still heavily favors the mother. This was always going to be an uphill battle, so don’t make it worse.” She’s got on her ‘matriarchal tough lesbian’ voice, and damn if it doesn’t do wonders. “What are you going to do, like a good little rich boy?”

  “Not go to the house, I know.”

  “I was going to say ‘stop fucking things up,’ but that works as well.” She pats my arm, then squeezes. For Liv, that’s tantamount to a full on hug with an ‘are you okay, bro?’ on the tail end. Miracles do happen. “Let me take you home.”

  “No. Just stop at the Santa Monica place long enough for me to shower, shave, and change.” Everyone should have condos parked in and around Los Angeles if they can help it. One to the west and one to the east of the 405. “Then you’ve got to run me back to the airport. I’ve got a jet to catch.”

  “Good idea. Get out of town for a while. Resist the temptation to lob eggs at Evelyn’s car. Very mature, classy, adult stuff,” she agrees.

  “I didn’t say anything about eggs.”

  “Well, I’ve thought about it.” She hops right back on her phone, texting with dexterity and speed. I’m deep in thought, because I’ve got to find a way to convince Dahlia to come back out to California with me. Just for a few days, just long enough to let her see the sights, relax, sip mimosas on a balcony overlooking the Pacific. You know. Classic young billionaire type stuff.

  Then I need to get her into a schoolgirl outfit. No, not for sexual purposes. I mean, not only for sexual purposes. She needs the outfit, a wand, some robes, and frizzy hair.

  Evelyn doesn’t get to dictate when my brother gets to see his kids. I’ll do whatever it takes to get him into that party.

  First, though, I need to stop by a costume store. I wonder how hard it is to breathe under a mask.

  17

  Dahlia

  “When you told me this was going to be a swinging party, it’s not what I had in mind.” I laugh as the three of us stand at Evelyn and Dominic’s front door. My Gryffindor robes are itching me across the shoulders, and not just because I was sorted into Hufflepuff (obviously) and it’s a betrayal of my house. We had to tease my hair to within an inch of its life to have it Hermione Granger ready, but we did a fantastic job. I look like if Cyndi Lauper circa 87 and Harry Potter had a baby.

  “Remember the rules,” Jack murmurs in my ear. God, even dressed as Voldemort he’s sexy. He’s hiding underneath an excellent mask—though it must be hot—and his robes are expertly tailored. He even has a perfect replica of the Elder Wand. No expense was spared in our nerdery.

  “I know, I know. We have to pretend to be with the entertainers.” I roll my eyes. “When do we let Gabby know?”

  From my few days together with the Carraway brothers, I easily gathered that Evelyn is, well, not the easiest person to get along with. From what Jack told me, she’s been very keep away with the kids, so they’re engaging in very light espionage. Nothing drastic, just sliding into the party under Evelyn’s nose. If Pete had told her he was coming, she might have found some stupid reason not to have him, so a little surprise goes a long way. It seemed kind of weird, if I’m honest, but hey. I’m not the soul of normalcy myself, and it is kind of fun in a ridiculous sort of way. And there’s nothing illegal about it, so why worry?

  “Jack?” I nudge Voldemort when he’s silent. “When do we drop the act?”

  “Follow my lead,” Jack says, shrugging and striking a pose as the door begins to open. He holds out the wand like he’s about to expelliarmus whomever’s inside. Pete’s on the other side of me, utterly unrecognizable in his Hagrid outfit. Between the massive bushy beard, the floppy wig, the padding and the overcoat (that smells like moth balls and the 1970s) you’d never guess it was him.

  “Hermione! And Voldemort! And Hagrid!” The little girl who opens the door starts jumping up and down, shrieking and screaming with glee. This has to be Gabby, with the Sorting Hat on her head and her pristine little Gryffindor robes. Pete’s eyes glow when he sees her, and he drops to his knees with his arms wide open.

  “Well, there be me favorite little witch!” he says. I’m not sure how much Hagrid is supposed to sound like a pirate, but I don’t think it matters. Gabby squees and rushes into his arms for a big bear hug. Man, even Vol
demort’s getting teary about this; I notice Jack have to reach up under his mask to wipe his eye.

  Why can’t he just take it off? Ah, right, part of the surprise.

  “Hermione! You’re so old!” Gabby says with awe in her voice. Well. There it is. The little cutie grabs my hand and tugs me into the house. “Come on. We’re playing Quidditch in the backyard, and I’m the seeker!” She drags me after her, and we skirt little boys and girls dressed in wizarding robes as they gleefully scamper about, stuffing their faces with chocolate frogs. Servers dressed like ghosts and trolls walk past, carrying trays of more, shall we say, adult beverages. Mmm. I might need a mug of spiked butterbeer later. I check for Voldemort and Hagrid, but Jack’s vanished, and Pete’s bouncing a little boy dressed as a pumpkin. From the adoring look in his eyes, I can tell the tot is his son, Georgy.

  That gets my wizardly dander up. Hard to believe a woman could be so unfeeling that her ex-husband had to sneak into his own kid’s birthday party, just to avoid his ex causing a scene. Scanning the room for Evelyn, I prepare myself for the big reveal. Honestly, I’ve got half a mind to march up and tell her off when I find her.

  But that’ll have to wait. After parading through the massive kitchen that is thronging with goblins handing out golden (chocolate) coins and bubbling cauldrons on the stove, we emerge into the backyard. Damn, these rich people sure have a lot of real estate. I know enough about California prices to be aware that these ten acres are worth a small fortune. A ring of children are running around, or rather, hopping around with broomsticks shoved up between their legs. Some woman in purple robes is blowing a whistle and trying to get the little munchkins to follow the rules of the game, which appears to be running with red rubber balls towards a hoop, and also tossing a smaller golden ball back and forth. When J.K Rowling dreamed up Quidditch, part of me wonders if she’d had a couple pints of ale, heard a challenge to decide the weirdest game of all time, went ‘challenge accepted’ and then started drawing stick figures on a napkin.

  “Where’s my broom?” Gabby lets go of my hand and looks back and forth, her eyes wide with sorrow. I spy something leaned up against the wall, beside a less than magical gardening hose. Unless that gardening hose used to be a snake, and was transformed into a hose. How magical!

  I think I’m letting this party get to me.

  “Off you go! Fly straight,” I tell Gabby, handing her the broom. She grins cheekily at me, then zooms off and into the herd of galumphing second graders.

  “Do you think you could get me a drink?” a woman says, popping up beside me. She’s got perfectly contoured makeup, clearly designed to make her look a decade younger than she is—which is odd, considering she’s got to be my age. Not exactly over the hill yet.

  “I. Er.” I’m at my verbal best tonight, folks.

  She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, you’re probably part of the children’s entertainment. I thought you were a server.” Then she narrows her eyes and sniffs. Actually sniffs snootily. “Though if you’re not participating in Quartermass or whatever this is, maybe you could make yourself useful?”

  Using my flawless deductive reasoning skills, I put together that since a. she’s the only adult woman here not wearing a costume, b. she’s acting like she owns the place, and c. Gabby’s definitely got her eyes, I have to conclude that this is Evelyn. The Evelyn. The thing is, she’s a very nice looking woman…except for the part where she’s started down the path of trying to keep up with the lifestyle, as it were. You know what I mean. Blonde-dyed hair, with only the faintest trace of dark roots showing; flawless makeup that she likely hires someone to put on her; crisp, white Chanel dress and seven-inch heels, even during a child’s birthday party.

  Look, far be it for me to judge another woman on her appearance, and especially far be it for me to judge the kind of relationship a woman chooses to enter into. However, if you’ve got to basically turn yourself into a perfect ten, no matter what comfort you’ve got to sacrifice for it, you might want to ask yourself why. Why does the guy you’re with expect that? And what happens if you fall down on the job?

  Also, this could just be me thinking bitter thoughts, what with the way she left Pete and everything.

  “Quidditch,” I say, beaming. She blinks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Quidditch, not Quartermass.” I flash my wand, then give a shallow curtsy. “Hermione Granger. I know absolutely everything about the wizarding world.”

  Hey, when you’ve got a part to play, play it to the hilt. Evelyn rolls her eyes and groans.

  “This is why I don’t want Gabby reading those ridiculous books. She could turn into a woman who has no foot in reality whatsoever.”

  Well thanks, woman insulting me straight to my face. How nice of you.

  “It also made my creator a billion dollars, so that’s nice,” I reply with a smile. Evelyn cocks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Well, Rowling made the money, didn’t marry it, so I suppose that’s not a ‘good’ way to earn a fortune.

  Yes, I know I’m being super uncharitable right now. But honestly? What kind of person walks around acting like this?

  “Wait. What is your job here, exactly?”

  Well, crap. Evelyn’s face is slackening; she must realize now that she never hired me. Suppose it’s time to find Voldy and Hagrid and come clean. Man, I can’t wait to see this woman’s face fall—at least, as much as it possibly can. I get the distinct impression she’s already on the Botox bandwagon.

  Man, I need to drink a polyjuice potion or something to get me to stop having these antagonistic thoughts. Or to, like, turn into a cat or something. Whichever comes first.

  “Actually,” I say, getting ready to put the act aside. That is, of course, until Lord Voldemort comes swinging out of the crowd to stand beside me.

  “We’re the showdown,” Jack says, swishing his robes with a verve that’s just theatrical enough without being outright campy. Damn, he’s doing an expert impression of Voldemort, too. No way Evelyn can recognize the man standing in front of her. In fact, it’s very clear that she doesn’t, and she’s a little impressed and put off by how ‘in character’ this guy is willing to become. “The little witch thinks she can best me with her knowledge of…spell…things.” Jack points an accusing wand in my face, and I don’t mean that in a dirty way.

  I kind of wish I meant that in a dirty way, but I think that’s for a different type of Harry Potter film. Harry Potter XXX and the Chamber of Horny Co-Eds.

  Forgive me, Rowling, for I have sinned in my thoughts.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize. Is it time for the show?” Evelyn looks between the two of us, while I stare into the eye-holes of Jack’s Voldemort mask and feel every muscle in my body clench. And not in that fun, sexy way.

  “Er, of course,” I say in my best bad British accent. “Are you ready, you slimy old troll?”

  “Don’t talk to your father that way,” Jack intones gravely. I wince.

  “Oh, silly. You know that’s Star Wars, not this franchise,” I say in that overt aren’t-we-joking way. Voldemort pauses; I get the feeling Jack’s cursing softly behind the mask.

  “Of course. The witch evaded my trick yet again!”

  Evelyn nods, not really paying attention to our shenanigans. Good. Then she goes to round up the children, heading into the house and clapping her hands. I grip Jack by the elbow.

  “Hey, isn’t this going a little far? We still haven’t told Gabby.”

  Voldemort hustles me over to the side of the house, and slides his arm around my waist. Oh my. I feel myself melting in my robes just as Jack lines his body up against mine. Yes, I do believe his other wand is rising in my direction.

  If you’d ever told me I’d be living out my most illicit Voldemort/Hermione fan fiction from my eighth grade year (titled In the Arms of a Snake, but which might as well have been called Hermione Granger, Newly Legal and Insanely Curious) I would have laughed in your face. Then I would have called the police. Then I would have fel
t hot, bothered, and confused.

  “Let Pete and me handle it, in our own time. I’ve never role-played like this before,” Jack whispers, pulling up his mask to brush his lips along my cheek. A deep, delicious line of heat runs through my body as I feel him tense against me. God, at this rate we won’t be able to perform in front of the children until he calms down. No one wants to explain this, er, exuberance in court. “Remember: this is all about new experiences. Trying what you’ve never dared. Pushing things as far as you can take them.”

  “Yes, but I thought that was for things like sex dungeons and skiing down black diamond hills and trying out a Korean barbecue place that has a bad review on Yelp,” I answer, my breath catching in my throat. Jack’s lips graze mine; am I getting more turned on because of the costumes? I have so many questions to ask myself, in the dark of the night with my vibrator running at full capacity.

  “Wasn’t date twelve the sex dungeon one?” he asks. Then, guttural, “Along with Polish folk dancing?”

  “You beast,” I tease, biting at his bottom lip.

  Someone clears their throat right next to us, and Jack and I split apart. He hastens to get his mask pulled back correctly while Hagrid stands there, judging us, still bouncing little Georgy on his hip.

  “If you two don’t stop, we’ll be expelled from Hogwarts,” he says, voice full of warning.

  When I write my memoirs, this will be a weird chapter.

  “Everyone! Time for Her-my-own and Moldy-vort to fight to the death,” Evelyn calls, waving all the excited little witches and wizards to sit down on the grass. Oh. Right. We have to do the duel. Well, might as well give them a show.

  “I know this will make me less of a man in your eyes, but I don’t know anything about Harry Potter,” Jack mutters as Pete goes to sit with the kids. I nod.

  “Truly, you’ll have to make that up to me. For right now, the only spell you need to know is avada kedavra. That’s the killing spell. I’ll keep deflecting it,” I say helpfully. I can feel Jack frowning under that mask.